Any friend of Jesus......

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a poem i wrote for my Mother, after racking my brains for earliest memories. It is based on the misconceptions and innocent simplicity that we possess as children. Then along comes our schooling system and peer pressure to put a kibosh on it! Set in the early 1970s in Northern England.

An eager child, I picked up stones
and washed them, clean and neat.
Then sold them for a penny
to the grannies on our street.

One of them had a poodle.
All legs and ball-shaped fur.
Its collar gleamed with diamonds.
They were REAL ones. I was sure.

The home birth of my baby bro.
I was shooed out the door.
Such immature injustice.
I was practically four.

Then rubbing salt into my wounds,
behind that bedroom wall.
The goldfish bowl stayed in its place
so Blubby saw it all!

A friend would say "Come to my house."
I was little and shy.
Her family had status
and now I'll tell you why.

We'd march into the front room.
(the one they kept for best).
A portrait hung on the wall.
It left me most impressed.

The picture was of Jesus.
The meaning sank in quick.
They must have REALLY met him.
He'd given them his pic.

On the back seat of Mum's car
with baby propped beside.
She put the daimler into gear
and started up our ride.

At the first bend, before my eyes,
the car door opened wide.
Then with a silent, sideways lean
my sister rolled outside.

The open door. My mouth was shut.
The baby blanket bare.
The car still moved. I sensed a change
and watched my Mother's hair.


A tiny moment in my life.
Not scared. Not judged. Just here.
Then frightened scream and squealing brakes.
A Farley's rusk of fear.

Fast forward and the fish long flushed.
Child car seats now firm faves.
And all those grannies that I knew
have stones upon their graves.

Those childlike thoughts, so unconstrained.
This conclusion I pen.
Although I'm more 'in the know' now,
was more in the now, then!


Submitted: April 30, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Amanda Caroline Wilson. All rights reserved.

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