Thursday, 30 January 2014


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

Thursday, 23 January 2014


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
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

Sunday, 19 January 2014


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

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

Thursday, 16 January 2014


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) Link back to Creator infobox template

Thursday, 9 January 2014


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?

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

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

Monday, 6 January 2014


He is wise, wise and wizened;
hair thinning, salt and pepper seasoned;
brow lined and furrowed, quizzical? 
Brows: bushy, grey and wiry;
eyes blue and vision fading;
nose: large and Roman
(now too long and thin (he thinks) -
My, I can almost see where bone blanches skin). 
Cheeks: skin thick and craggy;
mouth small, pursed and wrinkled;
chin cleft, stubble sprinkled.

Ah, and below the chin –
the bugger that will be the death of him. 
Untreated – he too old (he thinks)
for wrath of radiation beam
or cruel brunt of surgeons knife.

So this is he, this is who he is
above the faltering heart in heaving chest –
his face an echo - a diary of a life well-lived. 
His mouth clenching pipe, pipe-puffing,
puffing pipe (vanilla flavour and aroma)
he reminisces on the joys of yesteryears. 
He is alone – yet not lonely,
his memories’ - companions of his past and present. 

(He sips Jack Daniels – no, swigs it back,
his body welcoming each soothing warming mouthful.)

He thinks: if death comes tonight I hope it comes easy –
no crushing pain of heart arrest…  

But should he be blessed to live another day,
to see tomorrow – he will live it for the love of it. 
But should he not he knows    (yes he knows)
that those that gather grimly at his graveside
to pay homage to his passing spirit,
will sigh,    smile and softly say: 

Ah Alex,
he lived life for the love of it.

Anna :o]

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Artist: Alexander Beridze. (1858-1917)

I do realise that the image bares no resemblance to the description of Alex – but those I found depicting his physical appearance bore no resemblance to the essence of his good self.  This smiling man – with the sun shining out of him – is Alex!

(That ‘Alex’ and the artist share the same first name is purely coincidental)

Shared with the good folk at Poets United – thanks Mary and the good folks at Real Toads – thanks Marian!