A Poem a Day (749): You on repeat

 
You on repeat
 
You were supposed to turn up on time.
You were meant to end each line with a rhyme.
 
You were fated to turn tomorrow upside down.
You were meant to greet each day without a frown.
 
You shifted the energy when you walked in a room.
You swept up the dark with the back of a broom.
 
You were the one to joke and wear glitter.
You were the one who trained to get fitter.
 
You were the one the other kids looked up to.
You were the only one the older kids knew.
 
You were always telling the tallest stories.
You were the answer to everyone’s worries.
 
You got older, drove too fast, lived a little too wild.
You never wore a sword, never needed a shield.
 
You forgot the names of your fans you met.
You met me, but my face was one you’d forget.
 
You were the artist, the writer, the talker.
You were the beginning, the end, the Faulkner.
 
You acted in this lifetime like you were out of tune.
You’d already lived nine lives before the strike of noon.
 
You enjoyed it all too much to protect your own hide.
You forgot to click your belt for that daring last ride.
 
You held the globe in your hand for an endless time.
You didn’t know the world would make you pay a fine.
 
You held up a mirror for others to discern their flaw.
You noticed not everyone liked what they saw.
 
You were meant to leave quietly, unnoticed.
You weren’t meant to leave a note that grimaced.
 
You were the one everyone wanted to be.
You weren’t meant to be the one that couldn’t see.
 
You lost your way trying to find how everything gels.
You forgot you can’t save yourself and everyone else.
 
Vickie Johnstone, July 14, 2026

A Poem a Day (748): I on repeat

 
I on repeat
 
I spend a lifetime searching for the imperfect perfect muse.
I treasure everything as if each something I’m fated to lose.
 
I consume as if this could be my final meal.
I am oblivious to the agenda behind any deal.
 
I sleep as if sleeping is an Olympic sport.
I pay all the bills, secure my space in my living fort.
 
I read with a microscope digging for inspiration.
I walk in fine rain feeling a washed-in elation.
 
I turn up early as if it will make a difference.
I cry at every ending and then hope to bounce.
 
I read menus a dozen times before choosing.
I hold on too long because I’m too scared of losing.
 
I worry I might regret choosing the wrong thing.
I greet everyone with the same shy, lopsided grin.
 
I end up picking the same thing every time I order.
I live in uncluttered spaces, try not to be a hoarder.
 
I pluck stray hairs as if anyone notices anything so small.
I live it, love it, want it to last forever, but forget it all.
 
I collect empty boxes because oxygen is the most precious thing.
I buy simple things, avoiding the loud, too glossy and bling.
 
I breathe deeply, inhale slowly, blink three times for luck.
I wish I could relive every earthmoving, heartbreaking f-ck.
 
I sit in the shade in case the sun burns away truth.
I rethink, re-evaluate seeking the undeniable proof.
 
I colour outside the edges to feel more free.
I wonder at our struggle to be what we want to be.
 
I count the stars just because it’s impossible.
I know my failure to make time last is laughable.
 
I rule the 3mm space around my own contours.
I learn from closure and look out for held-open doors.
 
I bed down to keep the chaos and noise at bay.
I listen to silence because it has the most to say.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 14, 2026

Read Tirips Shade, my supernatural detective novel, for free here

My Victorian detective novel with a supernatural and steampunk edge, Tirips Shade, is free to read here - https://drive.google.com/file/d/1mxugIivOPyKdjq4rp4ejeKhzuReWVLpt/view?usp=drive_link

Victorian London’s finest detective, Tirips Shade, 33, hunts a serial killer while investigating his own murder, assisted by his closest friend, Harold Walker.

Whether alive or in spirit, Victorian London is a thrilling but dangerous place for everyone.

With a serial killer on the loose, Sarah Ann Bartley, who runs a safehouse for former prostitutes and fights for women’s rights, asks Tirips to help stop the man before more women are murdered.

Tomas Malachide, the owner of the steam-powered Museum of Machinations, finds himself the toast of the city, but the real passion of his life is his fiancé, Elsa, a flower seller.

In the spirit world, a young boy finds himself alone on the city streets, but he just might find a friend in a streetwise girl. Cynical Willie Lynch is given the job of guide for the newly dead, while an older guide, Angelina, has her own sad secrets.

Who is the mysterious Abraham Askew whom nearly every spirit seems to fear and what other perils loiter in Victorian London’s graveyards?

I started writing it on a writing course in 2016, where we spent a lot of time on the opening page and paragraph one. Lots of rewrites!

REVIEWS

By Keithtj on April 26, 2023

"Ms Johnson has a wonderful way of describing situations and times, indeed she paints with words. Managing to evoke images and the atmosphere of the time. The characters are believable to the point you care what happens to them, and the story line is suitably gripping and nicely twisted, catching you out, just when you think you have worked it who the baddie is. A thoroughly wonderful and entertaining read more of Tirips and his world please!"

By Ed Drury on April 8, 2023 

"I've followed Vickie Johnson's books since I stumbled on the Kiwi books. I've watched her effortlessly shift between genres and styles, but she's kept me a loyal reader the entire time, primarily because of her excellent storytelling and fascinating characters. This book reaffirmed my confidence in her to deliver a compelling story with beautiful characters. With this one, I think she has all the ingredients for another successful series of books, and I will undoubtedly read them all. I would recommend it to readers of young adults, paranormal, and cozy mysteries without reservation. It does have some edgy scenes, but it is, in my opinion, done within the context of the story and not the least bit gratuitous."

My poetry book, Ink, is free to read here

Ink is free to read here: 

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1wXPU0XSt50DB8K1R4q_GOlEYc25-mWvU/view?usp=drive_link

A collection of 74 poems. All of these poems, except for Judder, were written between April 2, 2022 and May 14, 2023.

WILD HORSES

She sees horses in the streets,
tearing down the tarmac,
silvery manes of flowing water
twisting in the wind’s hands.

Pale white streaks of ghosts
leaving translucent trails of light,
black eyes glistening, nostrils flared, silent in their insistency...

My middle-grade book, Kiwi in Cat City, is free to read here

Hi, you can read Kiwi in Cat City, the first of 6 books for kids aged 7-100, for free here. The series was selling well until 2015, so I thought why not make it free, because the whole idea was to be read.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ihUVY_CmQpq-n9w5Y5NcfesjSv8zpE8L/view?usp=drive_link

4.2 4.2 out of 5 stars   (60 reviews on Amazon)

---

Book 1 in the Kiwi Series about a magical cat

Have you ever wished your cat could talk or wondered where he/she goes when you are not around? Kiwi is a black cat with a big secret – she is magical and comes from a city of catizens. One night when the moon is shaped like a cat’s claw, Amy and James follow their pet cat to see where she goes. With a flick of her tail, Kiwi turns the kids into kittens and leads them to the blue-lit Cat City, where the budding detectives help Inspector Furrball to investigate a catnapping and Kiwi meets her nemesis.

KIRKUS REVIEW – “Though the book is a mystery, the bloodshed-free crime means that the book is safe enough for younger readers to enjoy, and funny moments – provided by the bumbling Paws and lots of “cat” wordplay – keep the story light. The sleuthing will captivate young readers... Cats, a dash of fantasy, and a puzzling mystery are a recipe for a fun read...”

In the Kiwi Series, Amy, James and Kiwi go on different adventures, dealing with catnappings, jewel thieves, giant mice, time travel, haunted houses, Father Christmas, pyramids and more. The fun stories contain positive messages about loyalty, friendship, honesty, bullying and the power of friendship.

With illustrations by Nikki McBroom.

Book 4 in the series was a finalist in the Children's Books category of the National Indie Excellence Book Awards 2013.

New poetry book, Alice Walks the Night, is free to read here

My new poetry book, Alice Walks the Night, is available for free here -

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1V28Ot7fb25-ttcpgMZDOzjMt9W00oE7H/view?usp=drive_link

It's a collection of 119 poems. 

I own all the rights to my books, but they stopped selling in 2015, so I thought why not make it free.

I started planning it last year and put it on the backburner while being homeless, but I was sitting in a pub yesterday afternoon with my usual cup of coffee and decided to finish it off.

So here it is. Enjoy. 

A Poem a Day (747): Freedom

 
Freedom
 
Black cats creep on neon signs,
walk sublime, echo you in mime,
come to find you lurking, somewhat stilted.
Tap the shine. You devour wine, red,
converse a while, dance on cirrus clouds
a dream of being something other
than who you are – what you could’ve been.
 
It takes a while to remember you
sometimes. When the sun slides, sparks,
as the full moon rolls in on breaking waves,
and rain flees order in its tin timult,
you might find your own centre, still,
rediscover how night falls,
eclipsing iron structures, gilded cages,
long bent out of fashion, eaten by rust,
find who you always wished to be.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 27, 2026

A Poem a Day (746): Waterloo guitar man

 
Two little pieces I wrote. The first one I wrote in Waterloo around 11pm. Was crossing the road towards the station and a guy was playing amazing guitar, watched by a blonde woman kneeling down. You could feel the connection between them. A bus light blared in the dark as it stopped for me on the crossing. He stopped playing, so I walked a little bit and stopped, waiting for him to start again. A train trundled over. He didn’t play again, so I stood there and wrote this poem, and then got my bus. Then I had a cheap cup of tea in a pub and wrote the second poem, Freedom, and later I listened to a guy play the theme tune to Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence by Ryuichi Sakamoto.  

 
Waterloo guitar man
 
You take in the echoes of nocturne,
all the missing pieces, the zeroes,
half-lives strewn, never fully realised,
trains munching metal girders, rumbling
carcasses, levelled wings of steel.
 
We live in seconds, places taken,
spaces reinvented so we can fit in them.
 
Music pursues as a waterfall,
ushering me across a stained-out road,
bus lights picking shadow from loin;
neon cut-glass glows, shrapnel howls –
we seek escape from the beaten scrawl
while part-notes mimic it all.
 
We count in time,
play with rhythms half-recalled. Stalled moments.
 
A musician sends a postcard to the moon,
rays caught on a double clef, romanticised,
this train the accompanying drumbeat
transporting sound into another yard.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 27, 2026
 

A Poem a Day (745): Sliding doors

 
 
Sliding doors
 
You find vision switch in echo,
flick red betwixt the sure and the maybe.
 
If someone says you can come inside
you wonder if they really want you to step
into the void between you and them,
feel the gap close, the subtle burn
filling a space once empty.
 
He welcomes you in, to choose,
and you pick without thinking,
but shyness locks you in yourself.
 
Mirrors reflect or blend truth,
so you may see through a glass darkly,
but walk away too shy to look back.
Yet you feel it, this shift, a new skin.
 
It’s not the great glass elevator spiralling
into an open sky of happy endings,
feeling like an opportunity missed.
 
A box of moving endless curves,
it reflects a guise of a chance,
becoming a runaway thing you wanted,
this man you never got to know.
 
It’s a memory a-linger, drifting, smoke.
Pictures unseen slip, live a secret life unnoticed.
A child laughs, snug in their pushchair,
too innocent to recognise ghosts in the dark.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 24, 2026

A Poem a Day (744): Sunborn

 
Sunborn
 
We are morning as it is, a peace offering,
how it wakes, breathes, uneasy storm,
the sunborn scent of the ever ocean shifting,
scoping air and wing and self.
 
Murmurs are the scribes of life,
raindrops twisted from the eyes of clouds
screaming truth into a wild scribbled sea,
sun-speckled woven quilts of salted lace.
 
A hand rocks the whole world true
in an escape of shot-out landed blue,
and we are aghast at the dice full-thrown,
their echo, their shape, their secret truth.
 
Set sail under a sheer-white blown flag
waving surrender before you could fail,
your number waiting in the wings,
this dripping real the only salve you need.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 24, 2026