The Forester

Cherry Blossom (1905) John Reinhard Weguelin

She:

a product of a poisoning

is unblemished fruit

         ripe for the picking.

He is hiding there,

hiding neath the woodpile

yet affords her a view of single eye;

he watches   waiting

waiting as she fills her basket,

fills it with the want of him,

he a fuel for her fire.

Oh how she longs for warmth,

she his unfeathered maiden,

maidens who too young to burn,

bleed and sizzle, spit in protest,

until engulfed,   they are consumed

in his awkward awful flame.

She waits   wide-eyed  

understands not what she sees.

A crisp December morning,

she clears the grate,

clears it for a new day

and he rises from the ashes.

He takes her there,

takes her in the cold of winter,

takes her there on winter’s table,

presses down and takes her there.

She bleeds but does not sizzle

spit in protest, rather succumbs

to warm breath warm hands,

takes comfort

from the closeness   rhythm of his body. 

(There is rhythm in belonging.)

She is fallen, fallen high from grace,

she falls as cherry blossom,

a pink confetti , a scattering

in a cemetery of childhood.

She is fallen yet somehow complete.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at Poets United – thank you Mary.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Small Print

Look at the small print,

look at it just look at it. 

No need to read

between the lines,

it is there in black and white.

Addendum to diary entry:

I love him I love him I love him!

I am so tiny tiny tiny

Why can’t I think big?

Why can’t I say:

I love you I love you I love you.

I am so tiny tiny tiny.

Oh if only I could sprout

the wings of a bird

I would fly to him,

fly to him

and gather him in my skirts.

Say: See here,

look at the small print: 

I love him I love him I love him!

Instead:  I am tiny tiny tiny.

I have the wings of a moth

forever searching for the moon…

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for her prompt (the image above is not that of the prompt.).  Also thanks are due to the commentator of a news item who stated: Look at the small print – and the above sprouted from the two.

Also entered at The Poetry Pantry – thanks Mary.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Photographer: Pierre Dalous

And Then They Came

July the fifth

and I scribe in his name

in ink and hope

and think I’ll go mad;

a whole month to wait

before we meet,

before we meet

on that dreadful day. 

This date has significance,

for him for me,

a sad anniversary of a time

when fate decreed

we both should be there

upon that street,

upon that street

when strangers came.

They came in ships

of brilliant gold,

the skies their sea

this Earth their shore

and how in awe we were

of tales they told

of how they would set us free,

release us from this hell of war.

We weary of the battle then

welcomed them with open arms,

these saviours from some distant world

who would quell our pain

and free us from our Earthly bonds

and they whispered in our ears their names

and their names are Yutha Nasia.

Twas some time ‘fore we realised

on some dreadful dawn

that although we, imperfect born,

deserved and so desired to live.

Yet Earth had changed

lost all humanity 

and man joined Yuthas’  battle cry:

Give the marred their rights 

and let them die!

Twas soon we lost all hope

as mankind slid down the slippery slope, 

and now we have no rights at all

and today we both received the call

and soon we shall be no more

as death waits for us at the door,

the door of Yutha Nasia.

Anna :o]

Victoria at dVerse asks us to consider time.  She writes:

Today, I invite you to consider calendars. You might want to look at your own Planner from 2013, choose a day and let it tell you a story. Or maybe, check out a wall calendar and let the art speak out to you (I’m looking at a little-known painting by van Gogh as I write this.) Consider time. What messages do you receive from the changing seasons? If you’re into astrology, perhaps you will find inspiration in one of the signs…your own or a loved one’s? How has the passing of the years (otherwise known as aging) affected or changed you?

I keep neither calendar nor diary as I just remember everything.  Well not strictly true as I forget birthdays and anniversaries’ – even forgot my son’s birthday twice – how bad is that.  But everything else I remember. 

So I just wrote a date and let it take me where it wanted – although I never expected where it took me.

I have great concerns regarding the slippery slope of what euthanasia has become and I may or may not have witnessed non-voluntary and involuntary euthanasia.  Further reading can be found below.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Euthanasia  

http://alexschadenberg.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/belgiums-culture-of-death.html

http://pjsaunders.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/belgiums-meteoric-rise-to-become.html

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The euthanasia machine was created by Dr Philip Nitschke   

Garf

Watch me for a little while!

Viviparous, they so primitive,

entombed they are in womb of glass,

he smiles and shakes hard the jar

of funny little human things.

At five, a passel as a birthday gift,

Inquisitive

he had watched them breed and grow and thrive,

watched awe-struck as procreation

brought alive his little alien nation,

housed as they were in vivaria

that sat pulsating on his bedroom desk. 

He had marveled at their industriousness,

their efforts to achieve betterment,

yet this noble occupation bent/

thwarted by inherent base

need/desire of war,

a slaughter of its own innocents.

He sadly observed that they did not value life

yet this knowledge served his purpose well. 

No longer would the surplus feed

beasts that slithered belly down,

instead,

the budding entrepreneur would spice them dead,

create a pickle for discerning connoisseurs.

He shook the jar again, watched them swish

as if they had become some sad foetuses

awaiting birth from pickled death. 

He picked one out and with bated breath

awaited its deliciousness

and disappointed not he marveled at his own creation.

Big taste, big bank balance, he sighed happily,

Garf: quondam loser?  Yes – now bloody genius!

Anna :o]    

Björn at dVerse has us writing sci-fi.  The above is a re-write of a micro story (that lies in a now dormant blog) I wrote in May 2011, a re-write in the form of poetry.

I love sci-fi – well not the rubbish stuff – and read Isaac Asimov when a spotty teenager.    Loved watching the Outer Limits, The Twilight Zone and Dr Who.  I loved them because they scared me silly.  (I had a plan should a UFO land when I out alone – I would run head first into the nearest brick wall…!)

The micro story and thus the poem are based on the notion that this universe and this Earth on which we live, exists in some distant galaxies equivalent of an ant farm…

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Piolinfax

Rejection

Were I not ensanguined I would bleed pity into your callous heart.

*

Blunt rejection implodes ego, hate blurs self-perceived kindheartedness

*

Excised heart lies cold upon the butchers slab, revenge keeps it beating.

*

Revenge best eaten cold, hell no; pray hard, there’s fire in my belly.

*

Belly full of you, I spill memories until I run on empty.

*

Empty, I am yesterday; tomorrow has no need for warm embrace.

Anna :o]

Gay at dVerse has us writing American Sentences, these an American haiku invented by Allen Ginsburg.  Each line/sentence consists of seventeen syllables and should tell a complete story.

Not certain if the above is what Ginsburg  or Gay had in mind…

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Fragile_Emotion.jpg: Don from Murfreesboro, TN

To Those Who Would Dishonour the Dead

 Apologia Pro Poemate Meo

I, too, saw God through mud– 

The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there–
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

I, too, have dropped off fear–
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear,
Past the entanglement where hopes lie strewn;

And witnessed exhultation–
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour, though they were foul.

I have made fellowships–
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long.

By joy, whose ribbon slips,–
But wound with war’s hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but a trembling of a flare
And heaven but a highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment. 

Wilfred Owen

To Those Whow Would Dishonour the Dead

One single shot shattered fragile peace

and your country needs you,

needs you now,

needs you to spill your blood and guts on foreign soil.

There are empty places at the table,

lineage as broken as the beating hearts he left behind,

no progeny to bear his nose his chin his eyes. 

Do you remember him or does he lie forgotten?

There are those amongst us

who would have us turn our backs

against those sacrificial lambs that,

ripe for slaughter

fell to earth for king and country.

To you who wear proud

your badge of smug self-righteousness

I ask:

When they first come for the socialists, 
will you speak out?

Lest we forget;

know of those whose fallen bones

lie lost beneath the sod of foreign fields,

where poppies bleed in awful grief

and give gentle nod of reverence.

I will remember.

Anna

FIRST THEY CAME--

First they came for the communists,

and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the socialists,

and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,

and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then the came for me,

and there was no one left to speak for me.

Martin Niemöller

Remembrance Day is a memorial day to remember members of the armed forces who died in the line of duty.  It is not a glorification of war; it is a day to honour the dead.

Please don’t politicise it.

Also remembered, all civilian causalities and all those who through the death of civilians and armed forces personal were never born.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Tijl Vercaemer from Gent, Flanders #Belgium)

There Will Be No Spring

There is an air of neighbourliness here;

it is a mere pretence, a sham.

We nod, exchange pleasantries,                        

share small talk as I walk the dog;

watch (and mention) his hard labour

as he  cuts a swathe through evergreen

and he seems a little distant now.

We live our solitary lives

preferring the comfort of our own potting sheds,

there is necessity of order here,

we choose what will live and bloom

or twist out and die. 

We have our sanctuaries’ our Edens’

guard ourselves against the possibilities of harm. 

We, victims of our own defences become a garden full of weeds.

We had talked some time ago;

he told me of his blight, proliferation of disease. 

He had hope then, an optimism. 

He would lend himself to those with greener fingers,

they would tend him and he would thrive again.

The seasons pass and he has a look of autumn,

a withering of summer. 

He tells me the laurel will not outlive the winter

and crestfallen his sad smile flutters to his feet.

Anna

MLM at Mindlovemisery has us trying our hand at prophecy.  Sadly the prophecy is that of a near neighbour and I fear he might be right in that he, the laurel will not outlive the winter…  Not quite sure the above is what MLM had in mind but after talking to my neighbour a few days ago i felt compelled to write of our discussion and I honestly think I did so to cope with my own felt inadequacy.

(Also shared with the good folk at Poets United)

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: User:Burrows

With Rapier Wit

With rapier wit- his words his sword,

a cut deep into her heart he scored

and twisted thus (with daggers thrust)

and she (poor thing) her longings crushed,

wailed, as from her eyes her tears poured.

And he (the fool) knew that she he adored

and knew his words himself had gored,

and knew deep inside that he was cussed

with rapier wit.

He genuflect, forgiveness he implored,

his heartfelt wish; her love be restored.

And she (good thing) her worries hushed,

a kiss upon his cheek she brushed.

And he: lust crude confessed lost her once more

with rapier wit.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us write a Rondeau for today’s Form for All, thanks Tony.

I subscribe to Wikimedia Commons Picture of the Day and as today's was so perfect I had to use it and gained my inspiration from there.  (Author attribution: Marie-Lan Nguyen)

Angst

You never quite forget the hell of it,

the smell of it:

charred flesh and cordite;

and the never ending mortar fire

and sometimes you go mad with it.

I body-rock:

rhythmic   repetitive 
like a ticking clock,

tick-tick-tick, to-and-fro

not side-to-side like a stick insect

and he asks:

how do you feel about this;

and I say I don’t know,

not being arboreal 
I've never lived in trees.

My feelings for you are inchoate

although I’ve known you

longer than a piece of string

and I can’t help wondering

if that time we smoked all night long

and I got paranoid

whether you just might’ve set fire to the bed

as you rocked to-and-fro in candle light

grinning like a Cheshire cat.

My heart

has the monotony of a metronome

and my mind

is bored with its click-click-click-click

and I think I am bored with you

but as said feelings inchoate.

The garden is overrun by weeds

and ivy strangleholds the trees

and sometimes I think you are strangling me

and I wonder if I should cut and run.

I think my mind is running out of time

and I don’t quite know who or what I am. 

And I wonder if this coldness in my breath

is death whispering holding out its hand,

and whether it is or not,

either way do I give a damn.

Anna :o]

Gay at dVerse has us writing beat poems and she writes: Beat poems have no set form. They are free verse influenced by blues, jazz, post-war angst, the feeling of being beat down by society  (therefore a little rebellious) inspired by hallucinogenics (surreal) also influenced by meditation, Zen Buddhism, Native American and other ethnic tribal lore and folk stories.  The challenge for this article is to take some of these elements and create your own beat poem.

Not quite sure the above is one, but I chose to write about post-war angst and the effects of hallucinogenics.  The image sourced at Wiki is itself sourced from the 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Research Fact Sheet' authored by The National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH).

Interestingly (or worryingly?), the fact sheet advocates cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and I wonder about this having personally seen the damage that can be done in taking this 'talking' path, where the patient becomes stuck on the merry-go-round of constantly reliving a traumatic event or events.

Of course the skills of the counsellor are paramount here but sometimes I wonder if all this ‘talking’ is to meet the needs of the counsellor…

One of my great mentors (on this subject and via reading his blog) is The Cockroach Catcher and you may be interested in reading his posts on PTSD here.  He writes:

What was most surprising was how the group that had counselling generally faired worse, much worse than those without any counselling. The group that did best were the ones that drank, and drank a fair amount.

Please visit his blog and read more.

Witness

As mean as any howling cur, that’s him

an’ I seen what he done to her,

that one we thought the sweetest thing

who refused his plea to be his wife,

an’ he as mad as hell, he slapped her hard

an’ screaming to the floor she fell. 

An’ he with keenest butchers eye

took hand his favoured sharpest knife

an’ plunged it deep in t'cavity

where we thought her beating heart would be.  

An’ to our horror ‘twas just a stone

laying cold an’ hard twixt flesh an’ bone

an’ she with the wildest eyes I’ve ever known

let out this god-awful ear piercing moan,

grabbed at his knife and stabbed at him,

stabbed at him ‘til she could stab no more,

then curled back her lips an’ ate him raw. 

Me master gone then she turned on me,

you’re next she screeched an’ tried to cut me up

an’ I bit her hard an’ she lost her grip

an’ I took a chance and fled as fast can be. 

An’ courage now almost drained from me

I hide quivering whimpering like some discarded pup,

hoping life be bled from me an’ I be long dead and gone

‘fore she finds my scent ‘fore she hounds me out 
'fore she curls back her lips and eats me up.

Anna :o]

This gruesome tale (which still requires a bit of tinkering) was inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag.  Also entered at The Poetry Pantry at Poets United, kindly hosted by Mary; thanks Tess and Mary!    

Chalked daffodils

That lad: you’ve never met

but you know he’s there,

a lad – not now perhaps,

or still perhaps

(hiding behind that greying hair) –

that lad with an obvious flair

of giving reason to the rhyme,

the rhythms’, the reasoning of life.

He thinks of things,

well thinks out things,

that man, that lad, that David King,

he gives off the air of innocence

as he writes (abstract)

of brutish bears and angel wings

in such a way that anything is possible.

He says his life began

when his good lady became his wife

and how good is that how good that man,

that man, that lad who  could who can

(still) inspire that fire within the heart of us

to write of things,

of brutish bears and angels wings

and that anything is possible.

He taught me so much by the wisdom,

innocence of his words and my sorrow

is that I did not let him know

or perhaps I did (I hope I did)

in comments in which I bestowed acknowledged 

the greatness beauty simplicity innocence

of his words in which he understood

the complexities of this world

in a way I never will or never could/can.

“CHILDART

Chalked daffodils on pavement stone
cut vapour trails where planes have flown.”

The genius in that, the beautiful simplicity,

the electricity it stirred in me,

Dave you will always be the teacher,

the lad, the man, who realised in me

the impossible is not impossible

for if you try you can.

Anna.

The above is a tribute to the great Dave King who sadly died this week.  He was and still is a great inspiration to me.  He had a wonderful innocence but still a great understanding of this world in which we exist and wrote of it in his wonderful unique way.  I will miss him greatly and wish I had taken the time to know him better.  Friendship is not a thing we should wait for others to initiate – but oft we do.  I first emailed Dave not that long ago – not long before he let us know of his illness.  I held my handout too late and that I regret.  I shall endeavor to do better from now on.  Miss you already Dave and keep writing wherever you might be.

Written in tribute with his fellow friends at dVerse.