Wednesday, 17 January 2018

Do Elephants Have Souls?



There is mystery behind that masked gray visage, an ancient life force, delicate and mighty, awesome and enchanted, commanding the silence ordinarily reserved for mountain peaks, great fires, and the sea.
—Peter Matthiessen, The Tree Where Man Was Born

I am not humankind, my grey bulk
and all that makes me me betrays that. 
You say that I have lesser worth,
a soulless entity with mere instinct to survive. 
How do you know that? 
What arrogance you have.

Do you not think I feel hurt feel pain when you beat me?
(You know I do, for why else would you do that?)   
Do you think I have not the ability the capacity
to think, to love, to care, to fear, to grieve?  
Do you think I know not boredom, loneliness and frustration?    
How do you know that? 
What arrogance you have.

What arrogance you have to think this Earth exists merely as your plaything,
where we who are not you have no value. 
How arrogant are you who despoil this Earth,
you with this innate greed this want that dwells deep inside you.  
If your behaviour defines who you are, I would not want to be you.                           
Understand me now,
I am life,
I am sentient,
I am elephant,
My value is so so much more than tusk. 

Anna :o]

Susan at Poets United  has us writing our words of Psche/Soul and above is my offering.  Whilst searching for ideas on the innermost workings of the soul, I came across this article "Do Elephants Have Souls?" in The New Atlantis.  It is a captivating and oft moving read and I would strongly urge you to read it as it will open your mind.  You will need time though as it is a very long article, and at the time of writing, I am less than a third through.  As said, it is a very worthy read, so please do.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Confidential

Sunday, 14 January 2018

Fear


Fear crept up on you,
do you feel it now,
how it tingles in your chest?    

Best take a tablet mother,
otherwise it’ll do you harm. 
Calm down, rest a while,
I’ll not bother you again...
then again,   I might... 
Night holds its fascinations,
temptations of the sordid kind. 

Mind if I visit you again?

Anna :o]

Marian at Real Toads  has us writing Chained Rhyme, that is where the last syllable or word of each line if followed by a rhyme on the first word or syllable of the next line.  Cheers for the inspiration Marian!

Also entered for Verse escape 55 where we can write on any theme using only 55 words.  Cheers Hedgewitch!

And shared with the good folk at Poets United hosted by the lovely Mary, so another cheers!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:   Gert Germeraad

Wednesday, 10 January 2018

Time passes...


Mind alert, she views her body,
wondering if she’ll see tomorrow
as clock ticks and marches time upon the mantel.

She is ancient, skin dry and wrinkly,
bones old and spindly,
loose flesh clinging as if an afterthought.

Her legs and arms are spindle thin,
thinly layered in parchment skin that 
cracks and sheds, slowly mapping her decline. 
But her legs serve her well.

Although bladder weakened, she unaware
of stale odours scenting, rising from the cushioned chair
on which she sits, hunched and almost day imprisoned. 
She still has time (she thinks) to totter, hand between her legs,
to the commode she hides beneath the stairs. 
Relieved, another battle won! 
(Just a little leak (she thinks), she’ll change her panties later,
delay the effort in the changing.)

She looks at her hands, fingers gnarled, bent,
bowing to disease that wreaks havoc on her tiny body 
(I have shrunk y’know, she’ll say),
these fingers that once knit hats and tiny jumpers
for her little men, her loving lovely little boys. 
Her boys, men now (God love’m) treat her well,
love her like there is no tomorrow,
knowing her tomorrow might never break in morning glory.

She will leave them one day, she knows that,
it forever playing on her mind,
wondering if she’ll see tomorrow
as clock ticks and marches time upon the mantel,
ticking out her slow decline.

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United has us writing about the Body and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Sumana!

Please know, despite being ancient, the words are not of me.  Well, maybe some of them are…

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  DanielPenfield

Thursday, 4 January 2018

Guilt



Still dozy with lack of sleep, she looks out through the French doors, and although winter, the garden looks neat and clean, almost fresh, the night’s rain cleansing the detritus that had littered the path, washing it into the gravelled gully and the finality of the drain.

She wishes her soul could be cleansed like that, her sins washed away, for she finds them hard to bear.  She had loved him for sure, oh how she had loved him, still loves him.  He had become that beautiful heart beating away inside her, giving her completeness, giving her joy. 

Then he had left her and despite her pleading would not return.  Broken and bitter she had taken awful revenge, and in destroying him she had damned herself forever, her heart heavy with guilt, hers a conscience that could never be salved. 

Dark days are ending,
spring offers promise of hope,
weeds litter the path.

Anna :o]

Susan has us Poets United has us writing of door(s) – cheers Susan!

Despite reading the prompt yesterday, nothing came to mind, and it was not until this morning, when I looked out of the French doors, that inspiration came.  Please note that the words are pure fiction as I haven’t destroyed anyone – yet! :o]

I did take a pic of said doors and garden, but unfortunately can’t locate the up/download thingy, so the image echoes the haiku.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Ernst Schütte