Monday, 16 October 2017


I’ll never forget Jean or ‘Smiffie’ as she was affectionately known.  There was little knowledge of her past bar that she had been institutionalised at eleven, seemingly for promiscuous behaviour and spent the majority of her remaining life in a psychiatric hospital.  She came to us in her mid-fifties and was instantly adored by staff and fellow residents alike.  

She was damaged of course and had frantically hung on to a certain kind of sanity by inventing a husband whom she talked to often.  She also adored cats and loving her as I did; I gave her a cat ornament that was very special to me, but she was more special. 

I will never forget her funeral.  Having no relatives her burial was provided by the city.  Torrential rain had created a puddle into which her casket was lowered, even death held no dignity for her, and I was heartbroken.

Sky full of sadness,
rains a cascade of teardrops,
a sorrowful parting.

Anna :o]

Bjorn at dVerse has us writing a haibun, its theme being that of water and above is my offering.  Cheers Bjorn!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:    Pridatko Oleksandr

Sunday, 15 October 2017


“You can’t explain what it’s like to mourn someone who’s still alive unless you’ve experienced it first hand.”
Jessica Seay-Soto

I can’t remember most of their names, those who were important to me, those I cared for across the years, those who lived when I left, left to enjoy the autumn of my life.

I have no doubt that my memory is failing, I know the signs.  I know them all too well.  I fear them.  I fear for my future.  I fear I will wake up one morning not realising that the essential me, the me I am happy with, the me that I am happy being, will have disappeared whilst I slept.

I will awake a lost soul.  And I can’t bear the thought of that.

Winter is nearing
leaving distant my selfhood,
memories fading.

Anna :o]

Please know this is not about me, but thoughts based on memories of my mum who I have been thinking of often of late.

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, the Pantry being hosted by Mary - cheers Mary!

Image courtesy of:  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  geralt

Saturday, 30 September 2017


if searching for a (possible) familial adverse reaction
it would have been an incidental find – a saving find.

But why, as
*“When you hear hoof beats, think of horses not zebras.” 
So horses it is as the zebra runs wild.

(The mind still has it…)

(Somewhere a butterfly flutters – an advent of the storm.)

(There is madness here: 
Please inscribe on my gravestone
I told you so; I really did tell you so!)

Zebra grazes fat on the grass.

(I tell Eddy what the food tastes like as he tells me what it looks like.)

Eddy is dead now, yet I still live (unaware of the chaos to come.)

(The mind still has it…)

Anna :o]

Bjorn at Real Toads has us writing of order in chaos and above is my offering.  It is a true story.

 *"When you hear hoof beats, think of horses not zebras."

Also shared with the good folks at Poets United - cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Nevit Dilmen (talk)

(Please note that image is not correct to the diagnosis and is not about me, rather someone I love.)

Monday, 4 September 2017

To Michael

Late summer brings with it industry, for, for far too long my home has been neglected, but by necessity.  Working full time and caring for my lovely hubs Michael (for sixteen years) left little time for anything else.  But as seasons change, so does life.  Michael has lived in a wonderful care home for two years and I retired from work last November.

Initially, after retirement, I dwelt in that wonderful place of my time, where the only person I owed was me.  Happy in my apathy, I ignored the ingress of rain as it cascaded through the extension roof, preferring to place buckets rather than deal with it.  But as summer came and the grass grew and I knew I wasn’t physically fit enough to mow it, I had the garden landscaped and the roof repaired.

I then knew that I must concentrate on my home, for it is my home and not just a house.  I knew I must arrange for the house to be rewired, for the wiring is as old as the house, nearly fifty years.  I gave myself three weeks before the start date, thinking it enough to lift carpets and clear cupboards and wardrobes.  Little did I realise memories lost in the clutter.  (The British Red Cross needed a van to take the clutter away to their shop – the memories remain here.)

Autumn will come soon
echoing sweet  memories,
you are my summer.

Anna :o]

Toni at dVerse has us writing of the space between season and above is my offering.  Cheers Toni!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Tony Webster

Tuesday, 22 August 2017


I don’t suffer fools gladly
and I think that’s why I don’t like me anymore.

I search for you in the margins
and find your footprints in the sand;
embedded, resolute,
defying the soft wash of the tide
as it lazies itself to the shore. 
There is permanence in your absence.

I have toothache in my heart,
it is throbbing away and I can’t stand the pain. 
I miss you.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at Real Toads - Cheers for hosting, Marian!

Image:  Courtesy of  Flickr
Author:  WiSch/Foto

Saturday, 19 August 2017

It's All About Love

Uncomplicated: life in the slow lane.

Skin wrinkles; bones tire.

She breaks fast as the day dawns,
sips tea as the sun shines,
loves him for all time. 

Summer is fading as the light in their eyes. 

Content with the season,
love undiminished,
life lived as a passion,

they welcome the fall.

Anna :o]

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing of “Uncomplicated Things” as micro poetry (ten lines or less) and above is my offering.  Cheers Kerry!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons (and the poems title stolen from there as it seemed so apt).

Author:   Candida Performa

Monday, 14 August 2017


Fresh we were,
fresh with the hope and the dreams
that are the spirit of youth,

we would reshape the world,
fashion war into peace
with naught but flowers in our hair
and love in our hearts.

Older now, we have nothing but hope…

Anna :o]

De at dVerse has us writing a quadrille, which is a verse of exactly forty-four words.  Today we must include some form of the word Dream.  Cheers De!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Department of Defense

Wednesday, 19 July 2017


Off shoulder: it now hangs loose,
the bands of blue lopsided hoops,
bra one size down (and counting). 

This t-shirt measures her,
a testimony of inner strength
as she fights the fat that binds the wounds
that scar her heart that beats her awful misery.

She will smile for them, those who laugh and jeer,
shout ugly names with carefree ease in an effort to deride her. 
She will smile as if she doesn’t care, whilst deep deep down
(their ugliness) racks up the pain inside her.

She has learnt to wear this face to hide her hurt
from even those well-meaning, those kith and kin
who even they, fail to see to feel her pain within
and offer platitudes,   as if some alternative to caring.

She takes pride in her few pounds lost,
accepts the praise but knows this pleasure will be fleeting,
for Black Dog he will come again, tear up her heart cloud up her mind
and her only comfort will be in eating.

Anna :o]

Susan at Poets United has us writing of masks and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan!

(Black Dog = Depression)

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ramesh NG

Monday, 17 July 2017


We walked on water ‘til the sea reclaimed us,
anchoring us to its bed as we slept forever. 

Beyond infinity a new dawn and our hearts flickered,
born again we rose to the surface and crawled upon the shore.  

Innocents waiting to be Gods…

Anna :o]

dVerse is six today!  Happy Anniversary dVerse, and many thanks to those good folk who tend the bar.

Grace ask us to write a quadrille, that is, a poem of exactly forty-four words, including a provided word.  Today’s word is FLICKER (to be used in any of its forms).  Cheers for the inspiration Grace!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Source/photographer:  user:Rlbberlin

Tuesday, 13 June 2017


I’ve always wanted one, a gun that it is,
it’ll make me look (and feel) so hard and mean
an' all the gals, the gangsters molls
will be so keen to stride with me
as I strut along the city streets and dive into the shadiest of places.

An’ maybe if we dress up enough look tough enough
they’ll think we’re old enough to drink and so we will,
we’ll swill at it, the beer and gin an’ lap it up
an’ spill it down our fronts an’ laugh at it
an’ how we will be so admired by them not tough enough to carry.

An’ how hard we’ll be so old men quiver at our words
an’ buy us drinks an’ lend us money just to be their friends
an’ we’ll say okay mate friends just tonight, but you wont get it back
as we spend spend spend on beer an’ gin an’ the fattest of cigars.

An’ maybe we’ll get close enough an’ French kiss and stuff
an’ I’ll stick my hand right inside your bra
an’ you’ll breathe out the softest sexiest ahh an’ will hug me tight
an’ I’ll be so made up I’ll be orgasmic. 
An’ we’ll get a room an’ strip off an’ soon my naked body next to yours
an’ we’ll do things I’ve only ever dreamt of doing so before

An’ there it was in the shop it was, the gun that is
all brilliant with its silver sheen and keen I was to get it
an’ looked around an’ confident I wasn’t seen
I slipped it smoothly in my pocket. 
But seen I was an’ screamed an’ screamed “It’s mine, it’s mine”
as they whipped it from my jeans.

A lesson learnt perhaps as I now the mug being photographed
an’ pissed off I am realising I didn’t steal the friggin’
Smith an’ Western toy gun caps!  Bang!  Bang! 
What a dreamer that I am! 

(I wonder if she’ll wait for me.)

Anna :o]

Lillian at dVerse has us writing ekphrastic, which is attaching words to an image, these images a collection of vintage mug shots from the 1920s taken by the New South Wales Police Department which can be found here.

I really enjoyed this exercise.  Cheers Lillian!

(I do think my close needs tidying up though - so will work on it.)

Wednesday, 31 May 2017


She has no-one, no kith or kin,
just these four walls that close her in,
in this little space she once called home.

She is all alone waiting for the ring of silent phone
knowing there is no-one at all to call her.  
She pours out a drink and sips at it,
smoke rolled and lit she draws at it, thinks:
These are the only comforts that I have.

She relives the past of times before in letters read,
old photographs and memento's’ tucked in secret draws. 
This is her each and every day. 

She longs for warmth of company,
of laughs and love and idle chat,
of all things that used to be, before emptiness befell her.

She had the pub of course and once night drew near
she would wander there, buy half-a-pint, pull up a chair
and sit amongst the lost and lonely people gathered there. 
And in that noisy smoke-filled air she would become alive again
and belong and share, fill the emptiness of her days.

But now the pub is long demised,
its door long closed to all that once had gathered there,
its smoke-free air as silent as this life of hers. 
She (demonised) had tried of course to smoke outside,
her frail body shivering in the frigid cold. 
But she to old to brave this storm began to stay at home
and all alone she gradually wilted there.

She pours out a drink and sips at it,
smoke rolled and lit she draws at it, thinks:
These are the only comforts that I have.

Anna :o]

Susan at Toads challenges us to write a new poem in which we address our experience (or thoughts) about smoking tobacco.

I had my first cigarette about the age of thirteen.  In reality it was not a cigarette at all, rather my friend Carole and I tightly rolled up strips of newspaper, lit them on a coal fire, inhaled and coughed our guts out.

I am not entirely sure when I had my first real cigarette, I was either sixteen or early seventeen and I do recall it made me dizzy.  However it was considered cool to smoke and I persevered and a smoker I became.  Apart from ceasing when pregnant, I have smoked ever since, some forty-seven to forty-eight years.

Although smokers are now demonised, I am not a demon.  I consider myself a good person and hopefully I am.

I tend to think smoking was banned on public transport several years before the smoking ban in workplaces & public indoor areas in 2007, but this bothered me not, I had no problem with it.

After 2007 I had no problem not smoking in my workplace or restaurants, and if hospitalised could go without smoking for weeks.  Even before then, if a visitor in someone’s house and they were non-smokers; I would excuse myself and go outside to smoke.  I considered and continue to consider other people.

Where I do miss smoking is on a rare visit to a pub.  I admit it; I am not a social animal rather a happy introvert.  But on the rare occasions I meet chums and we go pubbing, which is a social thing, I do object to being demonised and having to go outside for a welcome puff.  I don’t know what it is, but smokers like to smoke when they drink.  I don’t understand why there cannot be smokers’ rooms in pubs or indeed smokers’ pubs.  But of course this cannot be allowed as smokers’ are horrible people and denied basic rights.

What I do remember of these early days, probably 2007-8, (some) non-smokers felt empowered to abuse those of us who did, and to be tut-tutted or verbally abused by those who passed by was not uncommon as we puffed outside pub doors.  Luckily that is long gone.

Pubs, clubs and other (indoor) places of social gathering have suffered since the smoking ban, thousands of these places (especially pubs) have closed their doors, resulting in the loss of jobs of those who worked there and loss of livelihood of those who owned and ran  them. This has had a knock on effect on those for whom pubs were their only social outlet.

An extract from Freedom2choose (pdf);

On the other hand, smokers have complained bitterly about the so-called ‘smoking shelters’ allowed, as they have to be 50% open to the elements. This of course means that, being basically useless as shelters, the elderly and the infirm (smokers) cannot visit the pubs/clubs in colder times. 
The smoking ban has led to a dramatic increase in drinking in the home. Obviously it is impossible to arrive at a definite figure but looking at the decline in customer pub usage against the rapidly rising beer sales at supermarkets it would seem that pre-ban concerns were well placed. One northern police force has indicated that this has resulted in a rapid increase in domestic violence cases – yet another unintended consequence of an overly zealous ban.
Whole communities are now denied a focal point for meeting and socialising as village pub after village pub closes down through lack of custom. Many council estate pubs have closed for similar reasons. Thousands of elderly and infirm members of our society have been isolated throughout the winter months due to the ban. In short, the ban has divided communities nationwide.”

And so it is that communities have suffered from this ban and will continue to do so…  But as said, it impacts on me little, and I will continue to smoke as I like it.

My (across the road) neighbour, although a nice man, is not nice when it comes to smoking, he vehemently opposed to it.  Yet he is quite happy (and conscience free) as he drives his diesel car, fully knowing its exhaust is a Group 1 carcinogen…

Further reading (if you are interested):

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Keith Edkins

Monday, 29 May 2017

When We Are Broken

I see our differences in the colour of our skin, our dress and our separation of cultures.  I hear our differences as you speak in your tongue and I feel excluded in my own land, failing to see it is your land too.  We both set ourselves apart, cling to our differences, afraid of each other.  Blind we are to our commonalities, our humanness. 

Yet in times of trial we set a common bond, we bleed into each others hearts until we mend.  Yet soon we will be as before and we will travel our different paths and close our doors behind us.  But until then I trust you.

If I close my eyes
will you trust me enough
to give me a hug?

Anna :o]

Grace at dVerse asks us to write of finding beauty in broken pieces or imperfection and/or the process of mending broken pieces, followed by a nature-themed “haiku”.

My words are a tribute to the good folk of Manchester who like most folk show their best when things are at their worst.  Hearts have been opened and communities rally together, a commonality is found.

Sadly, as time passes, things will return to what they were, that is, the divisions born of diversity.  Those who have lost loved ones or have been injured or have family who have been injured will suffer their grief their hurt for a long long time, and (eventually) they will be forgotten by the rest of us…

Political correctness will once again rear its ugly head, provide the fertile ground for the seeds of hate and distrust to be sown as the ‘ordinary man’ will be gagged in its name.

We must be allowed to express our fears our grievances for until that happens we will not be able to mend society.  We must have the freedom to talk to each other about each other, and in doing so, realise our paths might be different but our ultimate goals are the same, that is, to live life to the full, experience the beauty of it and share it with others.

I salute you Manchester and indeed every other community that has suffered the atrocities’ of that that is the evil of Daesh, and this includes those oft forgotten in the Middle East.

NB:  I do realise my haiku doesn’t fit the nature-theme, that is unless we consider the nature of man, and is also one syllable short (middle line), but I felt I needed to abandon the constraints of same…

Video:  Courtesy of Manchester Evening News      

Sunday, 21 May 2017

No News...

I don’ read books or anyfin,
ol’ fashion people do,
an’ I’m young y’know
an’ I’ve ‘air to crimp  an’ knees t’show – Har Har! 
Is this dress too short or not short enough?

The lads love me cos we talk of fins
that are importunt like, like what (?),
well fins in the neighbour’ud,  who’s screwing who,
an’ wevver fat ol’ Missis Smiff will kick Jonny
up ‘is arse‘n’kick ‘im owt like she said she would
when she found ‘im kissin Mike (yuk yuk),
y’know Mike ooze got’is brain arf missin.’ 
Har Har!

Prime Min’ster?  T’resa May innit? 
Tell trufe I don’ give a shit ‘bout anyfin in pollytics.   
They never do nowt for me, she’s Tory innit? 
Watch news on telly?  Nah, its borin’ innit? 
Wars?  Don’ care.  Famine?  What’s that?  Oh ‘unger.
Don’ care, only care what’s in my belly! (LOL)!

Newspapers?  Already said don’ read books or anyfin, 
I’m not ol’ fashion y’know, but I text’n’fins
so know evryfin that’s wurf anyfin I need t’know.

Anna :o]

Brendan at Toads writes brilliantly of how ‘The News’ is fed to us in this world of ours, where we are constantly bombarded with ‘News’ here there and everywhere. 

News and its intention to educate has now become a source of entertainment and often is presented thus.  It creates the shallow world of ‘celebrities’’ and then does its best to destroy same, cluttering their world with the sharks that are paparazzi, this especially so of the tabloid gutter press, who frequently find new depths to sink to.  Sadly, this presentation of ‘news’ is popular with its readers… (And this I worry about, worry about how society is being dumbed down.)

What did the (gutter) press do when Dr. David Dao was dragged off the United Airlines plane – they sought to find ‘dirt’ in his history and joined Oscar Munoz in victim-blaming.  Why in heavens name did they do that?   Luckily not all newspapers are the same and the Independent gives a fair opinion on this.

I could rant on forever but won’t.

Oddly enough, when reading Brendan’s post, the first thing that came to mind was that of an ex-colleague, a lovely kind young woman, who had no interest in the world outside her own sphere and had little knowledge of it – and so I wrote of her.   I could never understand why she didn’t want to know.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Bobbie Johnson

Wednesday, 17 May 2017


In the carnage of that that is war,
she touched by icy fingers of impending Death,
he rasps her (unwelcome) welcome as
he sucks in her last dying breath.

He finds a peculiar warmth there,
a tincture of her fear,
a scintilla of her hope there
as she knows that Death is near.

Oh how she fights it, her
heart pounding in chest,
a clock ceasing in relentless time
as he lays her out to rest

Her vision is forever dimmed
by the blackness in her eyes.
She is enveloped by the darkness
as she knowingly slowly dies.

He has won then,
his duty almost done,
she is enveloped by the darkness
as he blocks out rising sun.

She returned to the earth then,
her life is but her death,
relinquishing all her hope then,
she bequeathing her last breath.

She searches for the bright light
as promised by her God
and much to her displeasure
finds there is naught but neath the sod…

Anna :o]

Mish at dVerse has us writing of sensory play, that is, an abstract view of the senses.  I really don’t know if my offering fits the bill as it is not pretty, but nevertheless is what came to mind (from where I do not know!). Maybe an abstract of an abstract..?

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Soumyadipto

Saturday, 13 May 2017


He behemoth, obese he is, ridiculous, an affront to us, we who with polite constraint, nibble feasts with dainty fingers, whilst he, fat slothful fool, greedy, gorges gluttonous, fills selfish pleasures of his round repulsive belly.

How low he is, how far beneath us, we who scowl, sated with our smug self-satisfaction.  Deserving he of our derision, failed he is, outside the norm, he an imbecile, an embarrassment, a blight upon us, worthy of nothing but our scorn.

Watch how he moves, fat rippling flesh of fat lumbering fool!  How can we (in our ivory towers) do naught but smile smug self-satisfaction, laugh out loudly, jeer and deride?

Anna :o]

Magaly at Toads has us writing of how we think mythical monsters/imaginary beings might fare in the prejudices and discrimation rife in our present day world.

I don’t think Behemoth would fare very well, we would not tremble at his roar, rather he would tremble at ours…

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  E. Plon

Thursday, 4 May 2017

Wash Day

Peggy Vierra Link (1923-2004) Wash Day, Oil

She finds a certain intimacy
in the washing of his things,
his soft blue woollen jumper,
his old grey cotton slacks,   these
the clothes he died within. 

She sniffs the jumper first, inhales him,
then gently submerges him in suds,
she is beguiled by wild emotions,
there is wire in her blood.

Her breath caught in deep excitement,
she scrubs away his scent,
from deep within and deep without   he 
the source of malcontent.

Her labour brings with it vivid imagery,
of knife glistening in the sun,
of sharp surprise upon his face
as she with cruel twist of blade
his waywardness undone.

She bears the scars within her heart
of a woman truly sinned,
but cleansed her soul she pegs him out,
leaves him blowing in the wind.

Anna :o]

Margaret at Toads welcomes us with Artistic Interpretations, that is ekphrastic poetry inspired by works of art, of which she has chosen a fine selection (for us).  Cheers Margaret!

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN.  Cheers for hosting Grace.

Image from Real Toads and used with permission.

Friday, 28 April 2017


I don’t know who he is
or where he is
but expect to find him there,
under the bed,
behind the drapes or
maybe snuck in
behind the closet door.    
Waiting for me he is,
scared stiff I am
as I imagine the unimaginable.

He will wait til me in deepest sleep
and then creep out he will,
maybe poke out my eyes, stitch up my lips
or maybe he’ll just smother me.

I promise I am good (I am)
and should he come tonight
I’ll tell him that and maybe
he’ll believe me then
and leave me then
and go and find another child,
a child that’s really bad
and poke out their eyes,
stitch up their lips before
he (maybe) finally smothers them.

I do so hope he will…

Anna :o]

Rommy at Toads has us writing of the dreaded boogeyman and above is my offering.  My words are based on the procedures I had as a child before daring to climb into bed and my thoughts and fears once I had.  I was not that young when I stopped doing this either…

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ernst Barlach

Tuesday, 25 April 2017


She misses them, the good old days
when men were men,
and women knew their place
and rolled up their sleeves
and did the dishes. 
The houses then full to the brim
of happy hordes of kith and kin,
houses full of warmth and bonhomie,
of grandma hugs, of daddy smiles
and mother’s sweetest purest kisses.

She misses him,
oh she lost him oh so long ago,
him going to wherever tis dead people go,
heaven hell or maybe
just a space beneath the ground,
she can’t remember doesn’t know, 
she only knows she is alone. 

Her *two-up two-down her little narrow street,
city reached out and sucked them in
and how surrounded she by strangers now,
no warmth or love of kith and kin. 
And them,
the strangers that surround her now,
don’t reach out they don’t know how,
and lost she is and all alone
in that barren house she once called home. 

Anna :o]

Paul at dVerse has us writing on the theme of ‘Community.’

It got me thinking of where I live now and where I have lived and I do wonder whether I can define what community is (or means to me), moreso community spirit.   Does any kind of community bring with it cohesiveness, a sense of belonging, and a common goal?  We may think it does but in reality, do we not all have our own agenda?

My memories of the good old days are just that, they were good, for there was a community spirit and the common good meant we looked after and looked out for each other.  This didn’t mean that life was perfect for of course it wasn’t.  But there was always a willing listening ear to share your burden with and you would offer yours too.   I also realise that for many the good old days didn’t exist and that these days were often/mostly bad. 

Where I live now, is there a community spirit?  I don’t think so for we all dwell in our little castles and know little of each other.  Am I party to this lack of community spirit, yes I probably am for I have long given up in trying to change things.  I know my place.  I value solitude but many others don’t and loneliness is all they have.

*Two-up two down: generally a small terraced house built sometime after the industrial revolution.  These dwellings consisted of two downstairs rooms – kitchen & sitting room and two bedrooms upstairs.   The toilet/loo would be in an outhouse in the back yard and baths would be taken in a tin bath somewhere in the house or the backyard itself.  Backyard here means a small concreted area surrounded by high brick walls.

These houses still exist and are modernised by having an extension to the back to create a bathroom and if two storeys high an additional bedroom.  It is sometimes possible to squeeze a bathroom upstairs.

Also shared with the good folk at Toads Tuesday Platform

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer

Thursday, 20 April 2017


Neville Chamberlain holding the paper containing the resolution to commit to peaceful methods signed by both Hitler and himself on his return from Munich. He is showing the piece of paper to a crowd at Heston Aerodrome on 30 September 1938. He said:
"...the settlement of the Czechoslovakian problem, which has now been achieved is, in my view, only the prelude to a larger settlement in which all Europe may find peace. This morning I had another talk with the German Chancellor, Herr Hitler, and here is the paper which bears his name upon it as well as mine (waves paper to the crowd - receiving loud cheers and "Hear Hears"). Some of you, perhaps, have already heard what it contains but I would just like to read it to you ...".
Later that day he stood outside Number 10 Downing Street and again read from the document and concluded:
'"My good friends, for the second time in our history, a British Prime Minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time."


Be silent now.

Let’s keep child’s quiet finger
firm upon our lips, shush now. 
Let’s not say those worried words
we so long to say.  Hush now!

Quiet!  Stay silent now,
don’t utter worried thoughts
that bounce crazily inside your head,
instead, be silent now and watch the evil grow,
grow around and all about you,
all about you!

Tis safer than opening up that can of worms,
worms that wriggle way out of own accord. 
We can’t afford to intervene
as we watch evil grow; instead
we only offer hollow idle threats
or lay sanctions (that don’t matter) at the door.

Let’s talk around a table; Appease!  Appease!  Appease!  
What more in gods name can we do? 

We can do what we do best,
sit back and watch the evil grow,
show worm our apparent helplessness,
our inaction loading bullets, our very self
shooting guns held towards our very heads.


Be silent now.

Let’s keep child’s quiet finger
firm upon our lips, shush now. 
Let’s not say those worried words
we so long to say.  Hush now!

What else is happening in our world
is not our problem, is it,

until it is.

Anna :o[

As said so often on this blog, I worry, do so worry about this world of ours, worry most about that that is humankind and the havoc we wreak on this beautiful planet.  We are not safe keepers of it and don’t deserve it. 

What do we do in this very tribal world of ours?  We protect our tribe of course!  We protect with the threat of our fine arsenals and that of our military.   Yet we tiptoe around as the world falls apart, we watch evil grow as despots and dictators flourish.  We really don’t want to get involved, it is easier to turn our backs and cover our eyes and ears.

We watch as countries/nation states turn on their own countrymen, those they deem inferior for they are the wrong colour, wrong religion, wrong tribe or wrong caste and so on forever.  And we watch…and do nothing or at the least very little, maybe (preferring to exist in our ?safe little bubbles) raising our voices,        a little…

The peaceful of us suggest negotiations/peace talks, but the sad fact is these ‘talks’ rarely bear fruit.  It seems that eventually battle we must to achieve the safety we crave – war equals peace.  Or does it?  How often have we invaded others for the sake of peace or to rid of despicable ills (or to keep our ‘gains’)  – but never see it through, leave loose ends, so complacent we are, so smug, that we have left our ideals there and all will be well.  (Remember Camp Bucca was probably the birthplace of Isis.) We leave a foreign land with a bleeding wound we have created and the void is filled with another branch of hell.  (And do remember some of us, the evil, those barely human, crave battle.)

What do I think of Trump’s sabre rattling?  It worries the hell out of me – but he has taken a stand (not very well thought out) towards/against North Korea, North Korea with its boy-man dictator ruling his long-indoctrinated people into believing that bombs are beautiful.   Do I fear Trump and his erratic ego-driven behaviour – yes I do.  But I fear Kim Jong-un more - how scary it is both men show similar macho traits.  We allow loose cannons (such as Kim Jong-un) for it is easier than doing something, and watch as evil/pure madness grows… and we turn our backs…cover our eyes…refuse to hear what our mind is telling us…and then… ?BANG!

How do I think we can heal our world?  Sadly, I don’t know…for how can we ever change who or what we are?

(Rant over.)

PS  Read and worry.

Shared with the good folk at dVerse Open Link Night.

Image (and description of) courtesy of: Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ministry of Information official photographer.