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Listening intently, trying to remember how to breathe.
Never realising how much this would change me.
Change how I act, how I think
How I love.

Remembering this exact feeling six years ago when my mum
Came down from upstairs slowly.
So oblivious to what was she going to say.
In that split second that I remember as an eternity.
Trying to force the tears from my eyes.

In that second, a long time ago, far, far away.
Feeling guilty because I couldn’t exert any emotion
Not an exact sadness, but a loss of part of you
A part you never knew, a connection invisible to
Everyone until now.

Now I can only produce tears and sadness. When
Six years ago I missed someone I had met
And longed for someone I have loved.
All I could manage was Guilt.

Still hearing what he was saying, but listening to my mum
Six years ago.
Only now do I remember how she put it.
How she moved her mouth when the words came out.
How breathing almost became difficult.

I awoke at 9.15 to see the first snowflake fall.
The first snow of the already over winter.
The featherlight diamonds danced in the foggy breeze.
Hiding in the cracks of the bricks.
The holly bush glistened with glee,
while snow covered the stiff, spiked leaves.

While everything became beautifully white, I looked out and cried.
It was the first time I realised I had lost him.
Why does it hurt more,
when the person that hurts you is still deep in your heart?
My tears were as cold as the snow outside.
(I guessed his heart was too)

Watching the snow falling from the rich grey sky,
helped the love drain away less painfully.
I thought of the time he hugged me all the way home,
the first time my heart got broken.
I never thought he would be the one breaking it.
Now the love was suffocating from the thick blanket of unwanted hate.

No love always amounted to a broken heart.
No heat always amounted to snow falling.
I wish I could melt that fast.

Alone in a crowd, I see you but you turn and walk away.  Off, off out of sight, down the road.  I try to follow you but you disappear into a darkened alleyway.  I can no longer see you.  You are gone.  I walk slowly back towards the market where the crowds are gathering; traders are persuading the weak-minded to buy goods they neither need nor desire; an old man stands outside the pub on the corner busking for his dinner, desperately hoping the landlord doesn’t come out and move him on.  You are everywhere.  In every face.

Why did you have to go, my dear?  The world I live in now’s so cold.  I hate the way people laugh and sneer because of my looks or the funny sound of my accent in their world of monotony.  That never seemed to matter when you were here.  You were my strength.  I cry out at night but I know it’s useless.  You can’t hear me.

Do you remember when I taught you to whistle?  You were better at it than I was.  You used to dream of being a bird, I used to dream of being a policeman or a soldier.  You said that if you were a bird, you’d never let anyone clip your wings.  You wanted so badly to fly.  And me?  I just wanted to save you.  But nobody could save you, could they?

I’ve thought about it a lot since then.  Tried to figure out where this life ends and death takes over.  Because some people are alive and yet they’re dead at the same time.  It’s in their eyes.  That glazed, blank expression.  They don’t see any wonder in this world anymore.  They see in black and white instead of colour.  They feel hatred instead of love.  They have forgotten what it’s like to touch.  I don’t want to be like that.  That’s why I started painting.  That way I can make sure that I keep colour in my life.  I like to paint you in all different colours.  You were green last week.  It all depends on what colour I’m feeling that day.  If anyone asks, I just tell them I’m doing an abstract.

I remember when they held you on high.  Tears were shed.  But not just because I loved you but because I was proud of you.  You made me into the person I am today and taught me that it’s good to dream. Anyone can fly, can’t they?  They just need to aim for the sky.  So fly away now my darling but always remember I love you.

Zoe Stephens

In places far away like Baghdad and Beirut,
people scavenge like rats just to see the day through.
Starvation creeps quietly into people’s homes,
a soldier passing by finds another man’s bones.
He was just a number.

A man’s gone crazy at a school with a gun,
a child hides crying wishing for his mum.
A teacher puts her life in danger,
he shoots her dead where a Jesus-doll lies in a manger.
She was just a number.

A young girl sits in class feeling so alone
wishing time would stand still so she didn’t have to go home.
Having to make up excuses about falling downstairs,
silently wishing that somebody cared.
She’s just a number.

This life’s just like a stupid maths game –
nothing ever adds up, it’s always the same.
People get together and then they divide.
I’m sure I heard somebody cry,
don’t want to be just a number.

Zoe Stephens

Slavery:
n; the cold iron chains
with their heavy manacles
that drain the life
from loving, energetic people
who give their warmth freely
with no ask of returns
as they clang and scrape and screech
down the years;
the bitter twisted lies
of white folks who fear
anything that’s different;
the sound of a bell ringing
in your ear
signifying the start of yet another battle
for survival against a white master;
the never-ending struggle
to reach the summit and be counted as equal
only to see you’ve still a mountain to climb;
the fact you find beauty
in every aspect of life
and you sing.

Zoe Stephens