Noose

Sometimes she hangs there

throttled by a string of bleeding hearts

I love you y’know she says

(she whispers it, pulsates it out).

And here he sits,

drowning in blood-red horizon.

He says: I know I know.   

And slowly suffocates,

longs angel lust, last man standing.

She is the noose around his neck,

the spittle on his arid tongue. 

She is the death of him.

Anna :o]

Due to life circumstances, I have a serious case of writers block.  Claudia at dVerse has us writing bold metaphors and images.  I don’t know whether the above quite fits the bill – but after weeks of a dying thirst in an arid desert – I have finally completed something.  So I shall offer it.

Perhaps it is a metaphor for my present circumstances…

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author: Sander van der Wel from Netherlands

He Sees Not Gain

Not To Be Reproduced, 1937, Rene Magritte 

Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum

He sees not gain from broken hearts

yet ‘gainst himself he stacks the deck.

All hopes of love he pulls apart

and ‘gainst himself he turns his back.  

Hope nullified: compulsion marks

a broken heart as love he wrecks.

(And persistence perpetuates

as self-destruction replicates)

Anna :o]

Posted for Real Toads - Yeats Octaves, Magpie Tales (image) and shared with Poets United.

Thank you Kerry, Tess & Mary

Fog

Prognathism: mandiblular: his chin juts out –

like Beachy Head (he thinks) or barracuda;

juts out defiant neath tight upper lip.

He hates this.  He hates his tiny tiny little mouth,

wishes God had given     more thought to his creation.   

He has weighed up the odds,

the odds the risks of complications;

surgery – nervous (as he is of it),

he will sit it out, indefinite. 

Despite his sore self-seen affliction –

he has it all (he thinks) –

he has the sea and she and Lucky Lady. 

She?  He has this notion she is leaving. 

Is she leaving him?  

He feels her withdraw,

a moody ebbing ocean leaving,

leaving in its wake a lonely barren shore.

She: distressed, stress manifests cutaneous,

her silvery scales remind her of the fish;

that fish (bass she thinks) that flapped and flailed,

hooked as it was to certain death,

its tiny tiny little mouth gasping gaping drowning.

It simmered on the galley stove,

simmered in its briny waters. 

He herbed and lemoned it,

seasoned it, hot alive with peppercorn. 

He savoured it, the smell of it. 

Succulent, it melted in her mouth just as his kisses did. 

His kisses did, and then it came, came horizontal,

(as she had always lain before him (always always wanting him)),

came horizontal rolling fogging up her mind;

lost in it    she found herself    almost invisible. 

Distracted then (by it) she slowly drifted into it;

no, it took her hooked her reeled her in (flapping, flailing).

He is losing her;

lost she is to some lonely barren shore,

where darkness offers itself     the infinite,

ebbing as she is,    towards it,

gasping gaping slowly drowning.

Anna :o]

Entered at Open Link Night at dVerse – hosted by the lovely Mary.  Thanks Mary.  
Also entered at the Poetry Pantry at Poets United - again hosted by the lovely Mary!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gillfoto

Honour

My birth brought no joy, for I was not boy.  Yet I felt loved, my mother taught me my chores, showed me my place,  gave me my future.  Father even allowed an education and my mind and spirit shined as I became alive!  Then came puberty and I was a little afraid, a little afraid as buds blossomed into breasts and blood showed the possibilities of motherhood.  And father became afraid, mother too, and my femininity became the chains that bound me.

Mother and father chose a cousin and I could not, could not love him – for I wanted a man that would excite my heart and he was not he.  I did so need to be loved rather than acquired, wanted to happily drown in the wonder of it all, the wonder of love. 

And I found him, my true love, at the very same moment he found me.  And deep within me, within my womb, beats the tiny heart that is my country's future.   For whether this tiny heart beats in girl or boy, this wonderful child will be loved and will be free, as free as the birds that soar above us and touch the clouds with unclipped wings.

Yet my parents are not happy for me and are bitter with hatred.  They say I have dishonoured them…

A stone as a heart,

my life blood wet on his hands:

this a father’s love.

Anna  

Björn at dVerse has us writing a haibun and the horrendous murder of Farzana Parveen remains fresh in my mind, refuses to go away, and my words are based upon it.

I must admit that I am almost immune to the pain of our world, swamped as we are by gruesome images that fill our television screens, so much so that the unbelievable the unforgivable become the ordinary.  I may despair for mankind upon viewing, listening or reading, then the mental images and memory fade and I return to things personal in my life.

However Farzana’s murder refuses to go away, be consigned to the past, for try as I might, I cannot understand how a father can murder his daughter, firm in the belief that her death returns honour to her family.  I cannot understand the mindset.  I really really can’t and I felt physically sick upon hearing of it.

I do so fear for mankind, for it is my belief de-evolution is upon us as we fast return to our primitive past, our thinking primitive as we step backward towards the swamp from which we came…

Further reading that might interest:

ECD News: GENDER PLAY DURING EARLY CHILDHOOD IN PAKISTAN

Global Health Action: Gender roles and their influence on life prospects for women in urban Karachi, Pakistan: a qualitative study 

BMC Public Health: Male gender preference, female gender disadvantage as risk factors for psychological morbidity in Pakistani women of childbearing age - a life course perspective

Quranic Path: Stoning to Death:  A Violation of the Qur’an 

Aljazheera: Pakistani women stoned to death by her family

Video: courtesy of YouTube

Iron Fist

I love Putin she often says

as beguiling smile spreads

like rays of rising sun

‘cross her oft troubled face. 

This day, now, we lie lazily on her bed

as news of Ukraine

fills breadth and depth of TV screen and she,

mischievously, tugs at me;

she sings then asks: What language that? 

Russian I reply (with friendly smile).  

And thunder cracks the twinkle from her eyes

and she screams: 

My God I hate, despise you,    hate hate hate!

You’re stuck inside my f*cking head.

I’m gonna kill myself, be dead dead dead!

(And snarl parts her lips and venom spits.) 

Oops, wrong answer (thinks I)

and cross arms to cushion blows aimed at chest. 

C’mon I say, we’re friends; but diatribe persists

and she flies at me with flailing fists

and I get up to leave, say:

I won’t listen to this anymore;

and ignore her jibes and walk away.

Elsewhere, a million miles away,

in Donetsk, Kramatorsk or some other city, town,

she sits forlorn, (another troubled soul)

fists in futile fury curled,

scorned by those who wish to separate

those once she viewed as welcome friends;

she wants an end to it, an end to it all,

but fears it will end   as in the past,

the days of old

where peace was wrapped constrained

in iron grip of fist of bitter cold.

I hate this, I hate hate hate this

(she thinks) and sinks into her misery.

Anna :o]

Claudia at  at dVerse  has us writing of conversation/dialogue in poetry and above is my take on it.

The little lady first featured was singing her rendition of Kalinka and she was annoyed I recognised the language.  She, not Russian herself, firmly believes she is, a member of the higher echelons no less, who enjoys the ear (and she –she would have you believe, the bed) of Putin.  Her dearest wish is that Putin will enter Kiev, triumphant, with the entire ‘Red Army’ close behind him singing Kalinka to their hearts content…

This world is full of a multitude of madness’s and the second little lady exists in the real madness that is Ukraine.  Listen to some of the unheard voices and wonder what mad political games the superpowers are playing…anywhere and everywhere in this world of ours...

PS I love the Red Army Choir, just love it; introduced to the magnificence of their wonderful voices at the city hall of  the city in which I lived as a spotty teenager – I have loved and listened every since.  Of the video – those idiots cavorting round the stage should be shot at dawn – how in this age we cheapen the beautiful…   

Also entered today (11.05.14) at the Poetry Pantry at Poets United - thanks to Mary for hosting.

Video:  Courtesy of YouTube

Birdsong

This wondrous gift of life we should embrace

and live each day as if it were our last,

for all too soon our time on this earths grace

is lost in heartbeats pulsed, becomes our past. 

I shall not sleep in dreams of darkest night

nor shall I hide in guard of folded wing,

instead I shall succumb to endless flight

as high above this earth I soar and sing

the praises joy of every welcome breath,

inhale my world ‘fore starlight flickers low

and new life springs upon my wondrous death

as I brave into new horizons go,

and leave unto this earth my legacy,

myself alive in feathered progeny.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us writing sonnets and this offering has taken me hours and I think the close is pretty poor – so I will continue to rethink it…

Also, I have messed about with ‘Word’ and have no idea how to undo what I did – as I am not sure what I did.  Problem is if I attempt to edit, Word vacuums up whatever follows – does anyone know what I have done and how to fix the mess I have made?  Suggestions will be greatly appreciated.

 Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: etharanz - purplestain.biz

This Place

There is decay here,

an almost death,

a dying of a heart.

Here,

in this place this town,

behind shuttered windows

shuttered doors

lays desolation emptiness,

history long ago     

absorbed

into echoes in its walls.

And in this doorway

here he sits, half in half out,

looks up as water spouts from cluttered gutter,

cascading down on already sodden hair. 

He plays well his part, knows his well-practiced line.

This waif this clean-shaven ragamuffin

(Sim Free buzzing in his pocket)

waits for the next passing soft-hearted sucker

and grinning, he thinks he sees her coming. 

This is it (he thinks) and he plays his part,

wears his most soulful face and utters:

Can you spare a penny missus?

She hasn’t any and hurries by. 

She wears the worries of this winter,

can differentiate

twixt wants and needs,

knows an empty purse

will not feed her waiting wailing mouth

shivering in his shabby buggy.

Across there,

the market square, once bristling –

now bare and barren

bar dog leading doleful master. 

He [dog] cocks leg into the air,

fountains golden arc into

downpour splattering from the highest heavens. 

They walk a little further and he [dog]

bobs down and defecates. 

Master looks around

and sin unseen (he thinks) they carry on.  

Someone else’s job (he smugly muses).

(She has seen both man and dog,

 tuts in disgust and scurries to the docks,

hoping praying for a waiting sailor.)

The Jolly Roger is nigh going under…  

Outside, paint cracked and peeling –

and over there,

seagulls squawking screeching squealing

squabble over tasty morsels

titbits of last evening’s discarded drunken suppers.

Inside, mein host, angst-ridden

raises a silent toast in hope

of better-things-to-come,

hopes the louts of yesterday

will come again tonight,

the louts who cuss and fight with who/whatever/over

their half-dressed drunken flirting foul-mouthed tarts. 

(At least they bring a paltry income in.) 

He sighs;

there is a poverty in our young (he thinks) –

a poverty of ideas. 

But they are all he has as docks lay ship-empty –

as empty as his once-stuffed till.

The lout – still in his doorway,

Sim Free buzzing in his pocket,

begs beer money as another sucker passes.

There are no ships here,

no sailors here to buy her body,

her body once freely given

to some loud-mouthed cocky lout

(Sim Free buzzing in his pocket);

she then discarded like some drunken supper.

She has no hope. 

She has nothing

but a poverty –

a poverty of ideas.

Anna :o]

The above are imaginations based on observations of my once-bustling & vibrant town centre.  My town centre is dying – and being allowed to die as my myopic council refuse to lower rents.  And on the town’s peripheries, supermarkets flourish…

Entered at OLN at dVerse, hosted by the lovely Beth – thanks Beth.  
Entered today (28.04.14) at Poets United Poetry Pantry - hosted by the lovely Mary - thanks Mary.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Rept0n1x

Little Things

The littlest things mean a lot is often said

and how true when you are dead and gone

for how long and wide the plot    matters

when you are squashed beneath the sod –

how undignified. 

Tis not only mourners cried –

pallbearers too with body pains

and aches as they undertake

delivery to your god

and crumble under the weight of it –

of you. 

So what to do? 

Sutton Bridge and Wingland PC have it all worked out;

PC they are and recognise your need

of a greater place of rest; best interests

served for those demised deemed supersized

and indeed for those who bear the load,

your place, your last abode

will not be far in those green fields,

but near as dammit by the road.

Little things mean the most.

Anna :o]

Björn at dVerse has us writing poetic journalism and above is my effort, based on this article that appeared in today’s The Telegraph.  Thanks for the inspiration Björn.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Dennis Turner

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