Oskar Leonard's Blog, page 15

Fields

Keeping with the Wigan Pride theme from the week before last, I’m going to showcase a poem which has certainly been one of my most successful. It came first place in TYWI’s Pride competition in the poetry category, and it’s going to be featured in the digital Wigan Pride 2021 content (although it was recorded in 2020, so I look… quite different!) as well as being published in a couple of other places (such as in Our Paused World!), so let’s add to the list and highlight it here as well!

Fields

We idly wander down beaten paths,
a fickle sun gracing our skin with heat.
The air is filled with birdsong, laughs,
as we live out these days on repeat.

Blades of young, green grass sway,
rippled by fingers we cannot see
while we chatter from two metres away;
his smile is beautifully curved in glee.

But my thoughts often stray to them—
those who loved, those who fought,
those who dared to condemn
a world which had been wrongly taught.

Fear doesn’t accompany this boy by my side
and, in time, I will hold his hand in mine.
We can explore a picturesque world with pride,
passing meandering fields under soft sunshine.

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)

__ATA.cmd.push(function() { __ATA.initDynamicSlot({ id: 'atatags-26942-612f25771d7e6', location: 120, formFactor: '001', label: { text: 'Advertisements', }, creative: { reportAd: { text: 'Report this ad', }, privacySettings: { text: 'Privacy', onClick: function() { window.__tcfapi && window.__tcfapi( 'showUi' ); }, } } }); });

The Emptiness Of My Atmosphere

Just a short poem today. Sometimes, it feels like the world is far too full of noise and general existence, but escaping it allows you to enjoy some form of blissful haven, far from the concept of everything. At least, that’s what I was thinking while I wrote this poem. If you’re sick of everything that is going on everywhere, then this one is for you.

The Emptiness Of My Atmosphere

It is outside where the noise lies;
only it doesn’t lie, for it is noise,
and noise buzzes, hums, hisses–
it creates all manner of unsightly
(unsoundly?) forms of existence,
and uses them to assault my ears
and this little peaceful life of mine;
but it is not my noise, so I stay home,
and enjoy my bay of silence–where I am,
no noise will enter, and I can continue
to rest my head on a cool pillow, and love
the emptiness of my atmosphere.

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)

__ATA.cmd.push(function() { __ATA.initDynamicSlot({ id: 'atatags-26942-612e638ceb226', location: 120, formFactor: '001', label: { text: 'Advertisements', }, creative: { reportAd: { text: 'Report this ad', }, privacySettings: { text: 'Privacy', } } }); });

Wigan Pride Performance Piece

Last Saturday, I was delighted to be able to perform a reading of ‘Three Years’ from Everything Under The Rainbow on the main stage at Wigan Pride. I’m part of the BYOU LGBT+ youth action group, and we had a take-over hour where me and some of my friends performed, which was an amazing experience. So, today I’m going to highlight the short story that I read along with the above picture from Wigan Today. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did!

Three Years

Three years.

Leaning down, I clipped Sunshine’s lead to his collar. He was a skinny thing, meant for running–Greyhound, or Greyhound mix, or something like that–probably more suited to a track than our tiny back garden. At least he had the fields, I guess. Every day, I’d clip that lead on and we’d walk right out of the cobweb-covered garage, down the alleyway behind the house and then… freedom.

Freedom was long grass which led to shady trees, a metal fence surrounding a horse racing track and then, beyond? The fields. Acres and acres of swaying corn, wheat, whatever the farmer chose that season. Sometimes grown, sometimes green. The little shoots pushing their heads up through tire-ruts and footprints were inspirational. The older plants, heads bowed, made you think.

Life, they seemed to whisper, life has been and gone and will come again; won’t you think about that for a while?

We left the garage without any fuss. Between the ages of eleven and fifteen, I would call out to my mum every time I left with Sunshine. ‘I’m leaving!’, or ‘Goodbye!’, or ‘See you later!’. The habit died off at around sixteen. Now eighteen, with a job and ‘rent’ and a university course, the words hadn’t left my lips for a while. Not in that specific situation, anyway.

Three long years.

Other things had happened since then, as well. Life was never easy. It always had some spanners to throw in the works: failed tests, breakups, discovering I was trans–oh, did I accidentally mention that last one? It snuck up on me, so I guess it’s only fair it sneaks up on you too.

Sunshine didn’t know I was trans. At least, I didn’t think he did. He sniffed me just the same as he did when I was five and he was brought home, barely as big as a bean. Or so it seemed at the time–I think he was a bit bigger if I’m being honest. I’d put him on a cushion and stroke his tiny back at least once a day, after he tired himself out with all his playing and exploring. Every silver-grey hair needed to be smoothed down.

His hair was rougher than it used to be, as I took him down the alleyway. He had this peculiar thing where he’d only step directly on a cobble, meaning he looked a bit like a weird dressage horse when he went down the alleyway. Only the alleyway. As soon as we got to the grassy path, he relaxed into a normal walk, just by my ankle.

It’s going to take three years.

Remembering the important part of the walk which I had fatally forgotten, I thrust my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out some black earphones, already connected to a tiny iPod. Definitely not the newest, but not the oldest either. One of the little square ones. I forgot what it was called half of the time and forgot that it existed for the rest of it. Some music, whatever sort you want to think that it was, blasted in my ears. I winced.

I think Sunshine winced too. Sensitive dog ears and all that.

For whatever reason, music didn’t seem so loud after a few hours, so I’d turn it up but then forget all about it when I turned the iPod off. Crazy, right? Some things just managed to slip through my mind like… like something slippery. Eels, maybe. I’d never seen an eel in real life. Did they even exist? Probably.

Such strange thoughts were common on dog walks, but they usually only happened once I passed through the treeline.

What was different about today?

Three years.

Oh. Maybe it was that. I stopped Sunshine at the end of the path, kneeling by his side to unclip the lead. Terraced houses looked onto the grass from a right angle. Little paths ran around the grass, random and mismatched, with bins placed just as randomly at some points. They sat where grass met road, or where path met path, or by that bench which was always just too wet to sit on (morning dew, I thought, was the culprit, added to a constant drizzle of rain on most days).

Sunshine ran. He always did. He knew the way better than I ever could, nosing around every weed and stone as if their minimal changes from day-to-day would drastically affect him. He trotted, loped and walked when it suited him, living without a care in the world. Just living, like the crops and the sun and the wind. I always seemed to get philosophical when there was no one around to listen.

Maybe that was for the best. Philosophy was a good way to lose friends.

Not that I had many of those.

Most disappeared after high school. Some disappeared even earlier, when I came out. Year Nine. That was a wild year. College drove off the rest of them, as new people found new opinions on me, my identity and whatever I chose to wear. Skirts, and I was trying too hard. Pants, and I was faking it. Makeup, and I looked like a ‘drag queen’. None, and I looked like a boy.

Nothing worked, so I stopped trying to appease everyone else and simply did what felt best.

That was usually whatever made me feel the most feminine, so skirts and makeup were my go-to. On lazy days, tracksuits with my hair streaming down my chest. It always helped. The hair, I mean. I was lucky that it grew so much–my mum said I got her genes for that, the long, straight black locks that she braided so intricately down her back. I never bothered, but I could do it. She taught me.

That was a good day. Some tears at the end, some close hugs that felt like they lasted for hours. But it was a good day.

I’m sorry, Jessica, but it’s three years.

Jessica. Jess-i-ca. My mum chose it. I keep going on about her, but it’s true. I guess she’s been the one person I could rely on, always. There’s never a day without a meal on the table, or a funny story about Grandma, or… well, whatever other domestic niceties you can think of. You do the work. I was busy.

I was meant to be walking Sunshine, but my mind seemed to be walking itself. It always happened. Music didn’t help. To be fair, I think silence was worse. There was me, going off on random thought trails again. Nothing made sense. Everything flip-flopped. Sunshine flopped onto the ground when he saw a dog bigger than him. It was a… uh… I was never very good with dog breeds. But we were almost at the trees, so nothing mattered.

Under those leaves, the rest of the world melted away. Even that big dog.

Maybe it was a Labrador. They were common, so that guess had to have good odds.

We passed under the trees once Sunshine stopped being an idiot and flopping all over the place. He started racing through leaves and bushes, chasing poor squirrels who never did anything to him. I stuck to the path, like always. I must have seemed boring to him. He pranced around while my mind spun and pondered until it hurt.

Why was being alive so difficult?

The trees had it right. They just stood and grew, sometimes spinning, sometimes not. Their leaves fell, sure, but they grew back. Like forever returning children, if children became babies every time they came home. That made no sense, but it did.

Waiting for three years.

In three years, I would have a new job. New home. New partner, maybe. Qualifications and whatever else university brought. New friends. Perhaps a new pet.

Apparently, I would also have my first gender clinic appointment in three years.

Patients who were referred in 2017 were only just being seen in 2020. Three years. Long, long, long years. I was a patient who was referred in 2020, so where did that leave me? Waiting, obviously. Eternally.

Sunshine barked. Another squirrel. Grey. Those were the invaders, weren’t they? From Europe. Or America. No, they’d never swim all the way from America. But did they swim the Channel? Maybe I should’ve taken Geography at GCSE.

Did I take Geography?

No, no. I took History.

My memory was worrying sometimes. Only sometimes, but it was enough to be noticeable. Semi-noticeable. What was I even thinking? The fence was approaching and I was stuck in a black hole of wondering about squirrels, GCSEs and memory, which all somehow fitted together. It was a maddening jigsaw. Luckily, I didn’t think about it for too long.

I never seemed to think about anything for too long. Until I did.

This must really be confusing you.

Three years is ridiculous, Jessica, I’m so sorry.

Mum. When the fence came into view, that meant we turned directly left. That led to the fields.

Mum always supported me the most. She never got mad, or sad, or anything else that rhymes with those two words. She complained about the things I complained about and loved the things I loved. She took me shopping for skirts and crop tops and whatever else she could think of. Turning down glittery hair bows and earrings which belonged on five-year-olds was difficult, but I managed it with a smile. She brushed my hair and told me exactly which shampoos and conditioners to use as it grew, and grew, and grew.

In three years, my hair would be down to my ankles. She said that. It would be trailing on the floor, she said, it’d be so long I’d be stepping on it. Tripping over it.

Sunshine shot off after a bird. Some sort of pigeon. Its wings flapped, panicked, as it escaped to the safety of a tree. Luckily for it, Sunshine couldn’t climb. He tried. Jumped up at the trunk, ripping it with his claws. Only a little, but he’d left his mark on the world. The evidence was staring me in the face for the few seconds I spent looking at it, still walking past. I didn’t pause.

I wanted to get to the fields.

Music accompanied me down the path. Sunshine sort of did too, but his constant rushing about made the effect a little underwhelming. It was funny, sometimes, when he’d race away but other slower dogs would walk by my heels and roll onto their stomachs for tickles in the middle of the path. It sounds odd, but it happened quite a lot.

There was a metal gate at the very end of the path, connected to the fence. The fence turned right and ran around the horse racing track, giving a wide berth for the various paths which led to the fields. I could see them as we approached it. Green ground. Newly-planted crops, but not so new that you couldn’t see them yet. Just young.

Was I young? That depended on who you asked. My mum would swear I was young until the day I died, but all my friends–the ones who stayed–said I was ‘mature’, whatever that meant. The makeup helped, I reckoned, on the days when I could be bothered. Or maybe my voice. I hated it, but deeper voices usually meant people were older.

I would have given anything to have the squeaky, ear-piercing voice of a Year Seven.

Well.

Maybe not a Year Seven. Year Eight, though, definitely.

Three. Years.

Tiny, budding crops roamed across the fields, acting like a horizon. They spread out so far that you could only see them and the sky, meeting in a grey-green embrace. Of course, I couldn’t have a sunny day–whatever was controlling the sky simply wouldn’t allow it. But a light breeze accompanied the shadiness of the clouds so neatly that I could barely wish for tropical weather. I always complained about the heat, anyway.

Why do I have to wait three years to be myself?

That was a mystery greater than any I could ever come up with. Sunshine barked. He found a pheasant in the field.

I smiled. Waiting lists shoved aside, I filled my head with the freshness of the air and thought of blissful nothing.

Enjoyed the short story? Why not check out the full collection, Everything Under The Rainbow?

(available on Amazon!)

In Your Hand

If you’ve ever wondered about whether your heart simply disappears from your chest within beats–which you probably haven’t, in all fairness–then this poem is for you. If you’ve become suddenly intrigued by that thought and maybe even a little unsettled at the idea of your heart taking a brief excursion from your chest every time it isn’t beating, then this poem is also for you. If this sounds like a load of random nonsense that has no bearing on reality, then this poem may not be for you, but you can still read it. Enjoy the freedom to relish in madness!

In Your Hand

Can you tell me where my heart is?
I can feel it within my chest–it beats,
thuds, shudders, judders, then…
for a brief moment, I cannot feel it at all.

Where does it go in those fleeting seconds?
Perhaps you take it from me, reaching in
between my ribs to grasp the still organ
and feel it, both alive and dead, in your hand.

Are you the reason for those impenetrable pauses?
You take the rhythm of life from me, and maybe
you take the breath from my lungs along with it,
and stand there–simply stand there–holding my life

and my soul
in your hand.

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)

Under The Moon

Maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of writing Reborn Bloodlines, the sequel to Twisted Bloodlines (more info here!), but I’m feeling quite appreciative of the moon. It’s just inherently magical to me, in the way that it changes form every night, from crescent to full moon and everything in-between, and everything that you see under moonlight seems otherworldly in a rather beautiful yet eerie way. I’ve got a lot of thoughts, in any case, and my thoughts always seem to work themselves into poetry, so here you go!

Under The Moon

With soft fingers against my cheek,
and quiet teeth against my neck,
she told me that I–as we sat there,
with silver light dancing on our skin–
could have the world, and that she,
as best she could, would give it to me.

A shivering moment held itself in the air,
as her words drifted, like music notes,
into my waiting, trembling ear, and I
let my gaze fall into the dark water,
rippling as a breeze stroked it gently;
my heart sang melodies under the moon.

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)

Nerve Cells

As my brain dutifully remains in my head – or, at least, I think it does – all day, every day, I think it’s only fair that I dedicate a writing piece to it. After all, it does have to work all day. Weirdly enough, I seem to be doing even more work now that it’s the summer holidays, but my brain manages to keep up somehow, even if it does generate regular headaches. So, aside from treating it with coffee and random bursts of inspiration, I’ve decided to give it the gift of words… that it has to come up with itself. I don’t think I’ve thought this through. Oh well!

Nerve Cells

Hold onto your sanity, you little,
devilish, delightful things, you perfect
mistakes of nature; how can you ignite yourselves
yet remain in a body ruled over by water?

Such mysteries are what you keep to yourselves,
as you huddle together within my skull.
Tangle with each other, you minute snakes,
and prance about until you craft ideas beyond imagination.

Do not lament your struggles, endless as they may be,
when you may instead appreciate the beauteous results
of your perpetual work. Your burdens are not concrete,
my friends, they are ink – let them flow.

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)

Bus Ride

I wrote this poem as part of my senior creative writer position with FOURALL Magazine, and I was lucky enough to have it featured in their seventh issue which you can read here. Bus Ride takes mental health and the metaphor of an empty bus and explores the ‘road to recovery’ and how it can sometimes be very difficult to begin that process and actually let people in. I hope you enjoy this poem!

Bus Ride

I sat alone. Three years ago, 
staring out at a blank scene 
punctuated by static faces. 
The bus was empty–lights off, 
engine growling calmly. White noise. 

Do you know how difficult it is 
to raise a hand, heavy as my heart, 
and turn on the lights? Open the doors? 

They hiss, gliding apart invitingly. Outside,
kaleidoscopic bustling stings my eyes. 
Let them in. But now they are in, 
bodies upon bodies, chatter upon chatter.
Emptiness becomes nostalgic poison. 

No. This is the light–the better place, 
where the bus moves on and life continues.
My eyes are open–afraid, but aware.

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)

Cats Wild Excerpt

Guess what’s happening on the 1st July? Well, many different things may be happening on that day, but it’s a really special day for me because I’ll be releasing Cats Wild on 1st July! My newsletter subscribers will be receiving a nice newsletter edition of the eBook at 7 am GMT on this day, and you can join them by heading to my home page and subscribing! But if you’re interested in getting a taste of Cats Wild today, you can keep reading and check out an excerpt from the first chapter today.

Cats Wild – Excerpt From Chapter One

Three days has never seemed like such a long time before. I am sure that once, when I roamed the streets searching for safety in the midst of danger, three days would have been nothing. The flick of a tail, or the blink of an eye.

But while I’m sitting by the front door and watching Sophia look out of the dusty front window from the top of a bookshelf, I feel like I’m turning to dust with every second that passes. Each one is longer than the last. Time is playing tricks on me, but I can’t stop it. In many ways, I am powerless.

When I’m also meant to be leading our tribe and keeping us all safe, being powerless is the worst feeling in the world.

I sigh, picking myself up off the floor and pacing in front of the bookshelf. I don’t want to startle her out of her wait for Joseph to return, but my body will go numb if I sit on the hard floor in front of the front door for much longer.

Kicking out a spot for myself within all the rubbish only reveals a tough, uncomfortable carpet beneath.

“How many days?” Sophia asks, her little voice travelling down to me from the top of the bookshelf. It only increases the heavy feeling inside my chest—especially when her mother’s eyes peer down at me, distracted from her wait.

“This…” I try to choose my words carefully, but there’s no easy way to talk about our situation. The rest of the tribe has come to terms with it, or I hope they have, but Sophia?

Her daydreams persist. She sees Joseph when the rest of us only chase his shadow in nightmares. It would be cruel to say that he’s never coming back, but we have to be realistic.

Realism doesn’t exist in her comforting daydreams. I only wish that I could experience them too and hold the same strong beliefs that Joseph will return to us.

But I’ve been alone for too long to believe in lines of thought like that anymore. I waited. I stayed with the tribe for as long as I could. Of course, I’m not leaving them—I will never leave them for as long as we all want to stay together.

The house, and any hope of Joseph returning to us, is what we’re all leaving behind.

Hesitant, I ready my tongue again. “This is the last day, Sophia.”

She nods, but there’s an unreadable expression on her small face. Her whiskers twitch before she returns to her vigil by the window.

She has sat there ever since we discussed leaving the house, and I have accompanied her throughout that time. No matter what, I want her to have a good upbringing and turn into an adult cat who her mother would be proud of.

‘No matter what’ has been severely tested recently, and may be tested further, but I’m holding strong. I made a promise. Giving up on Sophia is not something that I’m prepared to do.

But giving up on Joseph returning is something of a necessity. We’re running low on food and can’t remain here much longer. There’s also, I’ve realised, the lurking issue of human authorities showing up to the house.

In the case of that happening, I am almost certain our united tribe would be separated and scattered. I can’t let that happen.

Many things rest on my shoulders, which is partly why I rejoice in the peace of our current situation. I curl up on the ground, not quite closing my eyes. Trying not to feel the sharp plastic prodding my left side, I keep my gaze on the small kitten at the top of the bookshelf.

She’s grown. I can’t escape the fact that she isn’t the same kitten I carried here to Joseph, small and afraid. She hasn’t finished growing yet, of course, but her legs are so much longer, and her body is scrawny but lanky—it used to be round and small, easy to pick up and hold close to my chest. Now, it wriggles and giggles and demands various stories before falling asleep. That is if she doesn’t sleep in her own den.

It’s not negative. I know it isn’t, and I fight to remind myself of that every day. She is growing up, but she’s not growing away. Everyone in the tribe loves her and Tess… Tess loved her too, when she was still with us.

We all want the best for her. If we can protect her, we will.

Enjoyed the excerpt? Why not check out the first book in the series, Cats Alone?

(available on Amazon!)

Goosebumps

I will admit that, while writing this poem, I got really confused about what it was actually about. It started human and ended up abstract, although it was meant to remain human, and now it feels oddly macabre – at least, to me. I honestly have no idea how you’ll read this and what you’ll take from it, but it left me with a feeling that was a little like an echo, whatever that means. I hope you enjoy it, anyway!

Goosebumps

Watch my skin ripple, with those little
bumps and grooves, bumps and grooves,
up and down, until a forest stands within an ocean.

The trunks – silver white;
the sea – peach pale.

This scene will never see the sun again,
so take your rowboat and thumb your oar
between the strands of spider silk –
they are mine, and my body is yours.

Sheath it within a roll of navy sky, cotton,
or take it between your palms and warm it;
you can be my sun, so I will meld to you like glass
and become a molten existence.

We don’t know where we’ll go, not if I am
the sea, and the forest, and the valleys between,
and the rolling hills and skin-painted scene.

Where are you? I cannot see you –
are you the wind?

Or something else?

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)

Battle

I am currently, as I write this, engaged in a terrifying battle of wills with a rather bold spider who has decided that my bedroom curtains are now his home. This is not a true fact – the bedroom curtains belong very firmly to this house where I live, and where the spider does not live, but he is continuing with his antics regardless. So, what is a writer to do but write a poem about this experience and hope that the spider sees it and becomes so ashamed with his brazen behaviour that he promptly moves out. Well… here’s hoping, anyway.

Battle

Lock eyes with me, you little, articulated,
bold-lined, ink-legged beast. Look at me,
with those eight eyes of yours – all of them.
Catch my gaze and keep it, creature.

Under the charges of breaking and entering,
I demand that you kneel. Bear their burden.
As this is a court of my own, I add to that
the charge of brazen intimidation.

In your own realm, you may dance upon
silken ropes threaded with dew drops,
but not here. I would not stamp on your
mother’s house – do not defile mine.

We do not share language, it is true,
but we also do not share a home, which is
apparently contrary to your own beliefs,
my little rival. So, what shall we do?

I can lay it out for you in written terms,
in a spider-scrawl that you may recognise:
leave this place—leave it at once—
and let me never see your tiny face again.

Enjoyed the poem? Why not check out Our Paused World or Aleatory Poetry?

(They’re my poetry collections! Available on Amazon!)