Thursday, 9 July 2015

Night

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

Tuesday, 19 May 2015

Metamorphosis

artwork by Ulrike Bolenz


Innocence,
tis such a childish thing,
so I metamorphasise,
bare naked soul neath dragon wing,
take flight o’er starry-eyed naivety,
seek error of enlightenment. 

I absorb you,
all flesh and skin and bone of you,
become a shadow of yourself.

I live and breathe you,
consume your very being,
consume myself
til completely lost,
lost in love of love of you.

Anna :o]


Inspired by the pic at Magpie Tales, pic and prompt provided by the lovely Tess, cheers Tess! 
Also entered at dVerse OLN hosted by the lovely Gabriella - cheers Gabrella.

Thursday, 7 May 2015

Affair


Night chills sun-sweltered day
as
He nibbles at her, softens her.
[Her back arches at the want of him]

Elsewhere, he    [the cuckold]
explodes within without;
rage heightens senses hammers fists.
owl hoots, waits til
[He hears soft click of closing door]  
sensing prey
he swoops...
Upon her then he is;
scoops her up twixt threat and thunder,
throat becomes a place to hold her,
hold her til her breath is done.
[Adoration/animus]

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by Abhra.  Cheers Abhra!  
Also entered at Poets United - thanks folks.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Gert Germeraad

Thursday, 30 April 2015

A Thickening of the Leg


Incongrous:
thus define a perfect pear,
fruits of her labour, that they are.

She wanders ‘bout him,
wanders through the tangles in his hare,
hides in the madness of his march (inside her)
until she comes out.

There is a bone of connection,
a joint diene;
a thermal cracking of the bones.

At the crack of born
she comes out again from within herself,
she is the tail between her legs,
fruits of her labour that she is.

She is the cock that breaks forth within herself,
the chicken and the egg. 
She is incongruous,
a perfect pear (she is),
fruits’ of her labour.

Anna :o]

Björn at dVerse has us writing us writing of Catachresis and above is my take on it.  It was my original plan to ignore Björn’s prompt as I really need to go to bed and slip, slip into slums…

…but I couldn’t as (dogs gone (where)) he inspired my imagination.

My imagination based on a recent film I have viewed, which is: Predestination.  It is a time-travelling film which initially hooked me until I became aware of an obvious flaw in the plot.  Visual flaws I can forgive – but plot flaws do me ‘ed in!  The plot a very much chicken and egg thing with a cock(erel) thrown in…  Have you seen it – what do you think?  Chicken or the egg?

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author: Pava

Thursday, 23 April 2015

Upon Learning I Am Soon To Die

How harsh the softly spoken words,
how kind the man of cruel task
in telling tales of flick’ring flames
of candle burning down to wick.

How quick my eyes begin to dim
as lights go out as hope is dashed.  
I suffocate as walls close in
and terror strikes this heart of mine.

How distant are the humming sounds
of those I know who speak of love
and offer me their fond farewells
as panic swells and overwhelms.

How strange the speed of passing time
when heartbeat slows til almost still
and bellows gasp each laboured breath
and terror grips a spirit quelled

How can the candle flicker out
upon this life I yearn to live? 
How can the flame of me just die?
I don’t know how I can’t exist.

Anna :o]

For those of you who don’t know, I work in a care home.  All of us who work there feel privileged, privileged to really care for the residents who reside there, in their home.

It is like any real home, your home, my home.  There are happy times and bad times, fall-outs and forgiveness.  I regard the residents as my friends and they feel comfortable with me too.  Of course there is and must be professional boundaries in that I would not offload any problems I have or have had onto the residents for they have their own burdens to carry and it would just not be right.  There are many other boundaries too, lines that must not be crossed with vulnerable adults.  And they are not crossed.

That aside, the residents are my friends and I value that.  I know them inside out, know their strengths and weaknesses, know what they can and cannot handle.  The residents are why I love my job. 

Sometimes problems occur with those fine folk who exist in GP land in that they have quotas to meet, boxes to tick, orders to be followed (from those who exist in the higher echelons who know nothing of medicine at all).  I wrote of this many moons ago, here: http://hypercryptical.blogspot.co.uk/2010/09/harm-that-we-do.html

In our home we will not do certain things to make GP’s happy if we feel it will cause psychological harm to our residents – I cannot say much else or it might identify my home and its sister homes.  (We are small and mighty but each home exists autonomously.)

One of the things we have an issue with is the GP’s belief that everyone has the right, the need to know that they are in the process of dying.  Fair enough, so they have – but at the same time there is also the right, the right of the need not to know, an acceptance of the inability to cope with the knowledge of impending death.

And so above is Jimbo’s story.  Jimbo came into this world with congenital birth defects, defects that affected his ability to mobilise and because of this defect, he was the butt of jokes and cruel jibes and began to exist within himself, a recluse to save himself from hurt.  As the years passed he became apathetic to his own needs and neglected himself.  He entered our home with a diagnosis of dementia.

Across the first few weeks it became clear to us that Jimbo did not have dementia, rather his apathy and depression, his reluctance to engage had been misdiagnosed as such.  We sought the input of his new GP – this needed as he had moved out of his previous GPs catchment area – who treated his depression, but would not shift his diagnosis of dementia.

Across time we developed a rapport with Jimbo and he began to feel valued, that he had a place in this world.  He still would not initiate conversation but was glad when we did; a smile lighting up his face and he offered us snatches of his life.  He remembered our names.

As years passed he physically declined and began to experience pain for which he was treated.  On one GP visit, the GP noted that Jimbo was now in the slow process of dying and we requested that Jimbo not be told this, as we knew he was terrified of same.  We felt we had the right (on Jimbo’s behalf) to request this as he had no next of kin and we were concerned for his spiritual welfare.

This request was honoured, that is until a time death neared, and the GP took it upon himself to break the bad news as he thought Jimbo had-the-right-to-know.  This well-intentioned decision had an immediate devastating affect on Jimbo as we knew it would.

His terror was palpable.  From that moment forth he refused food, fluids and meds, fearing things hidden to hasten his death.  His anguish his terror added to the now untreated depression and physical pain and his life became unbearable, despite his determination to hang onto it.

I was on shift the night he died; knowing as I did this would be the night.  He was screaming out in pain and I knew I could not let him die like this, so phoned out-of-hours docs and explained the situation, asking if they could help.

A doc arrived some thirty minutes later and gave Jimbo pain relief and a sedative via injection.  Jimbo was terrified at the sight of the syringe and I assured him that the doc was there to relieve his pain and not to kill him and he submitted – but never spoke to me again.   I sat with Jimbo til he died.

I often think on this, wondering whether I requested GP intervention for my own peace of mind and not for Jimbo’s sake.  For despite relieving his pain, all this action did was increase his terror and led to his distrust of me and in essence he died very much alone.

Were it not for his GPs good but misguided intentions the situation would have never arisen.  Jimbo would have died pain free and at peace with the ones who loved him.  Some folk cannot deal with the knowing and it is wrong very wrong to force it upon them.

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by Grace, cheers Grace!  
Also entered at Poets United Poetry Pantry.  Thanks Mary!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, 9 April 2015

The Measure of Her


He has the measure of her (he thinks)
and she a clay of skin and bones;
malleable; subservient. 

He has no need of feet or fist
when poisoned words can bruise and break
and she malleable
is subservient.

Quiescent (she presents)
yet still within her heart a lion roars;
yet malleable she is subservient.

Moon waxes wanes.
Within the confines of her mind
lion roar morphs to that of bleating sheep;
malleable she is subservient.

Some day the sun will shine for her,
death free her from her nothingness,
until then, she is malleable subservient

Anna :o]

Shared with dVerse OLN, hosted by Anthony.  Cheers Anthony!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Jiri Hodan

Sunday, 15 March 2015

Egg McMuffin

Poetry is dead he said
as he stared at me  
and munched at his McMuffin. 
(There is bread stuck in
between his teeth
and a spot of yoke upon his nose
and I suppose that I should tell him,
but instead gaze into those blazing eyes
as he fills my head with nothing.) 

He pontifies as he nibbles fries
(his ego all a-glowing):
You folk up north should not utter forth
of things you are unknowing. 
I find absurd you think the written word
is art in rhyme and meter,
hah (!) and if a girl can write sufficient prose,
well, I have yet to greet her. 

I don’t give a damn about these poetry slams
(nor do I, I interjected)
where drunken folk mumble poetic jokes
to those-intellectually-affected.
(He shakes his head and stops for breath now) 

(I speak I speak I speak!)
Ah sir (say I) we can’t let it die,
‘twas once all literature was poetry;
remember Gilgamesh and Beowulf,
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.

(I suppose so, he says as he texts nothing words…)

I add: Poetry is like a fine red wine,
so much better slowly sipped and savoured,
for poetry read once and rushed,
why, you miss its subtleties and flavours.

That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard (he says)
like all poets you are pretentious. 
And if I’ve offended you, well that is what I do;
I have no problem being contentious!

The fool he gloats as he grabs his coat
and with a Harrumph then off he goes,
with bread stuck ‘tween his stupid teeth
and egg running down his nose.

Anna :o]

Karin at Real Toads writes: The prompt, should you choose to accept it, is to write something inspired by a breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, coffee, snack eaten out, at the local diner, cafe, restaurant, fast food joint, even, if you wish, camp site.  

I mean this prompt to be as broad as a glass door held open by a very polite person--(you will note that in my own politeness, I make no reference to tall stacks, wideness, and hips.)  You should feel free to write from the perspective of diner, server, cook, table, plate, pancake.  If you want to write with a forked tongue, in other words, go ahead!  If you want to just go sit in a cafe and write whatever comes to mind, that's okay too.  (Just, maybe, smear some ketchup on your screen.)  

And so dear Karin – the above is my offering.  Y’know, although I (attempt to) write poetry, I do not consider myself a poet - strange maybe, but so am I…  Poets are those wonderful people who write wonderful things, masters of words.  So for me to write as if I was a poet – well maybe I am developing an ego…

Also entered at Poets United – with many thanks to the lovely Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Glane23

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

D Minor



They wait,
hushed silent,
loud     with anticipation;
centre stage he sits,
flexes fingers
loosens wrists,
addresses instrument,
becomes as one,
and so profound,
the beauty of it
enchants,
rushes to the soul,
checks respiration.

Prelude:
slow voluntary on diapasons,
full, solemn       outpourings
of harmonious sound
kiss, steal the ear,
excite the heart;
concerto:
(the beauty of it)
fills the mind,
expands the vision,
was aught ever more glorious
than this?

Anna: o]

Susan’s challenge (thank you Susan) at Poets United is that of to write a poem of a specific man who is special and I chose Handel.  I visited YouTube to find a video and elected the above.  Odd thing is (maybe) that organ music generally leaves me cold as does brass bands and definitely rap.  Handel - genius that he was - however does not leave me thus and so, to make the challenge more challenging, I wrote of music I don’t particularly like - as if I did.  And so above is my offering.  

And tonight, linked with the good folk at dVerse, hosted by Bill.  Cheers Bill! 

Video: courtesy of YouTube
Posted by: efrainc23

Thursday, 5 March 2015

Poppy-red

Toril "Smells Like Rain"
Neath cumulonimbus clouds
fields’ fazed poppy-red:
terra firma smells of rain. 

And he, poor soul,
besmirched by those
who would secure,
decapitates the innocent
Terra firma fazed poppy-red
smells of rain.

Anna :o[

Anna at dVerse has us writing of reduction, Oulipo or surprising conceit.  I really don’t know if my effort covers any, but my purpose was to condense  or reduce what perhaps I might otherwise have written  - with a bit of metaphor thrown in.

My inspiration was that of a wonderful image at Real Toads, that of Toril “Smells Like Rain” and also an article in The Sunday Telegraph regarding Jihadi John which can be found here.

There are worrying clouds over this world of ours.

Saturday, 28 February 2015

Fear

Time has had enough of him,
his ailing mind, his failing heart,
his withered pained contracted limbs;
will time come for him tonight?

And what of him? 
The he that is him?  
What of him? 

Synapses ripped apart
all he only knows is fear. 
He is man come neonate,
mind dissolving with each passing hour;
returning to from wherence he came,
but to no comfort of the womb.

He is a tiny bird, mouth gapes
sensing every spoon
as if willing eternal life. 
And so he lives,
lives every hungry spoonful.

Yet with each
and every intervention
he dies a little more,
screams out in pain and fear
as mouth gapes
swallows each and every hungry spoonful
as if wiling time before.

He has no place here,
time has enough of him;
will it come for him tonight?

Anna :o]

The above words are of Ted, or maybe Theresa, who was a resident of ours.   Ted had end stage dementia yet hung onto life year upon year upon year.  He had no quality of life, all he had was fear.    And for him, I wanted him to die, so wanted him to die.

And this winter, he finally gave up.  RIP Dear Ted.

Linked to:  dVerse OLN    Thanks to all at the pub.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Nobuddy

Thursday, 12 February 2015

General Paresis of the Insane


Midst loss of hope and deep despair
he longs to find someone to care,
but much to his chagrin he finds
there is no one who’ll tarry there. 

There in that place of troubled minds
where troubled souls are thus confined
to languish in their discontent,
abandoned they and left behind

He, the poor cad the miscreant,
syphilis made mad, he then sent
to languish in that utter hell
in hope of sins he would repent.

He left alone in barren cell
with troubled thoughts on which to dwell,
he yearns to hear that tolling bell. 
He yearns to hear that tolling bell.

He yearns to hear that tolling bell.

Anna :o]

After reading Björn’s and Claudia’s (early) responses to Gay’s prompt (at dVerse) I set pen to paper, or more accurately fingers to keyboard and up popped the first stanza.  Then I got lost so searched Wiki for an image and the rest followed from there.

I have worked in mental health since the early nineties, did my training in a psychiatric hospital -–long since closed -–and when there, vowed I would never work in such a  place (strictly against my conscience).  Don’t get me wrong, as in staff, there were many good people there - but I just felt they were in the wrong job. 

There is a definite stigma attached to mental (ill)health, a certain belief that those who suffer from it are malingerers  and there are those who indeed abuse the system for an odd sort of gain

There were certain young folk -–especially of the male variety -–who would get themselves sectioned, feign mental illness to escape prison sentences.

It is estimated that one in four of us will suffer mental ill-health in our lifetime and for a long time I personally disputed this figure - that is until I suffered from it, albeit to a low degree.  During this difficult period (for me) I found that my colleagues - who of course work in mental health - couldn’t deal with it.

Mental (ill)health - you are very very alone.

As of my response to the prompt, I know there is an extra line - but it just felt right.

Source: Web Gallery of Art:  

Thursday, 29 January 2015

Where sea flows



If she could,
if she only could,
she would walk barefoot with him
into the mirage beyond the land
where sea flows.

Where sea flows
its saltwater tides,
the oft gentle ebb and flow
honouring its comfort of the moon
til storm breaks.

Til storm breaks
she and he are one
and then are rent asunder
as sea engulfs them in its anger
and love dies.

And love dies
beneath the torrent
of the rage that is the sea. 
She so wants to sail the world with him,
but she can’t.

Anna :o]

Oh dear, for a long time I have been lost in the abyss that is apathy; so often I have tried to respond to prompts’ – but there has been nothing there.  So I guess my offering reflects this hopelessness – but nevertheless it is written!  So thank you Tony for igniting my fire – hopefully it lasts!

Tony’s excellent prompt can be found at dVerse

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author: Slaunger

Sunday, 14 December 2014

Forever

Leaning towards the darkness
that is his and only his,
his eye captures the moon. 

Crickets chirrup evensong
as hesitant,
he takes first faltering step
into infinity.   

He flies without feathers. 

Soon
he will be naught but a red jewel
in an endless sea. 

He will ride with the tides,
forever searching, forever searching,

forever searching
for the lovely shadow of her face.

Anna :o] 

Grace’s challenge at Real Toads is to write a new poem or prose poem in response to James Wright’s words – please see prompt here.  The above is my response to his poem ‘Beginning.’

Also shared with the good folks at Poets United.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:
Clawhammer91