A selction of my poems from my childhood

Dear reader,

I am responding to wonderful blogger David J. Bauman’s blog on Blackberries and Remembering Galway Kinnell. I told David I had written a poem on Blackberries. I have added two more of my poems from Childhood past times


I see the empty jar where the blackberries were

Idle on its own, redundant till next time.

My mother is in the kitchen singing while she bakes.

I know this is Mam’s favorite room

for she is always happy here.

The plump purple blackberries smell so sweet

encased in their coat of pastry good enough to eat.

Her floury hands make clouds of dust

her nails are encrusted with dough,

five hungry faces moan

“How much longer must we wait?”

as we sit at the table in Mam’s favorite room.

The oven is opened, the heat flushes

our faces to bright red as we wait to be fed.

The juices of the fruit leak out from the tart

as she cuts six slices and pours “Ideal milk”

From a tin onto our plates which are now licked clean.

As we giggle and make fun of each others purple tongues.

Sat in Mam’s favorite room surrounded in warmth but most of all love.

Julie Pritchard 2006

Sunday evening  Ritual

“In!” we hear the voice from up the street

“In now!”

As the Sunday evening sun is slowly going down.

I drag my feet along the ground

The bosh is waiting while we undress

Ow! I cry has my head hits the hot tap.

The geezer as been glowing; while we were out playing.

The clean smelling carbolic oblong soap is in my hair

up my nose and everywhere.

Rubbed dried skin is red raw which matches the soap.

All clean and lobster pink, now we don’t stink.

I see the metal object glinting

through the rays of the downing sun.

Sat on the floor while Mam “checks for chickens”

She says.

The weapon is now in her hand

the sharp prongs grate through my hair.

As the derback comb hacks at my scalp.

All clear, Mam shakes the talc onto my sleepy body.

The cleaning ritual of Sunday evening is forgotten.

As I lay dreaming.

Julie Pritchard 2006


Dancing to natures tune

moving their pale lilac heads.

Liken to a tingling of a bell.

The heavy scented aroma invites

and entices you to possess.

I kneel down, pull the sticky stems

out of mother earth, they slide

into my hands, bunches of them

lay like a baby across my arms.

Their pretty heads tickle my downy hair.

I hurry home with my gift of plenty

to give to my Mam.

She will put them in the jam jar

that has been idle since blackberry picking in the autumn.

I sniff the jar, the sweet fruity scent still lingers.

Now green stems stand with their purple heads

drooping in their sadness.

For they have been taken from

their habitat and put into mine.

Bluebells” is in my book Butterfly Kisses and a Bee Sting Mind


All rights Julie Pritchard

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