A Poem a Day (752): Whore (#metoo)

This is a poem I wrote about misogyny on 15 September 2019. I did a search on this blog, but can't find it, so here goes. Just as relevant now as then. #metoo

Whore
 
He’s a whore.
He’s a slut.
He’s a tart.
What a skank.
 
What is he wearing?
That skirt is too short.
 
He’s too old to wear that.
He’s too ugly to wear that.
 
Ha ha ha!
 
His boobs are too big.
He’s as flat as a pancake.
 
His butt looks huge in that.
He has no butt.
 
He’s celibate.
He’s fucking the world.
 
Ha ha ha!
 
He’s not interested in me
so he must be gay.
He needs taken down a peg or two.
 
He’s slept with 10 women,
20, 30, 40, 50, I’ve lost count.
He’s got a graveyard of exes.
 
He’s so popular.
He’s so unpopular.
He’s got no balls.
He’s got too many balls.
 
Ha ha ha!
 
Look what he’s wearing.
He asked for it,
he’s wearing a thong,
So it isn’t rape.
He’s a whore.
He’s a skank.
 
Ha ha ha!
 
What’s so funny?
It isn’t funny.
 
And, of course, no one speaks
about guys this way.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, 15 September 2019

 

A Poem a Day (751): Information technology

I wrote this poem on October 9, 2020 – an old one and I thought it was published on here, but I can't find it, so... about revenge porn.

Information technology
 
The guy isn’t going to hit pause
while he hides his face away,
 
shoots daggers from off-stage,
reads stories to the crowd,
 
rewords history in his way,
adjusts the TV to his visor,
 
listens, takes, reveals and scores.
A patchwork quilt of your life.
 
You’re the “bitch” in his eyes,
so you’ve gotta keep on paying.
 
Your data is his to pass on
with no recoil to the injury.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 9, 2020
 
 
Revenge Porn is the sharing of explicit or sexual images or videos without the consent of the person in the image. This crime has become more common since 2015. It can affect men and women, and even children. Anyone aged under 16 is still a child.
Safeline is able to support victims of revenge porn. Its helpline advisors and counsellors are experienced in dealing with such cases, and can offer support and advice. If you or someone you know has been affected by revenge porn, and are considering reporting your case under the Sexual Offences Act 2003, speak to Safeline for confidential advice.
https://www.safeline.org.uk/revenge-porn-what-it-means-for-the-victim-and-the-offender/
 
 

A Poem a Day: remembering 9/11

In remembrance of all those caught up in 9/11. Those who were there, those who tried to save others, those at home, those watching. This is a poem I wrote in 2021. It's inspired by the photograph we've all seen of the man falling. A picture that strikes everyone dumb because there are no words. 

Feathers 
 
Feathers turn on the air,
burrow in the upflift
fluttering, these precious things,
the barest feel of touch
spinning. A white glow.
Breezes take them skyward
as if to connect with the stars,
breathe as high as the moon.
Scant traces of being
blown away and now lost.
Not feathers but people
falling.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 11, 2021

A Poem a Day (750): Rethread

I wrote this sitting in a pub with a neverending fuel of coffee. Just about to post it and a couple come and sit in front of me and start snogging, even though most of the tables in the room are empty. I guess it's a romantic pub then! Anyway, I wrote a poem on notepad cos I can't afford to renew my Word licence at the moment and I can't find where it has saved, so I am posting the screengrabs I made of it!!! Funny trying to focus with two people snogging on your eye level, but here goes... 

The poem is called Rethread...

 

JustGiving Page - asking for help so I don't lose my belongings and things of my parents. Cheers

JUSTGIVING PAGE - https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/vickie-johnstone

I'm sleeping rough at the moment cos I can't get a job. I have £10 until September and today it's August 6. I need to raise money. I am also now in debt to 2 companies that have made demands.

No one offered me a place to stay, so I sleep on the pavement or benches. I was doing hostels when I had money (some mates lent me some). My parents are dead and I have been single since May 2023. My dad died in June 2024 and I just got back to London in March 2025.
I will donate some of the money to Shelter if I receive a lot over the target. I have supported homeless causes, including Centrepoint, a lot since my 20s.

I have spent 47 nights outside so far. I contacted 4 councils, but they can't help. I'm childless.

The photo is of me in my sleeping bag outside.

Big thanks to the drop-in centres and volunteers who give me food. My savings ran out on May 18.

I've worked my entire life in London since I was at Uni. And I have always been independent and paid my own way. I've also lived my entire life in London except for about 3.5 years.

I've done fundraising in the past for charities, including a sponsored writing gig, and I have 2 books and 2 records that raise money for charities. But now I have to do something for myself. My parents are both dead and I've been single since May 2023. And I haven't found a pot of gold at the bottom of a garden.

Don't know what else to do with 2 companies trying to take money from me that I don't owe them when my bank account is empty, and I've told them I'm homeless and jobless (one has handed over to a debt collection agency and the other is sending demands even though I sent a phone back and they owe me money) and I'm in danger of losing my belongings and those of my parents if I can't pay a bill (I've managed to pay it this month - I thought it had failed), and I can't afford £10 for a new Oystercard that the machine just blew up, so...

I went through my inheritance from my dad (he died in June 2024 after being on end-of-life care and I had the priviledge of helping him for 6 months) running away from a harassment and stalking team that has been on my back for 10 years. I've also been refused hostel places because of this fact. I've also been told I'm imagining it, but you can't imagine being physically assaulted. I've had items stolen from storage, my homes, hotels and in the street. And I can't replace what has gone missing.

I haven't had any post since July 2025. Now I can't make or take calls on my phone.

All this has been a bit stressful, but I'm still going... you have the odd bad day when you want to scream and jump in the ocean, but I think every single homeless person in the country feels like that on some days - especially when they are hounded by companies (who were happy to take your money for decades when you were solvent).


From ThanksGiving:
Thanks for taking the time to visit my JustGiving page.
Donating through JustGiving is simple, fast and totally secure. Your details are safe with JustGiving - they'll never sell them on or send unwanted emails. Once you donate, I will withdraw funds directly. It's the most efficient way to donate and saves time and costs.

Free to read: Song Book of lyrics to 37 songs recorded with Billy Johnstone

Here's a Song Book of 37 songs. I wrote the lyrics and my uncle, Billy Johnstone, wrote the melodies, added some lyrics and sang on them! It was an accidental partnership that started in lockdown and turned into one of my most prolific periods for poetry and song writing - I'd never tried song writing before. The actual songs can be bought online - see the links in the book.

This is free to read. 

My faves are The Joker, Bird in the Brain, The Dark Wood, She blows in with the Tide, Cold Cardboard Sky and Sea of Broken Glass... And Billy's singing is just amazing. There are links to his videos.

Cold Cardboard Sky is a charity song, raising money for Shelter.
The Cage is a charity song, raising money for Animals Asia

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1My9VtLeWved40Hi5zGWIYrTWZqxT5Uuc/view?usp=drive_link

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...