Third Person Singular

This day has promise (she thinks)

as sun blinks through clouds

that only seemed to offer grey. 

She pours herself a drink

and gulps in earnest hope,

a hope the twitter-birds will stay away. 

But no, here they come

with their ever helpful words

(they think) (they think by rote),

they must complete their tasks

and ask him if he wants to pee,

needs to change his pad

and she says:

He goes himself, please don’t baby him;

in hope that they will maybe listen, comprehend,

but no, instead, off they go (by rote);

Would you like a cup of tea,

breakfast; here’s your meds. 

Promoting independence – bah! 

At midday, here comes the ha-ha bird,

all bright and cheerful with her ha-ha words;

and all she wants is for her to go away –

but no she won’t, she will fulfil her tasks

and asks him if he wants to pee,

to change his pad, does he want some tea,

a sandwich maybe and: Here’s your meds. 

By end of day ‘she’ (third person singular)

(with twitter-ha-ha birds words ringing in her head)

asks him if he wants to pee, to change his pad

and realises she is slowly going mad…

Anna :o]

This year has been ‘eventful’ for me and my handsome one.  Handsome one has been quite unwell and required hospitalisation and his homecoming required that a ‘care package’ be put in place; otherwise he could not come home.

This care package gives me peace of mind when I am at work – but on days off it really makes me unhappy – it is so obtrusive and I want my (right of) privacy back – for me and my handsome one.  But I will have to go with the flow – for such is the power of social services…

Erm – please note the morning drink was coffee – although my evening drink (now) is somewhat alcoholic…

Brian, at dVerse has us writing ‘Self Portraits’ and the above is my offering of my self portrait of today.  In reality, the above is an understatement of ‘my today’ for this afternoon, if anything could go wrong – it did, as of a spanner in the works.  (Woe is me!)

Thanks dear Brian.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Delacroix, Eugene

Chaos

My Bed by Tracey Emin

In utero, slumbering  

budding into fruitful blossom,

I awoke,    here,    in this place,

twixt linens pure, pristine & niveous,

now splattered haemochrome,

cast chaotic, torn of loves labours,

contractions’   
of earthly surrogate.

(She: accoucheuse, fat and hoary,

bites through umbilicus.)  

A birthing,

footling born of chaos

toe dipping into Mother Earth,

I sang of Satan, hailed his glory.

Women wailing 

cluttered into corners,

black in wretched robes of mourning,

mourning my deliverance,

freedom from confines of merest mortal,

accoucheuse bite   and worldly tether torn.

Oh you fools virid of envy,

minds icteritious of greed –

how well you do my work,

feed my lust my hunger 
my want of your destruction,

stoke fires of your eternal hell.

The devils spawn,

I am born of your desire,

you harbingers of the death,

destroyers of all tomorrows, 

how well you do my work!

Do my work,

rape your Earth,

bleed her dry.

I shall spread my wings

fly into your tomorrows,

suck sulphureous sun cerulean skies

into my atrous heart.

(Wings fluttering will cast a storm  

the like you’ve never known.)

Anna :o]

Ooh err – a bit grim innit?  Didn’t know where this was going when I scribbled the first few lines for Magpie Tales, and dVerses latest prompt – The Colour Festival - somehow got rolled in – but the result ended up totally inappropriate for the joyous message of said prompt.

So rolled into the innocence of birth is the chaos theory and global warming…  What are your thoughts on same?  Do you believe our actions today – in raping our planet – will leave an unthinkable legacy to our children and grandchildren – as in the chaos theory?  Do you think climate change is a natural cyclical event (I do) but are scared stiff that mans’ actions will exacerbate/accelerate these changes (I am)?

Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the initial inspiration and Abhra at dVerse (not entered there); also entered at Real Toads – thanks Kerry.

Also entered today (29.3.14) at Open Link Night at dVerse - with thanks to Claudia for hosting.

Images: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons    (1)   (2)

Authors: US Government. (1)     Commander Mark Moran, of the NOAA Aviation Weather Center, and Lt. Phil Eastman and Lt. Dave Demers,  of the NOAA Aircraft Operations Center. (2)

Hell

Oh, how he feels it hears it

ticking in his chest (his heart that is)

thumping away

and how he so wants

to ooze onto the floor

likes some greasy mess (he thinks he is),

give in to it as it gnarls into him,

and all he can do is respond to ‘it’

and hammers on the door (the inside of it).

They come those willing saviours –

offer to assist - and all he can do

(in the hell of it ) is scream:

f*ck off as he hammers on the door

(the inside of it).

Sometimes

there is summer in his bones

and his voices give into this…

accept the doves

and he (and they) is at peace with this…

otherwise

there is naught but f*ck off

and he exists within the hell of it

as he hammers at the door

(the inside of it…).   

Anna :o]

Brian at dVerse has us writing as the blind poet, which is of engaging the senses other than sight.  Above is my offering.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Interminable

Time is as long and cold as winter here.

Bar clock stretching out

each clunking ticking second

as if it were life’s final hour -

there is eternities of silence;

a silence in which to contemplate,

be horrified, be puzzled by

why fate has dealt this cruel blow.

He lies there;

all eighteen stone plus of him,

lost beneath the sheets

as he tries to figure out the unfigurable,

his mind naught but a tangled mess.

Across there–

opposite our lonely frightened giant –

wheelchair accommodates another ragged doll,

left arm lolling over side as dead as hope. 

His right hand clicks on-off brake,

breaks silence,

giving rhythm to his ennui.

His son (who left oh he doesn’t know how long ago)

hears own footfalls splat on shiny floor,

wipes tears away from bleary reddened eyes,

wishes he could turn back that damn ticking clock; 

wishes he could erase his cruel jibes of yesterdays.

Our giant –

now so tiny as to be invisible

sinks into soothing nothings of inertia.

Across from the bay –

almost a million miles away –

the nurses/doctors write their notes,

chunter/chatter, live their lives

as their patients’ yearn, long for

welcome intimacy of spoon-fed slop

dribbling down their drooping mouths,

dream of friendly smiles and friendly words.

Until then,     invisible,

there is only the interminable ticking of the clock.

Anna :o]

Mary at dVerse has us writing of invisibility and my little effort is of observations made yesterday.

Of late I have been a bad girl and not visited, read or commented on everyone entries to dVerse’s excellent prompts, so in a sense I have been partly invisible... 

If I missed you - apologies – but sometimes real life gets in the way and must take priority.  Should be able to read all entries of this prompt – fingers crossed!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons    

Author: Brakspear

Red

Chic in her red finery,

so sleek she is as she

roars down the road.

He is the sporty type

he is athlete.

She a driver for his new career -

the apprehensive acrobat.

They meet head on.

He catapults into the air

and somersaults

and he a novice here,

does not land dainty on his feet,

instead lands clumsily,

cracking head on terra firma.

She is non-sentient,

indifferent to his pain,

wipes red tears from her shattered eye.

And he gurgles in his red viscous pool,

eyes her in odd shades of green,

sucks in one last breath, exhales noisily

and he is,   well,    he is dead.

Anna :o]

I had read Claudia’s clue to tonight’s prompt before leaving home.  Around midday, in a hospital grounds, I was talking to a patient and she was explaining to me the cause of her injuries, and the above began to formulate in my mind…but I took her story a little further…

And now, looking at Victoria’s prompt at dVerse – not too sure whether my offering fits the bill of an object poem…  So it is maybe a case of publish and be damned!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  OppidumNissenae

Thing

Confused by it, her mind in overdrive,

she quickly twirled it to its underside,

and what she saw on this black dead of night

gnawed at her soul, and she her faith belied

prayed to her god her dread if to *asswage,

in dearest hope this night her soul be saved

This strange thing was as if a man unmade,

grotesque - a swirling vortex for a face.

Yet in her heart lust for it she did nurse,

she would forsake her god herself unchurch.

For in her sad mind nothing could be worse

than an empty bed and she her lips did purse.

But he (evil fiend) would not kiss her back

saying: You’re not my type!  And that was that!

Anna :o]

* Obsolete form of assuage

Tony at dVerse has us writing bouts-rimés and the words he offers us are: drive, side, night, lied, wage, saved, made, face, nurse, church, worse, purse, back & that.  (It is permissible to use the rhymes as the last syllable of longer words or homophones.}

Please note:  the above is a true story (she said with her fingers crossed) – I found something on the drive when I returned home last night… :o]

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: User:nae'blis

Enough

How could I have ever loved this man,

this man this pathetic apathetic soul

who lies prostrate pissing on just-shampooed floor,

whimpering like some pathetic scolded puppy? 

(No-muscle-strength-means-

he-needs-me-to-get-him-up (long figured out –

then exhilarated at my inventiveness)) 

He has fell so many bloody times before –

but this time, this time I have had enough of it

and no longer stalwart heaving sobs

rack mind and body.   I have had enough.

I have had enough of it, enough of him. 

How could I have ever loved this man –

once dapper now a drooling food-slopping mess –

top and trousers both a ready bib,

trousers a ready sponge for now venting bladder

(and he lies whimpering, whimpering like a scolded puppy). 

This night I have had enough of him. 

I have had more than enough of everything.

How could I have ever loved this man?

He tall dark handsome then,

those zillion million years ago –

now a mere grey disappearing shadow

forever needing, forever tugging at resilience,

rubbing-it-out with every crushing crisis. 

How could I have ever loved this man?

How could I, but I did I did

I do.

Anna :o] 

Karin at dVerse has us writing of repetition

YesterDAY was a bad day – whatever could go wrong did.  YesterNIGHT was even worse.

I wrote the above late last night, early this morning to vent my feelings.  It proved cathartic – and with a bit of tidying-up fit the prompt.

(I am better as in calmer now!)

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Contentment

I had a drum once, I was like that - I kept mementoes of who I was.   I kept it in a bag of brittle bones and rubber bands.  It had its own rhythm, its own beat and I would dance to it, jerk about like some mindless marionette.

Long time ago I exchanged it for a stone which I tossed into the sea; tides ebbed and flowed and cast it to the shore, a mere pebble on some sequestered beach.  I am smooth round and polished, yet but for a rare day - a day when sun breaks through the clouds, I am cold as ice.  I am content with that.

Anna :o]

Written for Form for all at dVerse where Sam has us write prose poetry.  Thanks Sam.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Remi Mathis

Brendan

She sees him there

lying in his own shit

and piss and vomit

and rage ignites

explodes within her chest. 

I hate you she screams,

I hate it when you’re like this…

(She is like the rest,

those that preach and pester

drive him to distraction.

She does not – or chooses not –

to listen understand

that with every morning waking,

his mind screaming, body aching

he is yearning dying

for that first liquid mouthful…

(She is a tangle in his hair –

he should tease her out

and toss her on the pile

of   f*cking interfering arseholes.))

She carries on

with her relentless screeching moaning

and he mumbling groaning

wraps head in hands

to SHUT HER OUT,

then pleads with her to go buy him a bottle. 

And all she wants to do is squeeze throttle

the last whisky smelling breath life outa him

and she explodes again with steaming anger

and tears streaming down her face

she pummels him with empty fists.

He is fighting for his life now,

thumps her and rises from his bed,

his legs unsteady he collapses to the floor

and he lies there, twitching. 

She recognises, knows those orgasmic groans

and forty minutes in, watching with a selfish glee

rather than inserting *Diazepam PR

she steps over him instead.

She closes the door,

realises she doesn’t care

anymore in any effing way. 

She wants him dead,

wants an end to it,

she pours herself a coffee

lights up a cigarette

and listens to the news.

Anna :o]

Brian at dVerse has us telling stories – and this is a story that I guess I have wanted to tell for some time.  It is a story of Brendan – who could quite easily be a Brenda – who is a resident in my workplace.

Brendan is a (very) intelligent long term and readily admitted alcoholic who has insight into how his alcoholism has detrimentally affected his life.  He is the first alcoholic who has given me insight of the horrors of waking, knowing that there is no alcohol in the house, of how knowledge of this lacerates your body with the most unimaginable exquisite pain.  He tells of scrambling to find money to buy the first bottle of the day, hiding in some quiet space to take the first sup and the relief that this brings.  He also relates the horror of being penniless – knowing there is no end to his craving…

Sadly, what Brendan has no insight into, is the effect of alcoholism on the brain.  His recall is less than thirty seconds and he tells me this story over and over again, night after night.  What a sad waste of a very intelligent life.

*Diazepam PR (per rectum) is a drug given when a patient is in status epilepticus.  A sudden cessation – after an episode of heavy drinking - can cause seizures and several of our residents are admitted in the knowledge that we must continue to feed their drinking habits.  And this we do until some cease to drink of their own accord and ?oddly enough they do not have seizures?  Some who continue to drink do have seizures…?

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Winter

Cirrus veiled,

she wears her halo

as La Luna,

neath her,

neath her hazy filtered light,

stark silhouette      stands

his limbs outreaching,

he blacker than this frigid night.

Silhouette bears

the bitter brunt of winter,   

wears its coat

on bark and boughs and branches,

white wrought and crystalline.

Neath him,

his roots give him iron anchor,

anchor him to terra firma,

and here he shall stand,

stand the cold  of winter

until spring begs he bud again.

Anna o]

Björn at dVerse has us writing of trees – love those luscious things!

I feel a bit guilty entering here as I haven’t read all others responses to Thursdays prompt – as yet..  Mega – but mega- problems with PC continue – the constant need to reboot same and router and that the keyboard appears to have developed a very strong-willed life of its own are driving me nuts!

A click to dVerse from blog list took over two minutes to load - same problem when clicking onto links – hence visiting others is taking time and typing comments does too.  So apologies are due!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Ævar Arnfjörð Bjarmason   

Erm, just previewed and  I don't know where the white background hails from...

Gloom

I have borne this burden with a martyr’s crown,

worn its thorns with a fractured smile

and for a while I tarried there,

but now with patience paled and tether torn

I find that I no longer care.

I must differentiate twixt love and hate

and tis true that I could not love you more,

yet anger dominates  almost every passing thought,

lays heavy on this  tired bleeding heart

and now I find I wish you dead.

Selfless I was but now selfish (if but to survive),

yet selfishness perpetuates this growing hate,

a hatred of what my life has become

and the tears I cry are for me – not you,

and all I want is for you to die.

Forgive me my love for these selfish thoughts

and you do know that I could not love you more,

but I can’t ignore these feelings that proliferate,

recur with every passing hour,

or deny that for me to live you must surely die.

I am so sorry my handsome one.

Anna :o[

Victoria’s prompt at dVerse is that of writing a poem rich in verbs and above is my offering.

Tis true that of late, I have become entrenched in self-pity due to a series of events.   My handsome one’s condition is accelerating in pace and the future is a frightening concept – something I will have to deal with – but don’t want to.    Also PC problems have occurred – and are still occurring to a lesser degree   - as in intermittent or no connection.  I am heavily reliant on my PC for ‘companionship’ in my home life – it is a friend that talks back – and when there is no connection I am lost.  What is there to come home to?

I think I have overcome this phase, but nevertheless, even though the anger has subsided, my ‘effort’ would say that it has not completely?

Kind regards from the morbid one!

PS: I have no intention of killing my handsome one!

Image: courtesy of WikimediaCommons

Author: Mikhail Ivanovich Sapozhnikov (1871–1937) 

Whatever

I

ask

him: Do

you like me?

He says: Like? Y’know, whatever.

And my cool dude speaks into his cell

And I take his callous hand; place it on my ever growing belly.

He shrinks back, says: Hey! What the hell

I have never ever said

I loved you,

have I?

Well,

whatever,

I

mumble

in defence

and turn away

tears drooling down my face.

Well, I guess I will be going then

I say and he cuts me dead (two-fingered Well F*ck You Whore)  

and laughs into his cell: Won’t see her

no more, the stupid cow.

Stupid I am. 

I know

that

now.

Do I care…well, whatever.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us looking back to prompts of 2013 and regaining inspiration there.  I chose to return to his Mathematical Series and a Fib.  (The last line shouldn’t be there – but do I care…well, whatever :o])  Also, the title and theme of the poem was inspired by the prompt ‘Whatever’ by those fine folk at Trifecta – long time since I visited there – so hello again (and thank you) Trifecta!  

Many of my young female colleagues are single mums - who were so overjoyed when becoming pregnant and initially their 'partners' professed to be too - and then they legged it.  When I ask these naive young folk - who truly believe they are liberated - if they are hurt, they invariably answer: Whatever...

Mega PC probs over the hols left me isolated from the wonderful world of t’net – so, so glad to be back.  Hope you all had grand hols and that this New Year will be grander!

Anna :o]

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  istolethetv from Hong Kong, China