Friday, 16 March 2018


Sometimes, when the day yawns 
and the horizon swallows up the sun,
I think of you. 

Night always had you in its grip;
as vicelike as your hands round the bottle,
as vicelike as your hands round my throat,

I warned you about sleeping,
that I would get my revenge.   

Murder was surprisingly easy.

Anna :o]

For Hedge's 55.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons   
Author:  Chad fitz

Friday, 9 March 2018

Getting it Wrong

I hug people; I’m like that, tactile. 
I don’t hug everybody,
just those (I sense) send out welcoming signals,
those who want me to take them,      now.

Sometimes I do get it wrong though
and they shrink back,
wriggle themselves free from embrace,
look at me fearful.  

Not everyone trusts a man with a scythe.

Anna :o]

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  skhakirov

Sunday, 4 March 2018

I'm Coming!

Heinrich Kuhn (1897)

Soft, defused, that light behind your eyes,
don’t kid yourself, forget the lies,
twilights a coming, day will turn to night.

Go on,  
stick your labels here and there,
remind your self of what’s and where,
write your diary, scribble notes,
write your self your memory joggers.

Hah, won’t work forever,
things’ll keep on fading,
everything a shade of grey. 
Take your time – I don’t mind waiting,
you know I’ll get you anyway.

Anna  :o]

Inspired by Kerry’s ekphrastic prompt at Real Toads, cheers Kerry

Wednesday, 21 February 2018

That Still Small Voice

The conscience. 2015. Oil on canvas

Inside, that still small voice hides
beneath the bundles of my goodest deeds,
my vain attempts at conscience salving.   
Try as I might I cannot heal the wound that I have made,
those injurious words that cut you deep,
harmed the very heart of you.

You say that’s its okay that we all say words
that we regret when anger rises rules our tongue,
your selfless kindness marks you out above myself,
the selfish self-crucifying pity-me that I am. 
Me, I wonder if I grieve for you,
the wound you bear, given as if some awful gift
or do I grieve for me, self-harmed am I in uttering words
that never needed saying.

You say that its okay, what’s done is done
and should not mar our friendship
that you have forgiven me and we should return
to how we used to be, before your trust in me was broken.  
You are repaired now or at least you say you are, but me,
I can’t quite forgive myself and I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do for (my) anguished heartfelt sorry
will never ever be enough, will not repair the harm I’ve done
to self-pitying little me.

Anna :o]

For Susan at Poets United whose prompt word is Voice.  Cheers Susan!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia
Author/artist:  Andrey Mironov

Saturday, 17 February 2018


Look-see, a dead bird prostrate on the grass,
it’s a chick; grey, pink, her skin almost translucent. 
Life didn’t last long, just fleeting, a featherless life.  
She’s gone;  cats had her teeth in her maybe. 
Possibly not – no discernible suffering… 
Maybe she just spilled out of the nest
or maybe she just didn’t belong.

Anna :o]

For Hedge's 55.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United.  Cheers for hosting Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons 
Author:  Tony Wills:   

Thursday, 8 February 2018


Shoes, orthopaedic, custom made,
casual style yet strong and sturdy, black and shiny,                                                          
Velcro strapped for ease and comfort, unworn and waiting,
pristine condition, still in the box.

He refuses to wear them.

Why walk when one press of the buzzer will bring
some ‘f*cking lazy c*nt’ to stand in waiting,
waiting for his pathetic demands as he lives out his sick role in bed.
I am so so sick.

I am too weak to walk he will bleat, refusing physio,
all interventions aimed at moving him forward – for why walk
when you have your servants to do all your bidding,
when you can’t be bothered to lift even your tiniest finger.

Malingerer, that’s what he is.  Or is he?

When he screams at you, calls you a f*cking lazy c*nt –
why does he do that.  Ask yourself, look at his past.   
Look at his notes, read up his history and then you will know.

I wouldn’t like to wear his shoes either. 
They would stay in the box.  
Anna :o]

The above is a thumbnail of someone I knew, someone I cared for (and about) in my place of work.   (I am retired now.)   Despite his readiness to verbally abuse, be buzzer crazy, demanding of attention – I liked him and would give him at least thirty minutes of my time each shift.  We would chat, had a rapport, but that did not excuse me from the lash of his tongue outside these times.

Most presenting behaviours have a backstory… I knew of his.  I would not like to be him, stand in his shoes.

For Susan at Poets United, whose prompt is Shoes.

(I don't know why 'shiny' has given itself a line and I can't seem to correct it.)

Image:   Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons 

Saturday, 3 February 2018

Euthanise Me

Circus, Budapest, 19 May 1920
Andre Kersetz

Intensive interventions required:
thread in the needle,
fix in the line,
feed me my poison,
show me you care.

Death has remarkable beauty
a wonderful exit,
though I can’t claim experience.

Show me your mercy,
feed me my poison,
kill me with kindness.

I have rights y’know,     You Don’t!
Conscientious objectors have no place in medicine.

Anna :o]

Kerry at Real Toads offered the above image as a prompt, advising:  This challenge comes with a wide angle and any filter of your choosing. 

And thus ‘I see you’ became ICU, and this article I had not long read at BioEdge threw itself in the mix, resulting in the above.  Cheers for the inspiration Kerry!

Also entered at Joy's 55 – although it would read better with 56…  Cheers Joy!

Sunday, 28 January 2018


Consent is a Yes not an absence of No.
I say Please Don’t but you take me nevertheless.
Look at me look at me, passive and still.

I’m a tiny tiny bird, wings clipped, all feathers and fear.

Indifferent you are and once taken, you zip yourself up,
then leave without word and are gone.

Anna :o[

For Joy’s 55 and also shared with the good folk at Poets United, cheers all!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, 24 January 2018

The Power of NO

I have a voice you know, although you attempt to still it,
treat my so-called illness, fill me up with little pills
potted in your little cups you hand out as if a gift.

Silent you are in your contempt of me your control of me. 
So will I take your little pills, like hell I will,
you can stuff them up your arse. 

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United  asks us to consider Weapons and writes:  Weapons are varied; in fact anything can be turned into a weapon if the user wills.  One can Find one or Be one.  Now what do you say?  

It got me to thinking of my time working in a care home, a mental health unit, and how by merely being there, residents were disempowered.

It was within the residents rights to refuse their medication, but this almost always done so as a protest against a perceived problem and the resident would be angry and would not discuss it.

I would say the usual:  Okay ‘John’ I can see you’re angry, but refusing your meds won’t hurt me, but might hurt you.  I would be told to “F*ck off.”  I would then advise I would ask once more and if refused, would keep the meds until the next round –of course making sure if the meds were accepted then, I would remove any that ‘doubled’ the next dose.

My colleagues would moan when a resident refused meds as if somehow refusal affected their power (over others) the ‘authority’ they felt was theirs.  I always totally understood the refusal for this was the only real power the residents had. 

“NO!” was their weapon.  It is sad that they felt they needed it.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons   
Author:  Peter Ziegler

Monday, 22 January 2018


Creative writing has been part of me since I can’t remember when, but definitely early childhood. I love putting my thoughts to pen then paper and marvel at the process, wonder how my thoughts turn into the ink of the written word.

I would go to work with the adventure of a poetry prompt in my head, my trusty cheap notebook and my black pen - the pen had to be black with an extra-fine point.  My notebook and pen would be left in the office and as words appeared mysteriously in my mind, I would return as soon as possible to write them down, to savour them.  Sometimes, when work would not allow me to return, I would scribble them down on scraps of paper.  Once home, I made my words poetry.

But things change, real life changes and gets in the way, and I lost my creativity or lost the inspiration the desire to pursue it.  I desperately want to recapture it, and now and again I might find it, but for the most part, it remains elusive…

Snow leaves its blank page,
nature writing in footprints:
look, see, I was here.

Anna :o]

Kim at dVerse has us writing of communication through pen, or pencil, and paper.  I desperately tried to ignore this prompt, but inspired, I could not fight it.  So thanks Kim, your prompt has perhaps began to heal the wound.

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Anneli Salo

Saturday, 20 January 2018

Day's Eye

Imprecise: my calculations,
my measuring of your love of me. 
Do you love me do you love me not
depends upon the daisy plucked,
the petals pulled in earnest hoping. 

Vascular: let me run easy through your veins,
love me need me take me, feed on me until our waking,
meeting dawn with daisy eyes.


Happily written for Joy’s Friday 55 at Verse Escape – cheers Joy!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons 
Author: Ntgr

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 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


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