A Poem a Day (575): A four-letter word

A four-letter word

RAPE.
A four-letter word.
A small word, easy to ignore,
easy to hide in the cracks in the system,
too easy to look away from, skim over.
 
The statistics tell us how it is:
one in four women,
one in six children,
one in eighteen men.
About 70,633 reports in 2022,
and that’s just in the UK.
 
We’re talking 736 million women around the world.
I repeat: 736 million sometime in their lifetime.
Can we visualise that number?
Can you see all their individual faces?
 
The number of charges show how many victims
are being failed. The sheer number tells us
something is wrong – they’re not being heard.
And these are the ones who spoke out,
who were brave enough to say ‘this happened’.
Their voices are being lost on paper.
 
Education is needed. Protection is needed.
People need to feel safer walking the streets,
going to sleep under their own roof,
just going about their daily lives.
Is that too much to ask?
I guess that’s too much to ask.
 
A victim reporting a rape needs support,
action and subsequent follow-up,
not to be turned away, given excuses.
A friend is still waiting, years later,
yet they said he might be a serial offender.
I wonder what he’s doing now.
 
We reported a flasher once, as girls.
Followed us home, darted out from the bushes,
he knew the direction we would take,
waited for us and started to masturbate
right outside the door we were meant to enter.
Did he expect us to clap? We reported it,
sat through an interview, and nothing.
We wondered if he did anything worse.
 
RAPE.
A four-letter word.
The most offensive four-letter word
in the English language – and you might
have thought I was gonna say c***.
 
More cases need to arrive in court,
more offenders should be brought to account,
or rape becomes a way of life for some,
a living prison for others. The perpetrators
go free, walk around, even do it again,
leaving the victims hurt and afraid.
 
Even the word victim is wrong:
it removes all power from the person,
places them in a position of weakness,
steals their confidence and identity away –
they’re the person the crime was done to
when the offender had no right to do it.
 
Survivor is the better word:
the person who was strong enough to go on,
who picked up all the scattered pieces
and tried to continue despite it all,
even knowing nothing was being done
in this now more dangerous world.
 
Some are too ashamed or scared to speak,
thinking they will be blamed or disbelieved,
better to be quiet, pretend it didn’t happen,
when it is the offender who should be ashamed.
 
It’s time men and women stood up and said no, 
there is no place for rape in society.
Survivors need to join hands around the world,
so their voices become the loudest argument heard.

 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 31, 2023

The statistics 

According to Rape Crisis, these are the statistics in the UK:
1 in 4 women have been raped or sexually assaulted as an adult;
1 in 6 children have been sexually abused;
1 in 18 men have been raped or sexually assaulted as an adult.

The highest number of rapes within a 12-month period was recorded by police in the year ending Sept 2022 as 70,633. Over that same period, only 2,616 rape cases went to court.

In 2021, only 1 in 100 rapes recorded by police resulted in a charge that same year.

This is a drop in the ocean compared with the figures globally. According to the United Nations, an estimated 736 million women (almost 1 in 3) have been subjected to physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence, non-partner sexual violence or both at least once in their life.

Rape is used as a weapon of war, power, control and subjugation. In a resolution adopted in 2008, the UN Security Council affirmed that “rape and other forms of sexual violence can constitute war crimes, crimes against humanity or a constitutive act with respect to genocide.”

A Poem a Day (574): Rays

 
Rays
 
We are as the sun finds us,
risen, framed by our childhood dreams,
palms seeking to high-five a sky
so far beyond us as to be an ocean
of light, full of Koi-shaped clouds
swimming in a blast of orange dust.
 
We spread our wings on the updraft,
drenched in a rush of morning rain,
the overturn and rejuvenation it brings
to everything that breathes and dwells
below. And we are rested in this time,
while the sun bleaches the sea rocks white.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 29, 2023

A Poem a Day (573): Ring the alarm

 
I wrote this quick one for 2minutesgo, JD Mader's writing weekend on his blog. Just head over and write for two minutes, whatever you like, be it poem, story or mega rant, or an ode to puppies. 

 
Ring the alarm
 
Flag that car for a lift,
and you might not get very far.
 
Walk the streets late at night,
be careful where you are.
 
Ride a bike, so then drive slow,
or you might not make it home.
 
Fly a plane, check the seat,
be sure to sit right by the exit.
 
Stay in a hotel, look at the number,
ensure it doesn’t say thirteen.
 
Buy a lock, buy an alarm, buy a dog,
buy a gun, buy a knife, learn to run,
learn to fight, check for streetlights,
check behind you, check in front.
 
Don’t get the nightbus,
do get the nightbus.
Don’t walk,
walk.
 
Don’t, don’t, don’t…
 
Just stay home.

 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 25, 2023

A Poem a Day (572): Silver

 
Silver
 
We live in huge houses with dead-straight lawns,
grass neatly trimmed around right-angled edges.
See the freshly mowed lines stride out, alternate
light and dark, looking ruled and measured.
 
Robins and blue tits launch at the iron feeders,
wings a-flutter as they take their lunch to go,
speckling the ground with morsels for squirrels,
while sparrows take a sand bath in the sun dial.
 
The orange-yolk sun clouds over, clouds off,
and our skin bristles hot and cold in surprise.
Sunglasses put on, sunglasses put down;
we are changeable, like the weather.
 
Our lapdogs doze by the back door, on food patrol,
smelling of perfume and talc, neatly combed.
Pride of joy is the pink rosebush blooming neatly,
the focal point of our little groomed escape pod.
 
Our home, more visibly a mansion, stands alone
to attention, every tree pruned, every hedge scalped,
a green sculptured horse a-freeze in mid-gallop.
Seeking adventure, its visa was cancelled.
 
All the wildness has been sheared or fumed away.
Even the bees have their own section, minute flats
built of wood, manufactured cut-out honeycombs,
while the golden Koi navigate sprouting lily pads.
 
Windows upon windows upon windows stare out,
too many rooms for one person to clean,
too many rooms to actually live in,
so empty they sit in their pristine perfection.
 
A sudden newsflash on the iPad flies images
of a drought in a far-flung part of the globe,
and we pause in our reflection of the garden,
reach for our mobile phones, text in a code.
  
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 25, 2023

This isn't my house! In London a lot of us have a room, and too many people don't even have that.

A Poem a Day (571): I saw a man walking four dogs

 
I saw a man walking four dogs
 
The March air is damp with expectation.
You can smell the green, the woody bark,
the mix of flora, fumes and breath,
becoming headier before it arrives,
this drizzle, sliding down in a thin stream,
an invisible drummer on paving stones.
 
He walks four dogs, this wiry man,
back stooping, flat cap reflecting the rain.
Neatly, they walk in file behind him,
tails swaying to and fro to a distant beat,
paws padding in time, as though listening
to a doggy tune only they can hear.
 
Leather leads dangle, trail on the ground,
but the dogs don’t try to drag them away.
There is no hurry here, no impatience.
It’s a Sunday jaunt, a time-travel déjà vu –
they’ve done this walk day-in, day-out,
twice a day, three if they’re in luck.
 
Come rain or come grey, snow or fine,
from house to park they walk this line
and back again, but it’s never the same.
The dogs recognise some steps and voices,
can hear them coming around the block,
yet there’s always something new.
 
The old man is silent, lost in a daydream
of the partner he used to share this with,
the route ingrained in his memory.
He loves the habit of it, the empathy.
From a distance they form a unit,
a furry, eighteen-legged family.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 24, 2023

A Poem a Day (570): The circle

 
The circle
 
Walking into motionless lamp posts,
under ladders, black cats kneading
your heels like dough, seeking to trip –
we run the gauntlet east-to-west
in this incandescent kaleidoscope of hue
ever-revolving, ever-rebecoming
something new, a thing to be known.
 
You water it, this newborn plant,
skinny strapling reaching for the sun.
But only the moon shines. Agate charm.
It casts a glow where the sun can’t reach.
 
We dispel time, feel it stand still,
shake off our so subtle nuances,
count the creative fingers on each hand,
circle the index three times as if for luck.
Jump puddles, step outside the lines,
avoid endless cracks in paving stones.
 
And so our rebecoming hasn’t come so far
from when we were eight, closing the gate
lest our fathers race out and shout us down,
reminding us not to leave it open.
 
In this we have come full-circle,
staring into our own eyes, our own selves,
as we were when we were small
and had no idea of what we wanted to be,
or who we might become,
at all.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 23, 2023

A Poem a Day (569): Echoes

Echoes 

A mound of words
lost in a white shag-pile carpet.
 
A woman runs barefoot through the cool surf
bubbling on the edge of a pristine beach,
toes sinking in. Her prints echo in the sand,
a route for others to follow.
 
Grey gulls twist,
sailing on the backdraft,
voices transported on the wind.
 
The ringbearer scales the mountain,
where wild goats clamber on the diagonal,
mounting invisible steps with ease.
 
A world of opportunity waits below the sun,
its environs inconducive to man.
 
The man peddling just keeps going,
watching a faraway scene on a video screen.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 20, 2023

A Poem a Day (568): Bark whisperings

 

Bark whisperings 

Whisperings of bark cracking,       pink streaks       of light writing words       in arching skies,
cradled in cloud hands.        Dew glistens on veined leaves,         their sides curling up
into a beating heart,       nature’s prize.      Listen to the budding breath,       the distant sigh of
the undergrowth,           roots spreading out beneath the earth        carrying currents between
the trees,        an underground network of truth,        communicating through moss.
 
This green, lush land       aches with the weight of eras,       speaks its histories       in accents
we can’t understand,        but we can place an ear        to the peeling bark      and contemplate.
 
An experiment in Kew       lets you hear         the pop,      the hiss,       the click-clack
of sap       streaking through the vessels      of the saplings,        from the trunk up to       the leaves
swishing in the breeze.       Hear the heart of nature        pumping         from the inside,
transpiration and exhilaration         a chase of water,         the lifeblood of the trees,
and wait       for the blackbirds to land,      cosy down into their        twig nests       on high.
 
In the dawn chorus        you’ll hear them sing       of their ancestors,        a mist of melodies
echoing from the treetops,          songs leaking        through the skies       to wake the morning.
 
And we’ll chase life        through the deep, damp woods,        ground squelching      beneath us,
leading us in,        into the recesses,       light streaking the ground       from above
into the verdancy,        into the hidden places,       into the dark       where the earth smells green.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 18, 2023

A Poem a Day (567): Trophy

Just been reading the news and about the coming vote on the Hunting Trophies (Import Prohibition) Bill to outlaw the trade. Sir Ranulph Fiennes is quoted as saying: “British trophy hunters are killing lions that have been snatched from their mothers & reared as pets. They are then shot in enclosures.” So I wrote a poem about it. I’m against trophy hunting and this poem is my personal view on that. I know some people reading this might disagree, and I’m not attacking you, but sticking up for endangered species who don’t have a voice.

Trophy

He’s dreaming of the things he should have had.
Freedom.
To think. To be. To roam.
Family.
Peace of mind.
Relative safety.

He would always have stood a chance.
He could always have made a getaway.

But they stole him from his mother
when he was too young to roar.
They took him home, pampered him,
treated him like one of the family,
this human replacement,
but their humanity was just an act.

The cage was built just for him.
It fitted his dimensions exactly.

In silence, he raged against the bars,
trod the edges back and forth,
shook his mane, muscles rippling.
Eyes watched him through the lines,
sized him up,
saw him as the enemy,
easy pickings.

His gut instinct told him
it was all wrong,
yet no one came to free him
until the final hour.

He could have outrun them,
but there was nowhere to run.
He might have beaten them
if the fight had been fair,
and they were all unarmed.
But it was weighted against him.

Cornered.
Shot.
Dead.

His head is on their wall,
above a wooden mantelpiece
filled with family photographs.
Below, there’s a gathering with wine.
They forgot to toast him,
too busy planning their next kill.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 16, 2023.

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If passed, the Hunting Trophies (Import Prohibition) Bill will prohibit the import of endangered species as hunting trophies into Great Britain, helping to reduce the threats that these animals face.

This Bill builds on previous acts such as the Ivory Act.

In the last 50 years, global wildlife has declined by 60%.

An estimated 25,000 trophy animals have been brought into the UK since the 1980s.

Trophy hunting increases the threats endangered species face, with its impact, for example, on African lion populations – which have declined from an estimated 200,000 in the 1970s to less than 20,000 today – found to be the “single most significant effect,” according to Oxford University research.

Other animals shot by British trophy hunters include African elephants, hippopotamuses, black bears, leopards, zebras and chacma baboons.

A Poem a Day (566): Wrapped

 
Wrapped
 
6 years old.
This gift is 6 years old.
Turn it over and the cover changes.
Twist it back, it’s as it ever was.
 
A mirage of light,
without any shimmer.
 
There is an ink-black shadow within,
a portal to a place you won’t want to know,
the hall of painted mirrors,
the expressive smokescreen,
the footprints trapped in snow.
 
It’s a world of ice inside,
where you’ll search for Mr Tumnus,
loiter beside the giant iron light,
waiting for the sun to thaw.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 15, 2023

Kiwi in Cat City & other books are free in the Smashwords Sale today!

 

Hi! Happy #Caterday! I have some books for free in the Smashwords Sale today. So head over there to grab your free reading gift. One of these books is Kiwi in Cat City, which was the first book I finished (unless you include my teenage efforts). Put your fee up and escape into a world of cats and fantasy. I hope you enjoy them.

Other freebies today are The Sea Inside, Day of the Living Pizza and more.

A Poem a Day (565): Crossing water

Crossing water (a rondeau)
 
Listen to the silencing - 
they say your journey is a sin.
Our beliefs are who we are, not the things they sow,
they’re standing on the high-brow.
Those crossing need a way of being.
 
They pick numbers that aren’t fair,
talk cheaply of life choked of air,
but the people have nowhere to go.
We are listening.
 
The spin can sound so charming,
but to the victims they’re not listening.
Compassion is something we all know,
so surely empathy can only grow?
Who is out there listening?
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 11, 2023

A Poem a Day (564): Down the rabbit hole

This poem was written in September 2019, but never published online. I just found it wandering through... Alice and the White Rabbit...

Down the rabbit hole

Mary 4 Jack forever, kiss-kiss,
Ian woz here, Lucy heart Dave,
Jane is a user and she’s going down.
 
So the graffiti bog sings…
 
It’s a little thing,
what are you thinking?
I’m writing.
It’s a little thing.
I’m listening
 
Rabbit 1: Come on, you could sort her out.
Rabbit 2: …
Rabbit 1: She’d be ugly then, ha ha.
Rabbit 3: Well, maybe just break her arm!
 
It’s a little thing,
'Death and the maiden’,
so it goes.
Have you read it?

I’m listening –
Frasier?
The doctor isn’t in the house,
so who’s listening?

He spins riddles out of pools of shit
in this white-tiled house.
Windows are eyes.
 
Is it a little thing?
He’s ex-military;
he can take care of himself.
 
Rabbit 4: I was told to stay away.
 
The maiden’s sinking into time.
 
Who is throwing daggers at closed doors?
Where does the missionary sing?
But it’s a little thing.
 
Rabbit 5: He wanted to knee-cap her.
Rabbit 6: He wanted it to look like an accident.
Rabbit 7: Or a mugging.
Rabbit 8: She could be paralysed.
 
It’s an invisible thing,
this thread,
spiralling,
dragging everything with it.
 
A simply crazy thing to do,
walking bridges in collapse.
 
The Tower brings a warning,
blazing all to the ground.
 
Talk in echoes, shadow silence.

The mud is sinking,
pus is rising,
the cistern overflows.

The white room closes in,
a code of silence obliterated.

Sliding doors,
hours
to
crawl,
caressed by claws.
 
We reimagine,
imagine
a freefalling thing,
but then it's real.
 
Julie loves Jason, Yvonne woz here,
Mark wets the bed, Lisa is a go-er.
 
So the graffiti bog sings…
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 15, 2019

A Poem a Day (563): The rock pool

 
The rock pool
 
In the rock pool
we listen to the sound of being,
exchanging our breath, our thoughts,
protected in our invisible bubble,
 
this living womb of water
with its feather-touch energy of knowing.
Our skin reddens under a yearning amber sun,
potential of a missed dawn.
 
In their distancing, the heavy Nimbus warn us
of the darker energy of rain, the conjurer,
its sprightly fingers waiting to
dance upon our rock pool.
  
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 9, 2023

A Poem a Day (562): Fast-forward in slow

Happy International Women’s Day!

I was planning to write a poem about women down the ages and their fight for equality, but I found that nothing I wrote really said what I wanted to say or gave the issue full justice. I ended up finding a lot of facts such as: in 2021, 26% of all CEOs and MDs were women, compared to only 15% in 2019. So, instead, I spent a happy time reading some of my favourite female poets instead. In the end I wrote a poem about ageing, living, nostalgia and just life in general.

 
Fast-forward in slow
 
We come and go, ebb and flow,
wildest dreams and bygone years
remembered. Star bright and sky burn,
some lives lived too close to the sun.
 
We try not to lose our individuality,
collecting alternate patterns to stand out,
colours full-raze, imitating a craze,
and languid days we draw resplendent.
 
Here is truth in our hands, and we hold it
aloft, clear waters, reflecting our real selves.
We glance back from our fast-forward,
thankful to have known those we miss,
 
curious to know who has yet to arrive,
opening doors and closing the well-worn,
to bring us knowledge and fulfilment
on our journey to the edge of the world.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 8, 2023

A Poem a Day (561): The storm

 
The storm
 
They counted names in the early hours
of the storm as the rain screeched down,
read them from the Register,
while someone twisted Rosary beads.
It ripped right through.
 
Mud flowed, slid and spilled,
overcame everything in its wake,
a 20 mile-per-hour gush
of boulders, debris, mud and branches.
Every building sank beneath the tonnage,
roofs and structures swept away,
photos depicting a lifetime.
 
They counted names,
but not all were accounted for.
So they carved their names in wood,
so they would be remembered.
But we remembered them all.
Every single one.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 2, 2023