Tomorrow

Tomorrow 
I'll take one sugar in my tea,
Not 2.
And I'll try not to smoke!
During the day.
As much.
I will be healthy.
I will think healthy!
Carrot sticks,
Hummus!
Eat celery, if I have to.
Tomorrow I will
Exercise,
Take the stairs.
I will shave my legs.
I will aerodynamically glide through life.
Washed, ironed and hairless.
Tomorrow will be bright.
Even if it's raining.
Tomorrow, Tomorrow,
I will read a news paper.
Like the Guardian.
I will understand all of it!
Tomorrow,
I will try to say positive things.
I will ask people questions about themselves,
"How are you?" "How was your weekend?"
And won't talk about myself!
Not as much.
Unless I'm asked.
Then I will.
Tomorrow I will kiss my husband,
Because some times,
There's no time,
The morning flies "bye",
Kissless,
But not tomorrow!
Tomorrow I will make time.
Tomorrow, Tomorrow.....

Foster Mam

My Dad was hard man, Doing dodgy MOT's, Always in the back lanes, On the back foot, Taking back hands, Making deals. He wasn't there a lot and neither was my Mother, Both busy, Doing their own thing, And we wasn't worth the bother! My Dads name for me was 'little bastard' My Mother called me 'a little lad in drag' She wouldn't buy me pretty things, What all the other girls had. So I spent my youth in dirty joggers and Karki pants, Causing mischief on the chicken fields. While my sister threw wild house parties, We weren't the sort to do family meals.

Then one day my Mother up't and left us, For some cheesy club singer, And I watched my dad in days to come buy a gun and threaten to kill her. She didn't come to see us much after all of that, Which in some ways was a blessing, but also the straw that broke the camels back. You see, my Dads behaviour escalated, And though he left my sister well alone, I knew what would be waiting for me, On a night when I got home. I was a substitute for my Mother in every damning way, If I wasn't some use to my Dad, I was cast out like a stray. So I stayed out late and later, Wondering the streets, I'd feed the gypsy horses or be shoplifting sweets. And the years clocked by quite quickly, Back then I wasn't older than eight, By the time I was a pre teen, I was full of rage and hate! I was a feral little creature, Who had never known real love, My Dad could barely look at me these days, And I survived years without a simple hug.

One night all the pressure and the secrets, It all came to ahead, And I took a lethal overdose as my Dad lay asleep in bed. It only took a couple of days for everything to change, All my worldly possessions stuffed in two black bags, As a social worker led me away.

They drove me to a house I'd never seen before, Where a large, shapely woman opened the front door. At first I was nervous, As she signed my life away, And the reality dawned on me, That this is where I had to stay. That evening I cried, God I cried myself to sleep. And this large, shapely woman stayed at my bedside, And didn't make a peep. She just wrapped her arms about me, Held me closely to her chest, Rocked me like a baby and encouraged me to rest.

I didn't stay with her for very long, Social services move kids about, But if I'm to talk to you about family, Then without any - shadow - of a doubt: In that single act of kindness, She Taught me more than any other, When she opened up her heart and home, To become my Foster Mother.

The intention of my poem is to maybe plant a seed, Of children and young people, in our own communities, Who are very much in need. There is a shortage of foster families, Numbers at an all time low, So kids like me who are "hard to love" Have no where else to go. So before we cast out our little vagabonds, Because we mean you no harm at all, But There's just not enough kindness and love in the world, It's a shame there's not more families and homes.

Wrinkles are short cuts over grass verges,
They are the pages turned back in old books,
So you don't loose your pages, your ages.
They are squints from sunny days.
They are giggles rolled out like pastry,
They are all the worries about the future and the regret of every sin.
They are tip-i-toed sorrows that drift on your chin.
They are GCSE maths
They are your future divorce,
They are the elbow grease of every battle fought.

The Council Estate Slag

I've done too much,
Much too young,
'Cause I'm married with a kid when I should be having fun.
You see,
I’ve got more going on up here,
Than you’ll have in your life
Because I’m more than a slag and I’m more than a wife!
I’m a scholar,
I’m a saint,
I’m a snake with frigging tits.
I’d sell me own Grammother, I’d chop a into tiny bits,
To get more money
To buy more drugs
To commit more crimes
To feed the kids that I love
AND I. do. love. them!
More than life it’self and I probably shouldn’t of had them cause I can barely look after myself.
But I’m here and its now and it’s certainly not a dream
And when I’m lying in bed...
Aye, Aye - I do want to scream
Because the Teletubbies are not much conversation for a twenty year old bride,
And the last time I had an adult conversation; I’ll be frank, I nearly cried.
And I know your probably wondering
Well where’s the bloody man?
And I promise you, I’ve got one,
And if you see him,
Would you let him know where I am!!
He’s no doubt back in Sunderland,
Living with his Mam.
Living the ‘hard done by’ life style just minus the fucking pram!
I know you want to judge me!
And you want to challenge what I’ve done
Cause without any maternal instinct, how can I be a good Mam?
But when they handed me my babbies,
Covered in me own muck
They were like angles just born from a garbage truck!
And I’m lonely and frightened and I’m clamming for shag
Because the doors are always open,
When your council estate slag!

Jessica Johnson Age 20

Pink Lane Poetry & Performance