Political Graffiti

Anna loves Steve

There was a time

when it was good enough

to leave my presence etched

in eons of the grime

of history lessons,

heart ♡ carved upon a desk. 

Then an awakening,

an epiphany of knowing

that all
that had gone on before,

rest not upon desires

of love and peace

but that of the greed,

the spoils of war,

war spoilt the past,

dictates the future. 

And I throw away childish things,

suture innocence inside lest it be forgot.

Politicised,

I leave X as my mark,

foolishly 

believe in democracy,

believe I have the power

to elicit change with simple stroke of pen. 

How innocent I was.

Then realisation that I have no power at all,

I leave my presence scribed on brick

IT

HAPPENED

ANYWAY… 

-STILL   THINK  

 YOU’VE    GOT  

      A          SAY?

______________________

FUCK  PARTY  POLITICS

Anna :o]

Graffiti has existed since ancient times and perhaps in its early days was the only means of those without power to make their voice heard.   In the present, graffiti offers not only an opportunity to voice ones opinions but also to display artistic talent, such as that of Banksy, marking territorial boundaries by those wonderful people who belong to street gangs and so such more.

Is graffiti vandalism or artistic expression?  Read the history of graffiti here at Wikipedia.

Anna’s prompt at dVerse is that of graffiti and searching through Wikimedia Commons – I found the above image there and decided to centre my offering round it.  (The graffiti is not mine – although it mirrors my views.)

My dad was a mild-moderate political animal and there was much reading to be done in his library – from religion to politics to Agatha Christie to natural history and I learnt much there.  As young as eleven I wrote my thoughts on the injustices of the world in letters to newspapers and the majority were published.

Like my father my politics were to left of centre (learnt behaviour?), my first vote cast to Labour – and it was not long after this I truly opened my eyes and discovered that for the most part, political parties exist (almost) entirely of self-serving (and of their donors) hypocrites and seemingly (some of) those with original good intentions were capable of being seduced and thus soiled by the politics of power, the power of politics – and sold their principles along with their souls.

Conservative, Labour, Lib-Dem – I find it hard to differentiate these motley crews.  Democracy – it’s an illusion…

(Image:  Graffiti on the South Bank of the Thames in London. Graffiti by Arofish. Photograph taken by Michael Reeve, April 24, 2005)

If I Have Been Unkind

                 Leonard Cohen - Bird on the Wire (live performance 1972)

Cohen dirges on,

If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by. …

And drink in hand, tears in eyes,

his mournful song does naught but deepen my distress.

It is the knowing that cruel words

spat out with such finesse,

so delicate in aimed precision,

so skillful,   artfully used to cut nerve deep,

pierced your very being, rocked your self-esteem,

keeps you away from the want of me.

I first well with this, triumph-filled -

but then derision framed in sweet revenge

for such a meagre sin,  rebounds,

mocks me from within,

conscience pricked sword turns in upon itself.

I have to ask myself –

is this self-pity or self-contempt,

do I exempt myself from all but perfect love,

am I hurt for you or am I hurt for me?

(But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.) 

Is slight for slight worth all of this? 

God how I long for you,

yearn soft kisses lip on lip,

bodies moulding hip on hip. 

Forgive me; forgive me please.

Please, please take me back

as I do so love you so (heart and soul)

and I have saved me, saved me,
saved all my ribbons,

saved all my ribbons for thee. 

I am so sorry.

Anna :o]

Mary’s prompt tonight at dVerse is that of Leonard Cohen and Place.

I was first introduced to Leonard Cohen by my (ex) brother-in-law and immediately fell in love with his words, his gravely voice and all that was him.  As teenagers do I would play him at full blast, after opening my bedroom windows, so that the entire world could take a share of him, know of him.

The above poem is a true story and relates to a time when I (publicly) said hateful things to my handsome one – the man I was eventually to marry.  It was slight for slight – but my venom was totally uncalled for and he ‘broke up’ with me and for ten awful days we were apart.

After much pleading with his mother (on the phone) he agreed to speak to me and we met up again.  During these ten days he had grown a hairy caterpillar above his top lip and later a full beard followed and he remains my hairy handsome one to this very day.

Although I love Leonard – I would not recommend anyone listen to some of his songs if depressed and in charge of alcohol – for tis true you will become more depressed.

PS Not quite happy with the final stanza – will probably tinker with it on a daily basis.

Smoke Rings

Artwork by Joseph Lorusso

Smoke rings

- Gauloises Disque Bleu –

sophisticate the bright young things

as they dream to change the world

amidst the ambience of distant chatter,

joyous yeses,

cries of ‘Strike!’

as pins topple fall and scatter.

Behind the counter,

amidst the clatter of the dishes,

hiss of steam and till kerching -

she wishes so
she were that girl, 

so wants the the thrill 
of love and kisses,

the exuberance

of her life of yesteryear.

Home now, amidst the tears,

the fears of tomorrow 

and the forever broken heart,

she cries the names 

of long lost lovers,
sups from the bottle,

drowns her sorrows
as she blows sad smoke rings 

in the dark.

Anna :o]

The above is a response to Tess’s prompt at The Mag – thanks Tess.

The pic reminded me of my past life when many of my teenage years were spent socialising at the nearby bowling alley.

I think I only ever played bowls about five times for to me and many other young things it was a meeting point for friends - where often love blossomed and sometimes died…

There was a café at the front framed by large glass windows – upstairs there was a members only bar – never made it that far as underage – but we all yearned to be there.

One of the waitresses at the café was a sour old woman – she,  probably only forty or so – but to us then that was oh so old – and we used to make up stories about her, imagine why she was so miserable – that is, when we weren’t saving the world!

Also entered at dVerse Open Link Night - hosted by Tony - thanks Tony.

Fruit Salad

   Pocket money, none,

   but I know where

   there is    

   a shiny
   six-penny piece…

   Sixpence will buy

   an awful lot of goodies,

   fruit salad, black jacks

   just a farthing each,

   that’s twenty-four

   lovely 
   sugary confections

   to delight my taste buds,

   chew to high heaven,

   stick in the gaps

   between my teeth. 

   …will I?

   Tis summertime

   as the four of us

   in gingham dresses,

   catch sticklebacks

   in glistening stream;

   blow bubblegum,

   suck sherbet lollies –

   tis all the stuff

   of childhood dreams.

   But then

   there is my conscience…

   oh there you are

   trying to hide amongst

   the flying saucers,

   pineapple chunks

   and liquorice sticks;

   fruit salad luscious

   sweet’n’lovely

   brings no pleasure,

   leaves a sour taste

   upon my lips.

   Anna :o]

   Victoria’s prompt at dVerse is to write of childhood memories.

   When asked what my most vivid memory is – it is always that of the above.  During my childhood sweets were not everyday expectations rather a Christmas, birthday, Easter egg or an occasional treat thing.  Of course, well-earned Saturday pocket money could be spent on them along with a comic or a little toy – however pocket money then was not a fortune – but enough for us and gratefully received.

   One Saturday saw me without any as I had been naughty (can’t remember how) and I so wanted some sweets to take along and share with my friends.  I knew my mum saved sixpences in a long narrow tube painted as a pillar-box, specifically designed to accommodate forty and thus a pound (and they were calling me, oh how they were calling me).   So I stole two. 

   My pleasure was short lived and I was overcome by guilt, a guilt which was to burden me for years to come.  I attempted to ease my conscience by buying my mum extra special birthday, Christmas or ‘just because’ presents – but it never worked.  Some thirty years later I confessed – mum had never realised, never missed the shilling – but I knew and that was important, important that I knew it was wrong.

   Why do we remember some but forget most of our childhood – I don’t know and I don’t think scientists do either.  Why did this particular memory become crystallised – was it because I first experienced the emotion of guilt then and couldn't let it go?

   On a lighter note -does anyone remember the original wrapper of Fruit Salad?  In my (?false) memory it was light coloured pink and green stripes with a picture of fruit at the centre – certainly not that gaudy orange stuff – do you remember?

  (Can't explain the white background  - although Blogger is tell me I/it is experiencing problems...)

Love & Masochism

Fee-males, fee-lines,
he thought he ought
by now a lesson learned
as he felt the scratch from chin to eye,
yet still bewitched he yearned,
itched for the stealth of those
who ate his soul with lapping lick
slinked as they slyly stole his heart.

“Cats, cats, cats,
everywhere cats,
but then stepping
out from the crowd,
a single crab.”

And much to his surprise
he found fascination in her flapping flab
and grabbed lustily at her heaving thighs
as she sexily sidled up to him
and punched him meanly
clean between his eyes.
She grouched as he ouched
and yelped in pain,
moaned that he groaned,
punched him again and declared
if he wished to exist in her domain
he should irritate her not,
be grateful for what she gave-he got,
and he submissive for the want of her
discarded those cruel cats
whose pain made him purr,
knew true in his heart that he,
he did
prefer
her,
his sexy snapping brachyura.

 Anna :o]

What is this strange thing called love, that despite its potential to cause great pain, it brings out the masochist in us as we enter the uncertainty of it again and again in our search of a life partner or maybe a ‘just for now’ relationship?.

We profess love of our family and friends – but others interpretation of offered love can be suffocating, stifling, downright cruel.  Of course we cannot chose the family we are born into and may not like them very much at all and may teeter on the edge of near-dislike or dislike itself.

I guess we all have our own interpretation of what love is – is it a basic human need to be needed or is it a protective emotion that binds us together as a species, brings cohesiveness to our particular tribe and thus societal stability? If the latter – it is clearly not working.

Nevertheless, despite its potential to cause pain I am in love with love, love being in it – although I am not quite certain what it is. Can you love someone every minute of every day or do levels of love fluctuate? 

Looking at my handsome one now as he dozes on the settee, do I love him at this very moment in time, is there a passion of emotion there or do I view him (?)only as my chosen (and very likeable) partner? At this moment of time I would say the latter, yet he may wake and utter some words, do some deed and I will be overwhelmed with emotions that pleasure my mind and fill my chest to almost bursting point – and this I think is part of loving, love operates at many fluid levels/depths, love is societies binder - and indeed sometimes a bind…

As the Bishop said to the Actress “How do you interpret Love?”

Today’s post is the result of Isadora’s prompt post at Real Toads in which she asked us to write a post based on the Hamilton Cork's first lines – my chosen: “Cats, cats, cats, everywhere cats, but then stepping out from the crowd, a single crab."

La via che va tra la perduta

       

“Per me si va ne la città dolente,

per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,

per me si va tra la perduta gente.”

(Dante’s Inferno, Canto 3.1-3)

La via che va tra la perduta

There is no warmth here;

the inner glow of being me

is somehow elusive

and I can’t (quite) remember

why I’m here...

There is no warmth here;

the inner glow of being me

is somehow elusive

and I can’t remember…

It is cold here,

a numbing emptiness,

a loneliness,

a chill permeates

my every screaming fibre. 

Fear is cold as ice,

splitting,

exploding      every atom;

fear                        fear

excites the torment of,

the dread of tomorrow,

the dread of things… (forgotten)

as I desperately

try to grab,

to hold

to keepsake

memories of today

that disappear

with every fleeting moment,

disappear into the grey.

Something

(I can’t quite get hold of what it is)

is drawing me

like moth to candle,

something

cold and dark and uninviting,

yet it draws me,

draws me

like a spindly beckoning finger

and as I linger at its gate,

foreboding tells me

I should not enter

yet strange longing urges me to stay

and I can’t quite remember why I’m here...

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.

 Anna :o]

Fred at dVerse asks us to write in a language which is not our own.  Although some of the above is drawn from Dante’s Inferno, that written in English is not my own.  It is based on the language and thought process of someone (I was privileged to know) who was a dementia sufferer. 

There is no pleasure to be achieved from dementia, no yearning to earn its tag – for the sufferer or the carer –and following diagnosis worlds begin to disintegrate, friends gradually cease to visit, even relatives – loneliness, isolation and fear ensue.  There is very little – and I mean very little - community support, perhaps a six-monthly visit to your psychogeriatrician, an annual review from your GP, an occasional visit from CPN or social worker and that is it – and they do mean well, they really do – but until you are diagnosed with dementia or care for someone who has – until you live this life - you really don’t know a thing - you may think you understand and can reel off wisdom acquired through the requirements of your profession - but you don't understand at all.

Health Secretary Jeremy Hunt has proprosed that GPs should screen all those considered at risk of developing dementia and those over 74 when attending a routine visit – with no warning of the intention to screen.  There are so many dangers here of over-diagnosing and over-medicating – please DO read two excellent post by Dr Martin Brunet regarding this here and here.

Please watch the video above – brought to my attention on Margaret McCartney’s blog and read her post here.

NICE has concluded that there is no accurate method of identifying people through screening – please see ‘Basis for recommendation’ so why are the government pressing ahead?  What will happen to the folk who may have to wait up to nine months for a Memory Clinic appointment?  They may be diagnosed with early dementia and then what?  Certainly very little helpful support and definite stigma attached – they may be found to have mild cognitive impairment that will not progress to dementia – but oh the worry while waiting (for the appointment) and the stigma will remain. They may be found not to be in the early stages of dementia at all – but oh the worry while waiting and the stigma will remain…  

 What are your thoughts on dementia screening?

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, author Luca Casarteli 

Peace

image by Daniel Murtagh

They say   when asked,

your dog-collar friends

that you must suffer;

                 anguished
as you slowly

drift towards the end.

They say that He is testing you,

giving you the chance to make amends,

and I wonder if you always knew

you’d writhe

in most exquisite pain

to bring glory, glory to His name.

I am not ready to give you up,

would do all to keep you alive

and strive with prayer

to plead

too soon too soon

please don’t take this man  

who shared Your flesh,

drank Your blood from precious Cup,

but no man is from death immune

and from life’s first breath we begin to die

and Lord you will not hear my cry

lest he should not come unto Thee.

I weep as I watch you wounded,  writhe

and change my plea to that of sweet release

for *nothing ‘gainst times scythe

can make defence

and entreat the Lord to grant you peace.

Tis twilight now

and I gaze as cirrus thin-wisp

the vast expanse of reddened skies,

and in awe of it,

want so to believe

that Heaven does indeed exist,

that when life doth finally cease, 

in death your soul will gently rise

and you will sit with Him

splendid

in Eternal Peace.

Anna :o]

I first began writing the above in response to dVerse's prompt of Peace and distracted by other things it fell by the wayside.  Then I saw Tess’s prompt at The Mag and the woman looking out of the window reminded me of the evening I looked out of the window – the day after my dads death – and the beauty of the skies made me think of the possibility that Heaven may exist.

The poem is of course about my dad and I should give a bit of history.

I was raised in a religious household – but a home where religion was a comfort and by no means oppressive – no Hell and Damnation.  Despite this warm atmosphere I cannot ever remember believing in God.  I spent periods of time in hospital as a child and saw a lot of suffering there.  I can remember my mum and dad saying – when comparing my relatively minor problems with those other children – “You have so much to thank God for Anna” and my response was “But what have they got to thank God for?” and they could not answer this.

My brother ran away from home when he was nine – he too conflicted between his ‘need’ to honour his parents beliefs and the lack of his own.  Upon his return much talking was done and my parents said they had realised a long time ago that I did not believe too.  My brother and I never attended church (with my parents) again after that.  It must have hurt my parents deeply – but wonderful good souls as they were – we were never treated any differently.

When I was ten my dad gave up his job in Law and devoted his life to his God – becoming a ‘missionary’ and a lay-preacher – not the Bible-bashing kind rather a man who gently wished to spread the love of his God.

Some twenty or so years ago – across weeks – he died an agonising death and I asked his colleagues why his God was treating him so.  They responded with the usual platitudes’ “God works in mysterious ways” and “He is testing him” and when I asked why He was testing him – a good kind man who had devoted his life to Him – they could not come up with a satisfactory answer.

So it is fair to say I have never believed in God – but for my mum and dads sake – I truly truly truly hope I am wrong and they exist in eternal peace with their God in Heaven.

*”nothing ‘gainst times scythe can make defence” – wonderful words borrowed from Shakespeare – Sonnet XII.  (It’s okay – he says so and he and I are good friends!)

Signatures

Image by R. A. D. Stainforth

Candle flickers,

gramophone spins old 45,

                brings you alive,

see you dancing in the shadows. 

Old sweater hugged

smells of you,

fills me up,   arouses

excites atmosphere.

Tobacco-kissed,
dog-end DNA

remains of you among the ashes. 

I see you 

on the lips of long-emptied glasses,

whisky-scented,

cold breath whispering 

I was here.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration, also entered Poets United Poetry Pantry – thanks Poets United!

Oops!  Nearly forgot!  Hope you have a wonderful New Year!

And also - (grand)baby Theo arrived at 1.37am on the 27th!  He is delightful! 

Innocence

Newborn in blanket by Bonnie Gruenberg

Golden, soft, gentle, innocent,

safe in liquid amnii,

in utero.

Listen to my heart beat,

it beats for you,

it longs for you

Come 
be my world.

Anna :o]

My special present this year will be that of the gift of a new life – the life of my first grandchild.  Seems he is a bit of a procrastinator – must be an ‘in the genes’ thing – as he is a little late of his due date.  Ah well, he will come into this world when he is ready.

I really can’t wait!  Thank you my lovely first son and dear daughter-in-law for my soon to be present – can’t wait to hug him and kiss his soft warm cheeks and gift him with my love, my heart (forever).  Oh precious little thing – hurry up!

Have a wonderful Christmas everyone!

Thanks to Karin at dVerse~Poets Pub for today’s prompt of 'The Poetics of Presents/ce' and many thanks to all the good folk who hosted there throughout this year.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, author Bonnie Gruenberg.

Storm Brewing

photo by Andy Magee

Rain streams

in never-ending rivulets,

blurs,

obscures vision.

The unremitting

rhythmic wurr, 

               wurr,  

               wurr

of wiper blades

irritates, marks time

as you sit behind the wheel

fix-gazed on anything but me.

This is an oft travelled road,

I anticipate the coming storm,

sense the thunder,

wonder what will precipitate

the squall.

I watch the blades

raise the tempo

as they swish to and fro,

aggravate existing fury,

heavens darken, heighten fear

and you begin to glance at me

hate-faced

and I know the time is near -

tis not only skies that will blacken.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.  Also entered at Open Link Night at dVerse, hosted by the excellent Joe Hesch.

It's Always You, You, You!

You say my drinking makes you miserable;

that you don’t know what to do when I’m ‘this way.’ 

Why is it always about you, you, you?  

It doesn’t take much imagination

to figure out why I’m like this – it’s you, you, you!

Does it never cross your stupid mind

that you drive me to such depths of despair

with your moan, moan, moaning,

drinking is my only solace, my only way out? 

You shout and scream I make you unhappy

and you wish things were like they were before,

that this ‘sheer hell’ (moan, moan, moan)

is not you what you (moan) married me for. 

Do you honestly think I care? 

I wish you’d just leave me alone

and go and kill yourself,

cos you’re killing me with your nag, nag, nag.

Oh surprise, surprise! 

Here come the waterworks,

tears spilling from your stupid eyes

as you wail that life is so unfair,

that you can’t live like this anymore. 

Well piss off then you stupid whore. 

But you won’t, will you? 

You always say you’re gonna go -

but you always stay. 

Don’t you know I know why you won’t,

cos no-one else

would have a moaning bag like you? 

No wonder I bloody drink to drown out your

moan, moan, moan. 

Well Mrs Moanybag

I wish you’d just piss off and leave me alone.

Moan, moan, moan, moan, moan.

Anna :o]

Although my work involves caring for alcoholics and ex-alcoholics, I, as many ‘health professionals’ did not understand, did not know of the circumstances of the families of alcoholics as their story is not often told as it is hardly ever considered.

For the most part, families live their lives without any support whatsoever – unless that of Alcoholics Anonymous or similar agencies.

Without Addy’s blog Alcohlic Daze and Linda’s The Immortal Alcoholic – I would still not know.

A long-term alcoholic living with his/her family often blames his/her partner for the problem - unjustly.

This poem was written in response to the challenge to write in the second person at dVerse 'Meeting the Bar' hosted by Victoria C.Slotto.  Thanks Victoria.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, author Steven

I Am

I am.

Discover me,

chart me, map me out. 

Climb my mountains,

ford my streams,

swim my seas. 

Love me,

let me live inside your heart. 

I am your world.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.   Also linked to the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.