I wrote this for a woman who lost her son

He was only a young teenager at the time, knocked down and killed by a taxi.  The woman was going through a really rough time before it happened and this obviously was a lot for her to bear.  I didn't know her very well but I wrote it based on my thoughts of it.

Losing a Child

Our children are our future

We nourish and cherish them

We love without condition

Chastise when necessary and hug regardless

We believe they will always be there

Always in our lives until we die

Always tangible and real

Always there to be comforted and loved

We never expect to lose a child

Never think that they will die

Never believe that they will go before us

Never allow this thought to cross our minds

When it happens we are crushed

Our grief and pain beyond belief

Continuing without them seems impossible

Their departure feels like the end for us

We are left with a void

One which dearly needs to be filled

A huge space in our lives that knows no end

An empty space in our arms which aches

But our life goes on

Our pain eases but never dies

And our child lives on in our hearts

The memories of them stay forever

No more can we hold them

No more can we hear their laughter

No more can we ease their pain

But we will never forget

An old life lost is painful

A young life unbearable

Our hearts are strong

We will heal and pain will ease

The future will get brighter

Life will improve

Time will make things easier

Love will continue.

Written by

Freda Brodie

June 2009

On holiday in Cyprus

a few years ago I was sunbathing by the pool and spotted a lovely looking little girl who was with a very elderly Cypriot lady who I think was her grandmother and also a couple who I presumed to be her parents.  The parents went away leaving the little girl to look out for the frail older lady.  At one point the little girl stood shyly watching some British kids play pool and table tennis and I felt so sorry for her as she obviously also wanted to play. I snapped a photo of her then from watching her this poem was born.

Lonely Old Child

She stands there, watching in the wings

Her limbs long and gangly like a new born colt

Eyes are dark and wide like those of a fawn

Clinging with one hand to the twigs of a bush

Hidden partly by the dense dark leaves

Head bowed watching and waiting

Almost willing the others to see her

Yet still wishing to remain hidden

Wanting to play ball with them

But too scared and shy to join in

Totally unaware that she is being watched

Silently wanting to be part of the group

The other children oblivious to their audience

Play noisily in the shade, splashing in the pool

Their chatter a stark contrast to this one

This young seemingly lost soul so sad and alone

Then, the harsh voice of the grandmother

Calls the girl to her side to do her bidding

The moment is gone, the child turns away

Sadness etched on her pretty gaunt face

No play, nor toys, games are not for her

Her life lies in caring for the old woman

Fetching and carrying, providing company

Being there to cater to her every need

Young caring for old, this lonely old child

as part of the writing course

We had to write a poem based on true history.  I chose the opening of the Forth Road Bridge.  The outcome of the research is this piece of work.

The Opening of

the Forth Road Bridge

With thirty one thousand miles of wire,

And thirty nine thousand tons of steel,

Seven workers’ lives which were stolen,

Never meant to be part of the deal.

A bridge, spanning two thousand metres,

Crosses over the Firth of the Forth

And takes us from, the Queensferry South,

To the Queensferry here, in the North.

The ferryboats needed no longer,

Over eight hundred years they have ran

Now traffic can cross over water,

On this wonder designed by a man.

People who worked on the ferry boats

Now collecting the money we pay

No longer for 18 pounds a week

But two pounds and 10 shillings per day

Constructing the bridge is completed

The painting of it just about done.

Those tons of metal are glistening

In the light of the September sun

Our queen and her husband are crossing

The bridge, while the crowd shouts, waves and cheers.

This moment people have waited for

Has arrived, after twenty one years.

Underneath in the river’s waters,

Naval ships wait to join in the fun,

From today there’s a brand new era,

To be marked by them firing a gun.

With their flags and their pretty dresses,

Little girls in the crowd curtsey down.

The boys in their suits, all smart and clean

Get told off for just acting the clown.

The main celebrations are over

This event went according to plan

All the people are travelling home

In most every transport they can

Memories are all that are left here,

Heavy traffic runs daily each way.

Children, now adults, are telling kids,

Of one very spectacular day.

Freda Brodie

November 2008

When a lovely man

who had parkinson's decided it was time to end his own life I was devastated.  He was a member of our writer's group and one of the gentlest people I have ever met.  A one time priest from Eire it must have been a difficult decision to take as suicide is against the teachings of the catholic church.  Anyway on his passing I wrote this for his memory.

The Quiet Irish Man

A gentle voice with soft Irish accent,

A bright sparkle in your lovely eyes.

You lived life to the fullest,

And saw good in most things under the skies

A quiet proud man who for years

Dedicated his life to his lord.

You travelled and worked across countries

Spreading your god’s holy word.

Then you met a person so wonderful

She became a huge part of your life.

You left your vocation in priesthood

So that you could make her your wife.

But years took their toll on your health

And illness, took your freedom away.

Things that you once took for granted

Became harder to do day by day.

Living became such a struggle

You couldn’t go out for a walk,

Writing your stories wasn’t an option,

It was difficult to just simply talk.

That’s when you made your decision,

The time, the place and the date

Wrote letters for those you were leaving

And went off to your heaven’s gate.

No more of your soft Irish accent

Those sparkling eyes are now dead

All that is left are our memories

Of a quiet, Irish, man - our friend, Ned.

Freda Brodie (May 2010)

I got really angry

when I heard a newsreader announce that a forest was going to be sold off to raise money.  It made me think that at this rate there would be no green areas for anyone.  This poem was born out of that anger.

What will we leave them

Our young, as they grow?

Where will there be

For them to go?

What about forests

Or meadows and trees

What about insects

Butterflies and bees?

Will they have lakes?

Or rivers and streams

Will these just be memories?

Things of their dreams

Will birds still be here?

In crystal blue skies

Or fish swim in water

Snapping at flies

What will there be

For them to admire?

Polluted waters

Thick like mire?

Concreted wastelands

Burned black hills

No flowers or green grass

The thought gives me chills

Don’t let this happen

Protect mother earth

Leave it for our children

This land of our birth

Cut down pollution

Not forest and trees

Cut out the chemicals

Those are killing the bees

Think of our children

As this land you rape

Leave the green belts

As a means for escape

A very old native

Was once heard to say

We don’t inherit from ancestors

This place where we play

He said everything

We see every morn

We only borrow

From those still to be born

Freda 2011

A visit to the Museum

when the slavery exhibition was there was what prompted this short poem.  I wrote it on the spot as I was horrified by some of the things I was seeing.

Why?

Because you looked different

Why?

Because you seemed strange

Why?

Because we didn’t understand you

Why?

Because you were black

Why?

Because we were superior

Why?

Because you were heathens

Why?

Because we were scared of you

Why?

Because you were black

We trapped, we killed we enslaved

Why?. 

Sometimes

I think I need to revisit my work and make changes but then I remember that I write things as I feel at that moment and in relation to the situations going round at the time.  Often my work offends and other times my choice of words aren't quite right, but it's my work and how I write.  Anyway for today we have a piece that came from a story about slavery in Liverpool.

Without me you are nothing

You sit in your big house

I stand chained to a wall

You are surrounded by family

My family are lost to me

You are clothed in great finery

I am in rags

You eat salmon and quail

My food is stale bread

You drink good wine and ale

I have stagnant water

You have skin which is clean and unblemished

My skin is scarred from whips and chains

You sleep lying in your great bed

I stand sleeping in a niche in the wall

You have warmth and light

For me only cold and darkness

You have great financial wealth

I have great poverty

You are deemed to be the better person

Yet without me you would have nothing

You are my master

I am your slave.

Freda Brodie (date unknown)