PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Family Truths

By jfarrell

It was addressed to me; it’s my 6^th birthday;

Dad’s gonna open it… well, why not? Who do I know at 6?

Little white envelope with a stamp;

I’m chuffed I can read my name…

And someone sent me something, on my birthday.

There was a letter and some polaroid photographs;

1973, the height of technology :-)

Dad read the letter, looked at the photos

And went to the pub.

I didn’t think any more of it.

About 6 hours later…

“Tell me what you did!” whack!

“Tell me the truth you little……” thump!

“Tell me about these….” as he throws some bits of card in front of me.

I blacked out, somewhere there.

And awoke face down in kitchen sink

With hot water being poured over my head;

I couldn’t work out why all the water was red.

“Tell me about these!”

‘These’ being polaroid photographs of my being raped that Summer.

Turns out, ‘Uncle Brian’ had sent a similar letter and photos

To my cousin’s parents; he groomed and raped us together;

They went back to Ireland and I know nothing else about him, them;

For me, dad had to beat the ‘gayness’ out of me;

And Uncle Peter still blames me for ruining his marriage.

And I still feel like a frightened 6 year old

With no idea of what’s going on.

Happy Christmas

By jfarrell

Happy Christmas to you all.

What does Christmas mean to you?

A red suited gentleman and his menagerie

Breaking into your home and eating all your mince pies?

A tinseled christmas tree

With a golden, silver-winged angel sat atop?

Sat around the dining table,

With several generations of your family?

Pulling crackers, carving and sharing the turkey;

Too much food and playing charades after dinner?

A baby born into poverty many years ago,

To grow, to be crucified for us?

Awake all night, too excited to sleep….

If I stay awake, even just one eye… I might see santa…

Whatever Christmas means to you…

The very merriest of Christmas’s and may the next year be your best yet.

And if, like me, you’re alone…

Or worse…

Sleeping on the streets…

And where-ever’s worse than that…..

Don’t give up!

You’re not alone, however much you feel you are.

Christmas is the time for miracles…

Don’t give up!

Happy christmas to you all and the best year ever!

School scraps

By jfarrell

“My dad’s bigger than your dad!”

…... remember that, from school?

When I got home from school,

With cuts and bruises,

I’d get 7-8 slaps and hits, before

…. “Did you hit back?”

Once,

I hit back.

Can’t remember what the fight was about.

Jason was a year younger than me,

A neighbour, a friend, on my estate,

On my block.

I beat him up;

His two teenage brothers beat me up.

Should’ve ended there.

After the customary 7-8 punches,

To get me talking,

to get me to ‘share’…

He stops hitting me…

Squares his shoulders…

And storms out! “No-one gangs up on my kid, like that!”

I watched a hero, my hero,

Storm off down the balcony

And start hammering on Jason’s door…

“I WANNA WORD…..

“WHAT YOUR KIDS DID TO MY SON….”

…. the door opened….

…..I’d never noticed Jason’s dad before…..

….He was short, nose to chest, with my father…

And my father was not tall…

…..SHOUT, SHOUT, SHOUT….

One punch…

My ‘hero’, my dad, out cold.

I saw it all there, don’t know how;

7-8 years old;

Dad gets drunk hits wife and kids….

He’ll only hit… stand up to…

People smaller than him….

Coward… but I still feared him.

In 3 days I will be 50….

You know what….

I think I should stop fearing him…

After all…

He died over 25 years ago

And I’d seen him only once since I was 14.

3 days before 50 I, finally, realise…

I’m better than you…

And always have been!

I may not be the ‘man’ you think of….

Beating up littler kids to make me feel better….

I am MORE…. greater… then you ever were.

The effects of child abuse on you

By jfarrell

I speak of me and my experiences and abuse;

I have no right, or claim, to speak on behalf of others;

Hopefully, this echoes what they may say

And explains why you must listen and stop child abuse.

The effect on me;

I cut myself off from my family, my sister;

I didn’t want to pass the abuse on, and I had started;

No friends, alone all my life.

Depression and several suicide attempts.

The effect on you, society, tax payers;

My being in care cost upwards of about £500 a week, back then

Double that, my sister’s in care with me;

The years spent in therapy,

In mental hospitals, in A&E after suicide attempts.

And that’s not mentioning the 20 years spent on the sick;

Too ill to work.

And that’s just me.

Thousands, tens of thousands of pounds of your money;

Spent on helping me overcome my pain and become a ‘survivor’;

Trust me, in my shoes, this ain’t surviving…

And I’m a ‘safe’ victim;

I can only internalise what I feel and hurt myself;

I can’t hit others, get high on crack and turn to crime;

Get drunk and beat my wife and kids like dad did;

I’ve never taken the risk of having a wife and family.

Having no-one, I can hurt no-one.

What we go through does affect you. Now and in the future.

Anniversaries

By jfarrell

Happy birthday; happy christmas;

Poppy day; Anne Frank’s birthday;

Anniversaries are things to remember,

Sometimes, like birthdays, things to celebrate.

A little over 20 years ago Princess Diana died;

Where was I? waking up in a mental hospital

After my first suicide attempt;

Happy anniversary.

My dying before she does

Maybe the only way I can make my mum feel something,

Anything, about me;

To be fair, it’s not like she could if she wanted to.

Last time I saw her, 25 years ago, I told I’m never coming back

“Don’t I get a kiss. I am your mother,” she said

No, I said;

You may have given birth to me, but you’re not my mother.

Her spite towards me and my anger towards her;

Both need to hurt the other in self defence;

It is a vicious cycle that will continue

Long after her, or my, death.

Happy anniversary.

Peeling the onion

By jfarrell

My story, my history

Will come out, layer by layer

Within my poetry

And much of it you won’t like;

“let’s leave those horrors for scary stories”

Like peeling an onion, the deeper you go

The more intense it is

When I started writing poetry recently

I upset my sister with it;

It’s stuff she’s got over and buried in the past;

And she is the only one of my relatives I give a stuff about;

But she doesn’t believe that

She believes I stay away out of hate and spite;

I stay away coz I seem to hurt everything I touch

I promised her I wouldn’t write personal stuff

Sorry, but I’ve got to break that promise

I write for me, I have to write my story

And I have to write it my way

You can choose to not read

But you cannot tell me not to write;

You found your peace;

I’m still searching for mine.

I need to peel this onion.

The skies were a clear blue
ten years ago today,
then the skies were filled with horror
the prices, people had to pay.

Why can't the world, live as one
just the way God wants?
It would make Him happier
but instead, in just haunts.

There are many, hurting hearts
too many tears are being shed,
this world should be a happy place
but, it's always filled with dread.

I say to you my friends
try to lend a helping hand,
remember those families of 9/11
don't let this be, their last stand.

Let them know, we ARE there
to help them, when they're in need,
a friendly smile to greet them
and a warm hug, yes, INDEED.

Copyright Cynthia Jones
Sept.11/2011