Sunday, 21 August 2016

Act One, Scene One: Abandonment

(Poor Richard mourns his long lost father,
lost to that void of nothingness.)

Poor Richard, heavy hearted,
filial duty now departed,
how could he have ever loved this man,
this stranger in his father’s body. 
Hero that he was, his guide and mentor,
afore that dark place took him over,
polished off his very mind     til all about him lost.

(Poor Richard backs and backs away.)

Anna :o{

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing micro poetry following the theme of “This is not what we came to see…”

The words are of how difficult my sons find it to visit their dad.  A particular son, whose dad was his hero, is visibly shaken to the point he is robbed of speech on the  occasions he visits his dad, his grief his loss is palpable.  He is slowly backing away as this is the only way he can cope.

I understand this as when my mum was robbed of her identity by that that is dementia, I found it very difficult to love this stranger  who inhabited my mothers body and eventually didn’t…

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gert Germeraad

Thursday, 28 July 2016


The children are young again,
chuntering and chattering as they climb up the stairs.   
The door has become half glass, glass greasy and grimy,
grimy and greasy with the passage of time.
Yet I can see through it, see the young children,
chuntering and chattering as they climb up the stairs.

Their father is with them, a leash looped round his neck. 
(The eldest is tugging him pulling him as they climb up the stairs.)  
He tugs off the leash, I hear him dial a number,
hear him ask quizzically:  What’s it with the roast?

This room has rats in it, I hear them
scratching and scurrying, there’s a tail
twixt the books and the brandy, and fearful I tug it,
but tis only a shoelace and I sigh with relief. 
The fire is guarded as coals rage in their anger,
and warmth beckons me over and I sit down beside it,
sit down beside it in a fat comfy armchair   as children
chunter and chatter as they climb up the stairs.  
Their father, black hair full of rats’ tails, looks
through the half glass, mouth open and hanging,
eyes startled and staring as I beckon him in.

He is gone in an instant and the door is quite solid
as children screaming and screeching fall down the stairs. 
I sit by the fire, raging in anger
as I don’t understand it; I don’t get it at all.

The rats are scurrying and scratching
in the space neath the ceiling and children
are screeching and screaming as they fall down the stairs.  
I sit in my armchair, my mouth full of brandy,
weeping and wailing as I don’t get it at all.

Anna :o]

The above is based on a dream I recently had, a dream that remained quite vivid long after I had woken.  The dream took its location in the first floor flat we lived in, our first home after marriage.  As bits of the dream began to disappear from my memory, I wrote what I could remember down.  Brandy wasn’t part of it, the shoelace twixt books and an old gramophone, but I couldn’t get the gramophone to ‘fit’ into the poem, so brandy it became.

I love dreams, thinking them more entertaining than television, and if dreams do have a meaning, a subconscious message, I don’t understand mine at all.

Freud believed that our dreams are a window into our subconscious and reveal our unconscious desires, thoughts and motivations.  He believed they are a way for us to satisfy our urges and desires that are unacceptable to society.

Some of the dreams I have are quite startling and if Freud is right, I think I need sectioning…

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by the lovely Grace.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Source and credit: Welcome Images

Friday, 22 July 2016

Love and Hate

“O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world.
But had not the force to shape it as he would”
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

I don’t think I ever believed in Him Upstairs
rather gave a gift of hopes and dreams to fellow man,
for young as I was He seemed naught but a vengeful God
despite the given lie of Love.   And how the pious in the pews
would spew forth their evil words of those
they deemed unworthy of this abounding love, the
(I’m sure) rancorous who absolved their sins
by placing pennies on plate passed around,
no notes would offer their devotion.

Oh and those both young and innocent,
how I hurt for them as pastor made me pray
whilst knowing of their awful pained and battered bodies.
How they suffered then:  “Suffer little children… to come unto me…”
mere child I was I misunderstood this then
but ne’er-the-less they did.  Where oh where
was this God of Love worthy of my true devotion?

And so I gave my faith to fellow man,
offered my hopes and dreams and so did believe this Earth
was round til was flattened by the feet of hate.    
And as we hurtle t’wards the abyss (from whence we came)
I find I have nothing, just nothing to believe in.

Anna :o[

Gayle at dVerse has us reflect on our beliefs and how they might change throughout our lives and above is my offering.  I am unhappy with it as it is more prose than poetry yet it defines who I was and am now.  Despite its pessimism, I remain moronically optimistic…

Oh “Happy Fifth Birthday dVerse!”

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Artist: Albert Goodwin

Friday, 15 July 2016


 Kathe Kollwits: Frau mit totem Kind (1903)

I have no need of you;
your stillness brings soft comfort.   
Your presence smacked of
words of wrath of yesterdays,
words best (but not) forgotten.

She loves me she loves me not,
my stifling suffocating 
misbegotten mother. 
And here am I,
her fucking screwed up progeny,
did you love me did you love me not.

Quite frankly, I don’t care.

Anna :o]

Mama Zen at Real Toads has us writing our thoughts (in sixty words or less) using amongst others, the above image as a prompt.  Cheers Mama Zen!

Sunday, 19 June 2016

Night Cometh

Night and Her Children, Sleep and Death 1794

Ah, she comes for you, be not afraid. 
Bathe in her body, ride on her stars. 
Let the night take you;
swallow you up in the warmth of her chill. 

Anna :o] 

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing micro poetry under the theme of Death and Night.  Cheers Kerry!

I really should be in bed right now having worked through the night, but words kept whizzing around my head and became more important than sleep.  And above they are.   But I shall go to bed soon after visiting (a few) others – but will visit all across the next few days.  Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Artist: Asmus Jacob Carstens (1754 – 1798)

Thursday, 9 June 2016


He, a grey blur on an even greyer landscape
dissolves into insignificance;
black dog is with him
tugging at the leash. 

She, spirit floundering feigns normality,
gouges out potato eyes strips away the skin.

Their progeny, his legacy, sense the change,
vying her attention, wail and whimper,
tugging at her skirts.

He has done this before,
in nearest every coldest season,
wandered from his narrow path,
seeking solace in high and lowlands,
‘bove barren frozen pastures,
neath lone skeletal trees. 
(There is strange comfort in his solitude.)

This time, depression to deep to lift,
he cuts diagonal as on silvered blade
sun glints a frantic Morse Code.   
Life pulsates out and once exsanguine
he is freer than a bird.

Black dog howls in jubilation,
his mark blood red on glistening snow.

Back home she (unknowing) waits for him,
waits to offer crying shoulder,
ease his gnawing ache, soothe his sadness
(as infants wail and whimper
forever tugging at her skirts).

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of commitment and what better commitment is there of that of true love and loyalty in whatever life throws up.

For those of you who might not know, The Black Dog is a metaphor for depression.  

Also entered at dVerse OLN.  Cheers folks.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons 
Author: Vmarkousis

Thursday, 19 May 2016


(the fool
amongst us)
with pathetic
smile and pleading eyes
ducks low and cries as first
punch is thrown and we three, we
mighty three adrenalin rushed
lace in with fist that follows fist.  And
how proud we are and whoop with glee as blood
splatters from his battered nose.  We untie him
then and watch him slink from chair to ground
and leave him there as we now ten
feet tall  give high fives and leap
into the air.  The truth is
I don’t care for this
and a  troubled
mind troubles
thus I
weep for him
and weep for me. 
Truth is it is a
survival thing –bully
or be bullied   The me, the
coward (in) me longs to belong
so I sell my soul for welcome peace. 
And my excuse my paltry excuse tis
mother’s words:  Tis far better to give than
to receive.  So I give my soul to
he that would bully me, give fists
and feet the all of me. 
Yet I know, deep down
I know that I
the bully is

Anna :o]

Susan at Poets United has us writing of bullying and Victoria at dVerse has us writing an Etheree and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan and Victoria!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author: Andrew Mason (London, UK)

Thursday, 7 April 2016

Sevenling: (Tricoteuse)

This is his final hour,
heart pulsing out the minutes
in elasticity of time.

She stretches out her pleasure,
a tricoteuse,
knit one purl one,

a Mother of the Nation.

Anna :o] 

De at dVerse has us writing sevenlings, new to me and great fun to do.  Cheers De! 

 Image:  Courtesy of   Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Crédit Photo Aude d'Argentré

Thursday, 10 March 2016

The Want of Need

Tis need the want of him begs her to stay
and she (coquette) upon tree bench she sits,
a spinster of the parish she, life’s play
a failing empty game of wiles and wits
to trick a chap into a life she fits. 
Her vain efforts naught but a comedy
as from majestic to absurd she flits.
Hapless, her quest brings naught but tragedy
(tis so no man of worth will meet her eye)
for she three decades long could not outsmart
his want his need for younger flesh.   A cry
a wail (for she now met with broken heart),
her tortured soul emits an awful moan,
and lost she casts her heart in coldest stone.

Anna :o]

Gayle at dVerse has us writing bouts-rimés and the words offered are: stay, sits, play, wits, fits, comedy, flits, tragedy, eye, smart, cry, heart, moan, stone.    Cheers Gayle.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Artist:  William de Leftwich Dodge (1867-1935)

Friday, 11 December 2015


There is a loss of self in peace,
a curious emptiness, a void to fill. 

Wounds too deep to lick crave blood to spill;
congeal on wounds to deep to heal,
a sorry comfort to an empty soul.  

A warrior ever roused,
he seeks solace in barbarity
striking terror to the moment,
the inglorious glorious moment.
And his bloodied hands slake his sordid soul
satiate his lust for blood,
bring completeness to that moment,
that inglorious glorious moment.

Anna :o[

Björn’s Tuesday prompt at dVerse is that of: War for peace – or just hard work?   He requested we use any form or trick to make us long for peace and not just hate war.  Although it is true I yearn for this world of ours to exist in a permanent state of peace, I cannot see it happening, ever, as mankind is as he is, is a predator, his prey being power and possessions.  There are some of us that walk softly on this Earth leaving our gentle footprints and oh so many others who churn up this Earth in unimaginable savagery and greed.

War is the hallmark of our history since the very beginning, the very beginning when we dragged ourselves from the primordial soup, and so it continues.  Look around our world today, the barbarity that exists within it and how we seek (to some degree) to ignore it; let it be some others problem as we hang on to the tiny space we have defined as ours.   Please read this article on War and Peace in which it notes that there have been some 250 major wars since the end of WW2.  

On the same Tuesday night I viewed Meet the Psychopaths, part of which detailed the work of American psychiatrist  Hervey M. Cleckley in which he noted that some WW1 veterans had mental health problems that would not respond to treatment, and further checking showed these soldiers carried a history of poor conduct, that of antisocial behaviour.   Later work in a general hospital setting, he came across individuals who showed the same personality traits, the same disturbed behaviour he had seen in the soldiers earlier.     From his observations he came up with 21 traits that to him, defined the label of psychopath and in 1941 his book The Mask of Sanity was published which brought the term psychopath into popular use. 

Estimate prevalence of psychopathy is that of 1 in 100-150 of us and we are what we are.  Of course not all psychopaths are of the axe-wielding variety, but look around our world today and you will recognise those who probably are, recognise them by their absolute barbarity and the pleasure and power they achieve from it.   

And so it is that evolution has little lifted us little from our primitive mindset and we will continue to battle until we wipe ourselves out.  Sad, but I think true.

I think it important to state that despite the misery above, I am a very happy optimistic soul, this state being due to the ability to dampen and maybe hide the realist in me.  Peace!

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN                 

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Kabir Bakie

Friday, 6 November 2015

Terminal Agitation

There is a whisper in each soft staccato
breath bringing awful ambience to the dying room
(she is crying now for death
of him will be the death of her
(she has a longing for the life of him.)) 

How odd it is til two weeks past he was
the man of her, all fit and strong, a belonging
of togetherness and then a stumbled
foot, a fall from grace meant
the end of all of it.

He is dying now and she is she
thinks, grateful for the rush of time, that
pain is not a part of it.  She sits
and thinks of this sucking
in each soft staccato breath. 

There is a certain peace to this (she thinks) til
suddenly (as if full of angst) he rises
from the bed and restless now he paces floor. 
This weakens her equilibrium and she thinks
him an antagonist of acceptance.
(She is sick of herself for this.)

And then he dies. 
(Her fall is in the death of him.)

Anna :o]

Today at dVerse De Jackson asks us to become enamoured with enjambment.  Cheers De Jackson!  Above is my take – which may be enjambment or not!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author: Exploti

Monday, 12 October 2015

Remember me...?

George Tooker, self portrait

You look at me and think you know me,
but you know me not at all. 
I am your epiphany, a drawing of last breath.    
In death you will seek me out,
the half-remembered face as if clinging onto life..    
But I would say to you, think on this,
the scythe it swings for all
and I will have no memory of you.

Anna :o]

Inspired by The Mag and Real Toads and also entered at Poets United.   Many thanks to you all!

Thursday, 1 October 2015


Frog jumps a solitary jump,
he pauses then
as if planning move from A to B,
then aimlessly he jumps again. 

Neath him lays a fall of autumn leaves,
all crisp and dry a brittleness.   In some, 
decay leaves naught but a skeleton of arid veins,
a remnant of a long lost summer.  

She sees all this and dwells on it,
dwells on death decay and indecision. 

(Then) black dog of night gives way to  mist of morn,
a hovering of almost calm,
and she decision made,
makes incisions cross her wrists
and bathes herself in blood red warmth,
she a remnant of a long lost summer.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, today hosted by the most excellent Björn - cheers Björn!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Randi Hausken

Thursday, 3 September 2015


Tis the beginning of that soon to pass,
sun swallowed in abyss of time.  

(He has the keenest eye
and watches waiting.)   

At dawn, birds’ chorus Earths wondrous splendour
as mankind softly stirs from slumber, wiping sleep from weary eyes,
yet once cleared, sees naught other than a selfish path to travel,
blind is he, oblivious.  

Elsewhere chaos reigns as those dispossessed,
afraid of each and all tomorrows,
seek refuge in some foreign land,
dreaming hopeful dreams of milk and honey. 

In their midst the martyrs sleep,
sleep in guise of wailing want and need,
and once bathed in welcome warmth of milk and honey,  
good is by schism rent asunder
as martyr dreams a paradise of dark-eyed virgins,

It is the beginning of the end
and He who has the keenest eye
is watching, waiting.

Anna :o] 

The above inspired by dVerse Tuesday prompt posted by the lovely Grace, her prompt was that of: What does the watchman see?  Also inspiration derived from Isaiah 56:10-12, which really doesn’t offer words of hope (I think).  

I missed the deadline for Tuesday as I only wrote today, so am offering to dVerses Open Link Night, the bar hosted by the lovely Mary.  Cheers Mary.

Am I pessimistic about mankind and this world we live in (seek to destroy?), I guess I am, and I worry greatly for my children and grandchildren’s futures.  Am I paranoid?  I don’t think so.  But I  do live in hope of mankind’s betterment… religion, hate and greed aside...

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Higor Douglas

Thursday, 9 July 2015


There is a stifled breath, a quietened fear. 
A heartbeat skipped.
She waits the night to take her up,
scoop her up to silvered moon.

There is a quiver to his voice,  
a loss of vocal strength,  
he fraught with angst and ancientness.    
He sits with her, beside her then,
takes her fingers in his gnarled and knotted hand,
grinding bone against her wedding band;
she winces then as yelp spills from those thin whitened lips.

He is mortified, beside himself,
consumed with guilt he drops her hand
and she screams she screams she screams. 
Oh Jesus I’m so so so so sorry, he cries
and rocks his moaning head in those knotty bony things
that once offered love, now only help rack up her pain.

He stands now, shuffles up aside the bed
til near enough to bend, plant the softest kisses on her head. 
And those gnarled and knotted hands,
now the gentlest and most loving things
comb his tears through sparse strands of hair
that lick her scalp as if clinging onto life.

She gurgles then. 
And he loses her.

She looks tiny now, a tiny doll,
white porcelain face, eyes black still pools. 

He wails as she dissolves into the night.

Anna :o]

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, 4 June 2015

Midst the Miniscule

Midst the miniscule, there is industry,
life teems in towns cities of the smallest breath. 

In crawlspace, twixt rock and terra firma,
woodlouse covets close comfort of her kin,
whilst slug, confined to idle solitude, curls, sleeps.   

Neath this dark damp dormitory
worms burrow aerate
stir a richness to the soil;
roots search out a bedrock
anchor shoots to gazing sun.

Above: under canopy of buddleia
fly wriggles in curtain spider-spun;
ants hurry scurry milk aphid dew;
midges mate  in airborne never-ending circles;
midst life’s miniscule, there is industry,
life teems in smallest breaths.

Anna :o]

The above is a response to Patti’s prompt at dVerse on Tuesday in which she asked us to go outside and get reacquainted with nature outside our back door and write of it.  Having just completed, twas to late to post, so same is offered to Open Link Night, tonight hosted by Bjorn, cheers Bjorn!  Also, many thanks for the inspiration Patti.

The words are of the adventures with my grandson, he is fascinated with minute life forms and we turn over rocks and such and scour flora for same.  I love it when he grabs my hand and takes me to his sandpit to show me the tiniest beetle he has found, his delight and obvious interest is a pleasure, a most wonderful thing.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Ireen Trummer