Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall
It was here,
long ago in time before,
Earth wept a sea of salty tears
and from within
this briny broth, a genesis,
and life began, emerged,
crept inquisitively upon the shore;
primitive, it evolved became mankind diminutive
Anna :o]
With
thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration. Also entered at dVerse Open Link Night - hosted by the lovely Claudia. (Would love to share a cup of tea Claudia!)
Advancing
age – does it do any other (?) – has treated my face very kindly – not elsewhere
(bits dropping off left right and centre) – that is, until of late. It is true that the crows have not (yet)
stamped their feet (leaving unwanted impressions), but tis true that my
nasolabial and melolabial folds have recently
come out to play…
I have always proclaimed that I
would not consider a facelift (rhytidectomy
procedure), dye my hair (odd grey hair here and there) and would grow old
gracefully. But now and again, I stand
in front of a mirror and pull up my skin near my ears and like magic the lines
disappear and damn it, I like it…
So, I googled
‘Rhytidedectomy’ this morning and decided ‘No’ as the only procedure I would
consider is the mini facelift as it is the least invasive – but I am not ageing
prematurely and its effect only lasts for six to twelve months…so I wont – I will let
my history map my face as I grow old…gracefully…
Fred at
dVerse has us writing micro-poetry of twelve lines or less, and so my little effort is
about lines…
On my
break at work (last night) I was puzzling over a response to Tess’s prompt at
The Mag while reading the Sunday newspapers – oh how I love Sunday newspapers. Reading the latest media attempt to besmirch
our (pure hearted, innocent, honest as the day they were born, whiter than the
driven snow) politicians who gallantly proclaim ‘I have done nothing wrong’ (and I believe them…)… and all fell
into place.
For those
of you that are unaware of the accusation of sexual harassment, misconduct,
abuse within the LibDem Party – half of our coalition government – please read
of it here – and to know more of the background click on the links provided
there.
When will
these attacks on our wonderful governments – past and present – end. It is so unfair.
It is also
so so very unfair that past and present governments are killing our NHS. You didn’t know? Yes they are! (Wonder why the media are keeping us in the dark along with the government?) To know more please visit Dr Grumble, JD, ISOwatch and Abetternhs's Blog. Read, learn and for you, your children and
grandchildren’s sake – do something, please do something. For if you don’t, not so far in the future – your NHS will be of
that of the Venus de Milo – something
beautiful – but a relic in memory only.
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)
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.
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…
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...)
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."
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…
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!)
