My boots are made for sleeping
I’ll never take them off again.
My feet are made for keeping
Those leathery brown boots.
My heart is made for boots
They are the world to me
& if you take them off me Mum
I’ll scream the whole house down.
My boots they sing me songs
As the crackle in the night
My heart is made for weeping
For my hand-me-down brown boots.
Mum to Son
Son, I wish you’d take off those boots
For they are lethal weapons as you sleep.
I know you love them deeply, truly, madly
But they do not make your parents
Meet the morning mildly mannered.
If you stayed asleep on your own bed
We’d have no problems with your obsession,
But as you creep up into ours
I’d rather your boots were dreams
& not your midnight…
View original post 112 more words
A poem from Under One Sky
I am looking for the frames
to help me break the frames;
remembering Playschool windows
round, oval, and square.
I am remembering how my dolls
were broken hand-me-downs
and how I thought my frizzy hair
made me look a clown.
I was a little mother
to my brothers growing up
and wondered if they would
ever dare to break the frames.
I always wanted to have the
I never understood why.
Fighting back those tears of growing up
I’m still looking beyond the frames
living in the land of sugar cane.
I’m seeing all the kids running off to school
They’re so caught up trying to be cool
a little bit of facebook, a little bit of blackberry
but bullying’s the same
hasn’t much changed.
Everybody’s trying to be the same
no one really wants to break the frame.
But every now and then…
View original post 24 more words
A catch up on life this year. Making head way with my writing! Thanks so much to those who have been supporting and following the journey!
Me as Young Artist – by Edward Broomhall
I was delighted to receive this photograph of attending an art class in my childhood from our art teacher at that time.
I remember this experience and this jumper so well.
It was one of my favourite jumpers, due to the multicoloured randomness of the pattern, and the soft feel of the wool.
I remember painting a self portrait of myself in the jumper to capture how special it was to me as well, and never forgot it or the painting day.
I think that will be a poem one day for sure.
I have written my early childhood up to when I was twenty and am letting that peculate for a while before deciding where to finish the story of growing up or whether to continue into student hood for my first book.
Work progresses on Magic Fish…
View original post 477 more words
‘Come over here Mum, Quick!’
So I run over and there it is, stock still in the bushes
the third lizard we have seen that day at South Bank.
She is filming it with her tablet
whilst her brother is climbing a tree.
She likes keeping her eyes peeled for creatures others pass by.
She always lets me know too as she likes to give me photo opportunities.
I stand beside her to take a few photographs, but I am more interested in photographing her interest in the lizard.
Later when our friends turn up she is keen to show them the footage of
her creature feature.
Sometimes I like to write memories which might have potential to turn into picture books, or sequences in long stories.
I have just finished one which I am sending to a publisher next week.
They start out just like this, as small records – and I build them over time.
(c) June Perkins,