“Do not touch me…”

“Seriously,” I said.
I’m not just the next generation:
I’m a real survivor.

Hard as old bread.

Quicker than grandma’s slippers
thrown with boomerang precision. 

At the age of five, I could already “read”
my mother’s mood to avoid collision;


At seven, I had a set of keys
and instructions: 

“You can find food in the fridge.”
And, from there, were all deductions.



At nine, I was my own chef,
discovering my own taste.

I knew what I liked, what I was
and exactly the future I faced.



Spending days outside, without a phone, 

with just a well-planned route: 

the hill, the river, returning home at night, 

perhaps minus one mud-stuck boot.

Real maps made of these small battles

that I survived. 

Scratches treated with saliva
and leaves, medicines contrived.


If it hurt, we just laughed
and sought distraction from the pain,
because further adventures beckoned
so there was no reason to complain.

Eating bread with sugar on top,
drinking from the garden hose;

microbiomes that yoghurt would dream of.
Allergies? What are those?



I know fifteen tricks to remove stains 

from grass, fat, blood or ink, 

because we only had one set of clothes
and wore them til they’d stink.



Transistor radios, black and white TV,

gramophones, vinyl and cassettes,

carrying CDs and a Discman,
singing songs no one forgets.



Tightening tapes with a pencil
means little to an MP3

soon with a driver’s license,
there was a wider world to see.

Travelling the country in a rusty old car, 

without hotels, air conditioning or GPS,

just with a tatty, discoloured car atlas

and an old beer mat with a barely legible address

Always arriving safely, 

maybe late, but with a smile. 

The last generation to live without the internet,
and revolution was all about style.

I had no backup batteries, 

or worries of a dead phone. 

The landline hung on the hallway wall,
unanswered if there was no one home.

Believing that any missed calls meant:
“I’m fine, I’ll call you back.”
I read books while I was waiting
or fixed myself a sneaky snack.

I fixed everything with tape or a clip;
I rarely bought anything new.

With only one TV channel to watch
There was always something else to do.



Made of “emotional asbestos,”
flowing easily from the back of the duck.
With the reflexes of an urban ninja
They were the times of making my own luck.

Carrying a menthol candy
older than your child in my pocket. 

I survived without sunscreen and a helmet
Or seatbelts in my rocket.

Schooling without computers,
youth without multiple screens.
Encyclopaedias had all the answers
once you’d deciphered what it means.

I had to trust my instincts
and say what I thought aloud.

Now I have more memories
than you have photos in the cloud.

So “Don’t touch me,” I say again
Though I’m not sure you could anyway.

Here’s my number, call my landline
and make sure you’ve got something to say.

An epic poem for me! This one is inspired and paraphrases an article that I, frustratingly, neglected to note the origin. I’m annoyed with myself about that!
I’d also like to add that I don’t particularly agree with much of the thought within this piece. Of course, everyone reminisces about their past, their childhoods, etc, but that doesn’t make it better than now – just different. I’ve never subscribed to the ‘things were better in my day’ philosophy.
Congratulations if you read this poem to the end! I know that I might not have!