#notavictim

I can hear them, the voices, the shouts,

the cries of hurt and solidarity.

Me too, moi aussi, anch’io

no boundaries.

I could add my voice.

I remember the chaffing of the rope,

the cut of serrated steel,

the boot shaped bruises.

The entering of my person was in fact the least of the violations.

He still did not possess me.

I remember fear,

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Watching the rhythmic rise and fall

of the breathing,

of the man

who was my Dad.

The family sitting in various positions

of anxiety.

Holding their breath

with each uncoordinated spasm and jerk.

Occasional disjointed speech,

riddles and ramblings.

Drifting in and out,

slow, slurred words

struggle to form.

A different breathing pattern

deeper,

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Aunt Win is a hundred,
telegram from the Queen,
bit of a do
in a local pub
half-filled glasses of warm fizz
and she's a jolly good fellow.

Aunt Win wasn't always Win.
she was Winnie growing up,
but she married well.
Good bone structure
opens a lot of doors,
gave her choices.

She chose an accountant no less
and became the doyen
of middle class suburbia.
Nice semi, in a good a...

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Hi all. This is the first poem I've posted on the blog and I hope you like it. It's written about the moors above Haworth in West Yorkshire.  The photo is from those very same moors.

I haven't been writing poetry for long - about sixteen months, so I hope you like it.

A Northern Love Song

I hear the wild lands,
the rough lands,
the bleak lands.
Those harsh, north wind lands
where th...

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