Category Archives: Stories

Read a poem for me

“Read a poem for me”. That’s what Reuben Woolley wrote on Facebook when he knew he was going to get a liver transplant. Reuben is a poet and the creator of I am not a silent poet, a magazine for poetry and artwork protesting against abuse in any of its forms. He also started The curly mind, for linguistically innovative poetry.

On October 17th, his daughter wrote:

“He is in critical condition. The surgery on Monday night was long and really complicated. Then on Tuesday, they had to do a second surgery after which doctors were a bit more optimistic. He is still sedated and we’ve been warned that evolution is slow in this sort of cases. Thankfully, his vitals are getting a bit more stable and the doctors have been able to slowly decrese some of the drugs he’s getting. Yesterday they also removed the sedation but of course it will take a while until it wears off.”

We’ve sent him many well wishes through Facebook, and I remembered that he asked us to read a poem for him. So I’ve made this call on YouTube, to get the idea started. Please join in if you feel like supporting Reuben in this tough time.

Today, for #OctPoWriMo day 20, my entry is Reuben reading from his new book:

Our prompt today was mountains. I don’t know Reuben personally, but to me he seems a person that will move mountains if he can. To create a better world.

Reuben, we’re thinking of you! ❤

That’s me in the author list! I’m still undecided if I’ll buy the epub version, the PDF, or both 🙂

Congratulations David Ellis on creating this new poetry magazine. I’m happy and grateful to be part of the very first issue.

Hello there friends! I have very exciting news to share with you all. I am a Co-Founder of a positive poetry journal and my new poetry journal has released its debut issue, it is available to purchase now. In this issue are poems by Sandra Hurst, Suchot Sunday, Angela van Son, Antoinette Dickson, Paula Watts, […]

via Auroras & Blossoms Poetry Journal Magazine Have Released Their Inaugural Debut Issue – Issue 1 Now Available! — toofulltowrite (I’ve started so I’ll finish)

Seriously by Angela von Son

I don’t think I ever shared on my blog that I got published in Celebrate Change? Maybe I accidentally put it on my Procrastination Coach blog, I have clumsy days sometimes. I was really happy with it, and I do remember shouting it of the rooftops. Or the digital equivalent of that 😉

Celebrating Change

The sixth poem selected by our guest editor Jessie Joe Jacobs is about sexual abuse, and it’s like a punch to the gut…


When I said
Make yourself at home
I didn’t mean
Do to my daughter
What you do to your wife

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A story untold

This is a story about what happened in my family, generations ago. The story has never been told, yet I know it happened. It’s been told in the things we don’t say. It’s been told by the things we don’t do. We hush – move on, nothing interesting going on here. And yet, there was…

I don’t know her age. The signs didn’t tell me. But she was a woman. She was beautiful. She was fertile. She was wise. She was helpful. They wanted her to say yes to everything. She didn’t. I guess that’s what got her killed. She said no to one who couldn’t bear it.

You’ll have to fill in the details yourself. Was she married? We don’t know. What did she dream of? No one knew. What was the sound of her laughter? I don’t know – but I do know she loved to laugh. She enjoyed life. She enjoyed company. She enjoyed learning new things. In the end, I think that’s what got her killed. She knew more than they could deal with.

They tried to cover it up, as justice. They tried to make it look like it was right. She was a witch, they said. She was a danger to the village, they claimed. But her family knew better. The only thing she did was say no to someone who couldn’t take it. So he made the claim. He wanted to destroy what he couldn’t have, and knew he couldn’t do it alone.

At first his words held no strength. People trusted their own judgement. They knew her laughter. The knew her beauty. They asked for her wisdom when they needed it. But sometimes she couldn’t help. The disappointed wondered if the rumours were true. They knew they were good people, who deserved good things. Maybe their disappointment was the work of the devil? Maybe there was no wisdom, only trickery? Maybe she wasn’t beautiful, and she just wore a mask.

I think she was married. She had a baby, for sure. Or was she taking care of an orphan? A boy who declared her to be his mother, because love is stronger than blood. Long before he knew her blood would be spilled, he knew he had her love. He felt it in his bones. He saw it in her eyes. He tasted it in the food she shared with him.

A boy, who witnessed the blood. Shed. Spilled. Congealed. He saw her throat, sliced open so she couldn’t speak. He saw the blood between her thighs. He heard the claim that it was self defence. A harmless man against a powerful woman. A Christian dagger against the hand of the devil. An act of justice to right an unnamed wrong. He saw. And he listened. And he took note. This would never happen again. He would be the keeper. He would pass the message along: stay safe, stay safe. So his children would be safe.

They were. He learned to fear for those he loved. He never told his story, but he worked hard to keep his loved ones safe. It was tough sometimes. There’d be contagious laughter in an unguarded moment. There’d be shared wisdom that could draw attention. And true beauty is hard to keep hidden. So he passed his fear along, to help them keep themselves safe. They did. They were. Safe. Their children too. And their children’s children. No one knew what happened.

His descendants stayed safe. They knew how to stay hidden, because something might be out there. They knew they should stay away from trouble, but never understood why. Though they’d never been told, they realised the dangers of beauty, of laughter, of wisdom, of being female and fertile.

Now here I am. Female. Fertile. Beautiful. Wise. Alive. I’m here now, to tell you this story, even though it happened centuries ago. I’ve received love in the form of fear. It couldn’t protect me. I’ve always protected myself. And I learned. There’s danger in silence. There are worries in absence. I will speak up. I’ll tell my truth. I’ll honour the ones who died. I’ll honour the ones who live. I WILL be safe. And I will love.

The bones speak

She always wore long sleeves 

On the hottest of days.

Nothing to see here, she always said
Don’t worry. I’m fine.

Soundproof sleeves

woven by her mother

with threads of silence

no whisper leaked through

The X-rays tell a different tale:

Of old fractures, of injuries
Hidden beneath layers of flesh and fear.

The loom

an heirloom

it made no sound

only the wood was dented

Stripped of skin, defleshed to mere skeleton

Her life lays bare on a cold slab
Exposed like dead-white maggots
Fat, wriggling, reluctantly pulled out
From hollow eye sockets full of hell.

The warp thread tension

was nonadjustable

the weft thread

often broke

A chip here. A groove there.

Violence records itself in bone.
We can be read by those
Who decipher death
Who study the language of cruelty.
We do not give up our secrets easily.


a chip here

a groove there

random pattern

clink, clatter

clack, clank


Nothing to see here, she always said
We know
We know
The bones always know.

Rattle, click

hem stitch

Yay, a collaboration between Shuku and me, based on her poem for day 17. It’s off prompt for today, but it has influences of a number of the other prompts. It’s a very busy day today, so I can’t look up which ones.