identity

A Moment Of Glad

Though baptised first name Dilys
Was called my middle name, Jane.
Dolls were not my friend
Teddy bear and rabbit my game.
Sugar and Spice were not my thing
But slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails.
Moles in traps, to my bed
Fleas and disease my parents dread.
Time and tide moved on
Muddied knees clean
Wild and free remained my dream.
Headmaster at school, who thrashed a lad
Cos he lifted my skirt, in a moment of glad.
He preached on a Sunday
About the Lords Love
The rebel in me was fed by his glove.

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The Reluctant Rebel

I was in primary school when we had a visit from the fireman. He told us all about the hazards around the home that could put your house up in flames if you weren’t careful. For weeks, I pestered my parents with evacuation drills, fire action plans, and smoke alarm tests. Eventually, my fears were allayed with the knowledge that I had never heard of anyone I knew having a house fire. I concluded it happens to barely anyone and they all live really far away.

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The Story of Ali's Anger...

Ali had been angry her whole life. The anger burned like a hot coal fire deep in her belly; it had been there a long time and now it threatened to erupt out of her mouth like a volcano and spew hot magma over every single family member. She had spent years smiling and agreeing, and being brow-beaten into submission, and the embers of her anger had smouldered away… until recently. Her back was against the wall now and something had to give.

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Starting Again

My shoe broke on the way to the station which I tried not to take as a sign. Limping into a new life does dampen the intended grace somewhat. The right lace now trailed along demonstrating all too plainly how I couldn't hold my life together. I half expected a mocking over the tannoy. Thankfully, none came. 

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Not For Me

We joined together,                                                                                  
But not at the hip
Working so hard
To become equipped,
Experiences had
Shifts passed by,
We, were aiming high.
Through the glass ceiling we went
Touching the sky
Thinking back, I want to cry
But not you. 

Your drive is impressive
But it’s not for me
Straight to the top
I hear your plea. 

Like a spring morning
Fresh and bright
Up early, finish late,
To you it seems right. 

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In Between Days

A crack, and everything changes. 

Miss Coakley appears in the window, a shrunken head framed by fizzes of grey-black hair. Behind her, the girls bob in unison, ponytails twisted on the top of their heads so you can’t tell who’s who.

Mike’s giggling with the sort of glee that bubbles into your words, climbing down to find more stones, and soon I can’t hear him, only the sharpness of that rock hitting the window. It sits in the dense quiet of an afternoon that is heavy with the weight of all the summer that has passed.

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Give me a Reason to Climb out This Hole

Let it be said that this 'ere be th' testament o' a true scots rebel. 31st kin 2018

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The Voice of Rebellion

I had tried to rebel; but you were very convincing.

You persuaded me that I was at fault, and I believed your tales. I dreamed of having a long tail with which to whish your tales away. But instead I seemed to gather your tales closer, holding on as if to let those tales go would be to lose something that I did not know what it would be like – or did not deserve – to be without.

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REBEL (possible definitions)

Warning: this piece contains strong language

Is it when you ask yourself,
'Why do this?'
and you answer,
'because I can!' 

Is this not the start of
manyarebelroad? 

Is it
quixoticadventures
featuring
tiltedatwindmills?

Is it
bygonedayhippies
spawned in Europe'ssleepysuburbs,
bankrolled by mumndad
en route to Essaouira
to hang out with Jimmytheman?
hashtaglovenpeace.

Is it
early20thcenturywoman
in waistdeep warfront mud
saving the lives of strangers? 

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To Where?

for Roween

Jayne found herself inexorably irritated by words that, when written down, didn’t offer a clear indication of how they should be pronounced. Sometimes, she simply read a word so wrongly, it bore no resemblance to its meaning.

Her friend, Cinnamon, never stopped ribbing her for mispronouncing the name of a famous painting.

“How can you get ‘Van Gogh’ right,” she teased: “Yet be so convinced that he had a ‘ban-dagged’ ear!”

“Stop it, Cinn – anyone could have read ‘bandaged’ that way.”

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