Itch

They creep, crawl; grub about above her pockmarked skin,

she claws hard at them with sharp life-dirtied finger nails,

they deny her defence, manage to wriggle in

and (deep)below the surface leave their itchy trail,

gnaw at her flesh, mesh her dark thoughts, consume her mind,

tormented she begins to scream begins to wail

and delusionary arthropods’ maligned

continue merciless onslaught upon her flesh;

round her intestines worms and maggots intertwined

stranglehold agonise; knife raised she begins to thresh -

seed cut from straw momentarily relieves her distress.

Anna :o]

Delusional parasitosis can present with differing levels of affect – although the end result is the same (irritation – often extreme) – and accounts of its impact vary amongst sufferers.  The (sufferers) belief is held that parasites (insects etc.) crawl upon the skin and/or burrow into/under it and are accompanied with cutaneous sensations of biting, stinging, crawling and itching.

It is considered primarily as a hypochondriacal psychosis, but is also induced by psychoactive agents and is associated with mental (ill)health states.

The poem relates to a female patient I knew in my student days.  She had intractable schizophrenia and her life was that of sheer torment.   I have never met a poor soul more damaged than she.  Her distress distressed me then as it does now thinking of her.  I have written of her before, here.   I don’t think I will ever forget her.

.....................................................................

Tony at dVerse has us attempting Terza Rima – thanks for the inspiration Tony.  Although the iambic pentameter is not exactly spot on - the above is my attempt.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Rodrigo Senna from Brasília, DF, Brasil

The Promise

What scares me most is that woman,

the new woman, I never guessed,

it never crossed my mind

she could be a patient, dressed

as she was in the finery of designer labels,

and the jewellery, it’s the kind you see film stars wear

and that hair, all coiffured up, y’’know

I thought she was a social worker.

It’s cruel this dementia thing,

it’s cruel here too, what they do to them,

within a month, this woman who was able

to chat and laugh was just like the rest,

degraded, empty,

joined that naked morning crocodile

of skinny shivering souls

waiting to be hosed down,

and I mean hosed down – not showered.

I suppose they just give up,

how can they treat people like that?

I couldn’t live like that, couldn’t die like that

and what hurts me is that I am part of it,

working here as I do, but I try to change things,

be kind and things, talk to them and try to make them smile,

but it terrifies me this dementia thing

and I need to ask you, plead with you,

if I should begin, well, to lose my mind –

will you tell me please, promise me you will

so I can overdose myself on insulin?

Anna :o]

The above is a bit too ‘prosee’ for me – so not quite happy with it and it is definitely work in progress – and it is probable that I will tinker with it every time I read it. Mlm’s prompt at mindlovemisery is that of fear and this is my mother’s story.  Thanks for the inspiration mlm!

In the seventies my mother worked as a ward assistant on elderly female long stay at a local psychiatric hospital.  Care then was very much of don’t care as many of the nurses still possessed the ‘warder mentality’ and the patients were mere things to amuse themselves with.  It is true that the demented ladies were lined up naked every morning for a ‘shower’ and were the daily butt of jokes and cruelty.

My mother hated it – but stayed there for the ?right ?wrong reasons.  She loved the patients and gave them her time, so much so that some were able to remember her name.  The poem is based on a conversation we had in the grounds of the hospital on the day of a fête.

I promised her there that I would tell her if she was ever ‘losing her mind’ – but when the time came I broke my promise – how can you tell your mother it is time to kill yourself?  As dementia cruelly took hold of her – sometimes I wished that I had…

I entered psychiatric nursing several years later and on the elderly wards care had improved in that there was no outright cruelty – bar that of the cruelty of neglect, the neglect of the recognition that the patients were people.

Poem also entered at Poets United Poetry Pantry – thanks Poets United!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.  Author: Gert Germeraad

Saboteur

He observes; he picks at it, the scar that is, that is the wound.

Deep inside, scars mar his soul, his sense of self sutured with flimsy lies. 

Fingernails rip, wound raw and bleeding, this is me he cries, lonely, needing.

He observes; she cleanses it, the scar that is, that is the wound. 

Deep inside, collagen knits, heals the wound – if only fleeting. 

She leaves him, attention gone, he whispers silently remember me.

He lays there, picks at his soul that is the scar that is the wound. 

Deep inside, the emptiness of loneliness leaves him bleeding. 

He plans now, crashes to the floor help me he cries, wanting, needing.

He lies there, they pick him up, return him to bed, scowls scar their faces. 

They observe, do not see the wound, his emptiness, offer no healing. 

Abandoned, he screams deep inside, screws himself up, self-debases.

He observes; he is nothing, he is the scar that is the wound.  

He observes; he is the scar that wounds and scars his inner sense of self.

He is wound, he is nothing else, he has seen it on their faces.

Anna :o]

There they are the saboteurs and attention-seekers, filling the beds of those with real need, always demanding and always trying the patience of those who seek to care for them.   Want, want, want, want, want, all they do is want. 

The buzzer goes; it is bed twenty-two.  It is him, the entitled demander, the attention-seeker, the saboteur.  He will complain of non-specific pain, generalised here there and everywhere and demand analgesia.  He will demand that you carry out some trivial task for him – he can’t (he is’ too ill’) – you say you can’t now as you are busy helping someone else –‘What about my needs?’ (he seethes) – you say you are sorry and you will return ASAP – he hurls verbal abuse at you.  You leave but before you have closed the door – he buzzes again.  You set the boundary – I will ignore your buzzer until I have finished helping patient X.  ‘Well, f**k you!’ he retorts and presses the buzzer again. 

The buzzer goes; it is bed twenty-two.  It is him, the entitled demander, the attention-seeker, the saboteur.   He complains of ‘crushing pain’ to his chest, you ask him to indicate where (although you know where he will put his hand).  You’re okay then you say- it’s in the wrong place for what you think it is.  ‘Where is the right place?’ he asks – but you never tell him, you would be stupid to tell him.  (You are so afraid one day he will touch the right spot and you will miss it unaware that he will not be crying wolf.)  He sits picking at the scar site of a recent op – don’t do that or it will become infected you say.  ‘It needs a dressing’ he says.  No, it doesn’t.  Three days later, he partially opens the scar with his fingernail.  ‘It needs a dressing’ he says.   It needs a dressing.

The buzzer goes; it is bed twenty-two.  It is him, the man whose wife left him for his brother.  It is him, the man whose working life was brought to an abrupt end by a horrific accident that left him for a forever victim of his injuries.  It is him, the man who lost his sense of identity, his place in the world, his future.  It is him, the man who drowned his sorrows in a bottle, whose bitterness spills over with regularity, alienating his family and friends.  Ex-friends.

He is alone but for his thoughts, he is alone and lonely, he pushes his self-destruct button and buzzes for attention.

Negative attention is better than no attention. 

Look beneath the surface.  Listen to him, really listen to him, he has something to say.

Poem entered at Poets United Poetry Pantry.  Thanks Poets United.  Also entered at dVerse OpenLinkNight. Thanks dVerse.

Image:  Portrait of a Man, 2004-2006 - Sadness, Author Gert Germeraad

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Aberfan

Heroes whose lives will never be the same again, an hour after

Underground, calamities’ punctuate,

sometimes the price of coal paid by a life of man. 

But here, here, this place, this Aberfan,

spoil tipped upon a mountain side,

spring-fed, rain-drenched, mass liquefied

slides with almighty roar, overwhelms  

demolishes all within its path;

they come, off shift, black-faced, lights on,   

heart-wrenched mind-numbed, they dig for children, 

innocent lives lost erased through negligence.

Those who should shoulder blame

show easiness of lies defy intelligence;

corrupt ineptitude, callous indifference,

shameless

plunder disaster fund to rid remaining tips.

Unuttered words cry out, locked behind the lips

of children guilty to have survived.

There is an aftermath of grief and guilt to last a lifetime here.

Anna

At approx 9.15, on the morning of 21^st October 1966, over 40,000 cubic metres of debris from a colliery spoil tip cascaded down the side of Mynydd Merthr onto the village of Aberfan, its immense force destroying all in its path and engulfing Pantglas Junior School and eighteen houses.

Great efforts were made by rescue teams but only a few lives were saved.  The death toll was that of 116 children and 28 adults

The National Coal Board were blamed for extreme negligence and the indifference to the plight of the residents and victims of the disaster by its chairman Lord Robens and his plundering of the Disaster Fund to pay for removal of the remaining tips led to his much damaged reputation.  However, he and the entire board of the NCB retained their positions.

Further reading: Aberfan disaster (Wikipedia)

                           The last day before half-term

                           Aberfan - The Disaster

                           The Aftermath

 Anna at dVerse asks us to write about catastrophe.  She writes:  

“In the midst of catastrophe we can become silent, shocked by events, withdrawing into our grief. Most of us empathize greatly with the suffering of others. As poets we may then wish to express our solidarity through words. To write what is unspeakable, unfathomable, and incomprehensible. As such the poetry of disaster is often fragmented. Catastrophe rarely leaves us with clear narrative and an understanding of causality. The suffering of thousands or millions can overwhelm our ability to find a voice with which to cry out.”

I found this task very difficult and chose to pay my homage to the victims and survivors of Aberfan.

Image:  Courtesy of HealeyHero – History of Mining - and used under the Creative Commons License

Frayed

Newburgh, flotsam on the beach

One ill-thought out action,

one unsteady step

sends you flying back, back, back 

into the bath

and taps

twist and snap and water fountains,

sprays you and dilutes my patience. 

Apathetic lost soul you are

I have to figure out how to get you out

as you flounder wide-pleading-eyed,

whimpering. 

Me, endurance fraying at the edges,

mind all messed up,

sick to death of all of it               and

at this very moment

I have had enough of this caring stuff

and want to drown myself in alcohol.

Anna :o]

This poem represents a true event of and the frustration of an early evening late January.  Even the most cheerful optimists have an occasional bad day and that day was one of them (for me) and oh how so much I didn’t need my handsome one to (unintentionally) dive back into the bath… writing the above proved cathartic.

And apart from the dregs of in a box of Christmas wine – there was no other alcohol in the house… C'est la vie.

(Did figure out how to rescue my handsome one (tap impressions in his back but mostly his pride injured) – wedging with quilts pillows etc. to raise him to the height of the (interior) bath, a thick sofa cushion (to raise the height of the floor) and with the kind help of a wonderful next-door neighbour yanked my main man out.)

In my workplace the subject of non-visiting relatives sometimes crops up and it is at these times I use my experience to aid my colleagues in understanding why this is.  The life of a carer of someone with dementia or profound enduring mental (or physical?) ill-health is a lonely one.  Friends and indeed close relatives gradually cease to visit…

You become increasingly isolated and in the case of dementia your soul mate/mother/father eventually becomes a stranger to you and more often than not – a stranger who is more dependant on your time (and more trying on your patience/sanity) as the days slowly pass.  You cease to love the one you loved – for they are no longer that person.

I also understand burnout as occasionally I come very near it myself – and I guess in view of this I can understand elder abuse too.  How often it may be that we are at our wits end, with no-one to turn to and although I am able to keep my frustration to muttered words – I can understand why some snap and hit out under the interminable pressure of caring.  (I understand it – but firmly believe I would never reach this point – but I could be wrong.)

And so it is for some of those with dementia who enter a care or nursing home – friends and indeed close relatives gradually cease to visit…

(I must add that I am still in love with my handsome one – but accepting one day I might not be and then will (probably) resent his very presence in my life…)

Poem entered at OpenLinkNight at dVerse  hosted by Joe Hesch – thanks Joe!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, author Martyn Gorman

Death of the NHS

Yesterday the Heath and Social Care Act came into force.

Today the NHS begins to die.
Tomorrow begins the dismantling of the NHS.

The dismantling will be subtle…

You will not notice until a procedure or service you need is denied…

To understand more, please read this article by Max Pemberton in The Telegraph…read it and weep.

Image: courtesy of flickr

Author: Byzantine_K

Blood Donor

She smiles as the lancet pricks his finger tip

(Soft thing he winces at the pain of it)  

Must check if you’re anaemic sir (she says)

(All the time wanting so to lick at it –

that rich red ruby of glistening blood-

but instead takes pastette and draws it up)

Your haemoglobin level is fine (she says)

(she takes his hand and leads him to the bed.

Inside (her mouth) tongue licks curls round her fangs.) 

Jump up, lie down (she says and strokes his head). 

(His heart bounces at the very touch of her,

he knows he loves her – he has all the time.)

She wraps the cuff round his arm, pumps it up
locates the median cubital vein,

needle in, gravity fed blood leaks out,

four hundred seventy mls   drip drip drip,

(she licks her lips at the very sight of it),

needle out, Rest now (she says with soothing calm.)

He rested now and tea and biscuits downed

 he ever shyly looks across at her.

(I will drink well tonight (she thinks but says))

Well done kind sir you are spectacular,

your hundredth donation today!  Well done! 

We’re indebted to you Count Dracula!

Anna :o] 

Mary’s challenge at dVerse is to think of and compose verse round a character of modern day mythology.  She writes:

“Reinvent that character! Find an unexpected situation in which to place your character; and perhaps tweak his/her personality a bit. When you put your character in a situation, determine what will happen next.  Go from there…….  Hopefully, steer your poem in some kind of thematic direction.”

Initially deciding I didn't have time to play – and I really don’t – I should be in bed now – I  just  couldn't  stop  the  thought  of  Count  Dracula  being  a  blood  donor…so  Mary  the  above  is  my  donation  to  your  excellent  prompt!  (Erm -  don't  know  why t his  is  so   tiny  upon  posting...)

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: 2112guy; cropped by Before My Ken

Nurses Don't Care

O Nightingale, ye come fresh-faced wide-eyed,  

qualified to offer care, tend the sick,

but find forms to be filled, boxes to tick,

wards short-staffed over-stretched thus care denied.

Hush now, do not speak out for woe betide

those who whistleblow stir staff politics,

bear bullying, a raft of dirty tricks,

face a culture of fear as standards slide.

Principles stopped, burnout a means to cope

distance your self from your own sad despair,

demoralised fall the slippery slope,

accept management fiscal doctrinaire;

no longer fight for there is naught of hope,

the only way to cope is no longer care.

Anna :o]

The above is (very) loosely based on Milton’s Sonnet 1: To A Nightingale and it came to mind (thanks to Sam at dVerse) as I was attempting to compose a post re safe (nurse) staffing ratios here in the UK.

For those of you who do not know of the grisly tale of Mid Staffs Hospital read some of the details here (The Final Report of Robert Francis’s Inquiry Into Care Provided…) and learn how

“The Inquiry found that a chronic shortage of staff, particularly nursing staff, was largely responsible for the substandard care. Morale at the Trust was low, and while many staff did their best in difficult circumstances, others showed a disturbing lack of compassion towards their patients. Staff who spoke out felt ignored and there is strong evidence that many were deterred from doing so through fear and bullying”    and

"It is now clear that some staff did express concern about the standard of care being provided to patients. The tragedy was that they were ignored and worse still others were discouraged from speaking out."

It is of great concern that those in management (at that time) have not had much blame laid at their door or indeed appears to have suffered any penalties, instead being promoted to other positions of ‘trust’ – read of it here at The Cockroach Catcher blog ( who muses “Did things just happen or was there a master plan?”)  

Does management no longer lead by example...or perhaps they were at Mid Staffs...?

However our dear health secretary Jeremy Hunt (or something that rhymes with Hunt?) has decided much of the blame lies at the door of nurses and training to care is imperative…  (Although I accept that some who have chosen nursing as a career are (by their very nature ) not very nice (and would have flourished at Mid Staffs) it is my contention that burnout was a major factor.)

Do you know that there are 17 other English hospitals with unsafe staffing levels – do you care?  Do you know that since May 2010 there are nearly 5000 more doctors and nearly 900 more midwives – but 7000 less nurses – do you care?

IF YOU DO CARE AND WANT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT – PLEASE SIGN THIS ePETITION CALLING FOR MINIMUM (SAFE) STAFF NURSE LEVELS.  PLEASE DO - OR ANOTHER MID STAFFS MIGHT HAPPEN AND MIGHT BE HAPPENING NOW…

With thanks to Sam at dVerse for the poetic inspiration.  Thanks again Sam!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Duyckinick, Evert A.

Unread

I have languished for too long a time

twixt mighty tomes and books of rhyme,

mixed with The Brothers Karamazov

met Madame Bovary, visited Vanity Fair,

saw What Katy Did and did so love Jane Eyre

(oh I dreamt of that woman,

Imagined her in robes of virgin white,

face lullabied in loose brown hair) –

she once so well read so now edgeworn

with crumpled spine and pages torn.

But I am made of stronger stuff and stand erect,

slip cased hard backed, so very fine.

Unread I have stood the test of time,

yet yearn for men to turn my page,

read the secrets hid between my lines,

savour boards unhinged from once sturdy spine

as those hungry for my words

find wonder 'neath my pristine cover

as they  hungrily turn leaf on leaf, beguiled.

those wonderful  wonderful bibliophiles. 

Anna :o]

Negative Capability

Anna’s task at dVerse is to write a poem imagining oneself as an object.  She writes:

"My name is Anna Elizabeth Graham and I’m your host today for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft. I am asking you to experience what Coleridge called, ‘a sort of transfusion and transmission of my consciousness to identify myself with the object’. Along these lines you may write a persona poem, an ode to an object, about the concept of negative capability or demonstrate it in other ways. Use another’s language, world view, turn of phrase, or style. And in the words of Mary Oliver, ‘I would rather see an ambitious though rough poem than a careful and tame poem’ so be brave and take some risks today."

Nothing came to mind when first reading the prompt, but when out in the great outdoors today (with no pen or notebook) I began to imagine myself as an unread book and above is a as much as remembered draft of my thoughts.

Not certain it is what Anna had in mind – but I hope so! 

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Maciej Szczepaniak

Waiting...

This hallowed place…

Our brief histories

etched upon our stones,                             

we lie                                                                      

(waiting)                                                              

beneath this earth

on which in life we trod. 

Crosses, rings,

our earthly things

remain, remind, rest

amongst our arid bones. 

We pray eternal

for past sins to be atoned

and await the comfort of our God.

Anna :o]

What do you think happens after death?  

Do you think we cease to exist or do you believe we have a soul; the spirit of who we are that lives on after our death?   Do you believe our soul; our incorporeal self ascends to Heaven after our life on Earth?  If so, which Heaven (so many to choose from – some permanent – some not)?  Which religion has got it right? 

What if there is no God, no Heaven and our souls (if you believe we have one) are stuck here on Earth forever?

Entered at dVerse Open Link Night, hosted by the lovely Grace.  Thanks Grace!

Image: courtesy of Gampe  at Wikimedia Commons.

It Was Here

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!)

Miserable

Photo by TheFoxAndTheRaven

Self-pitying

he wears his misery

like a too long overcoat. 

(He adores her.)

He is her plaything,

she is fickle, she doesn't care,

she will finish it tonight

and that’s for sure.

(He knows it.)

She plays her games. 

Sultry, she pouts,

twirls her finger through her hair;

whispers come to bed with me.

He does.

When it’s over she says it’s all over

and he cries.   

I don’t love you anymore she says,

wipes sad tears from his sorry eyes. 

She cleaves him to her breast

I don’t love you little puppy dog

she whispers callously.

Miserable

he puts on his overcoat and leaves.

Anna :o]

Thanks to Tess at The Mag for her excellent prompt.

The Artist

Blue-smocked, he

recreates loveliness,

recaptures youth,

signs signature with sutures.

It will not last,

old skin stretched taut

‘cross old bones

relapses,

sighs and sags. 

He will paint again.

Anna :o]

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…

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Attribution;  © Photographer - James C. Mutter / Surgeon - Vishal Kapoor, MD