Witness

As mean as any howling cur, that’s him

an’ I seen what he done to her,

that one we thought the sweetest thing

who refused his plea to be his wife,

an’ he as mad as hell, he slapped her hard

an’ screaming to the floor she fell. 

An’ he with keenest butchers eye

took hand his favoured sharpest knife

an’ plunged it deep in t'cavity

where we thought her beating heart would be.  

An’ to our horror ‘twas just a stone

laying cold an’ hard twixt flesh an’ bone

an’ she with the wildest eyes I’ve ever known

let out this god-awful ear piercing moan,

grabbed at his knife and stabbed at him,

stabbed at him ‘til she could stab no more,

then curled back her lips an’ ate him raw. 

Me master gone then she turned on me,

you’re next she screeched an’ tried to cut me up

an’ I bit her hard an’ she lost her grip

an’ I took a chance and fled as fast can be. 

An’ courage now almost drained from me

I hide quivering whimpering like some discarded pup,

hoping life be bled from me an’ I be long dead and gone

‘fore she finds my scent ‘fore she hounds me out 
'fore she curls back her lips and eats me up.

Anna :o]

This gruesome tale (which still requires a bit of tinkering) was inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag.  Also entered at The Poetry Pantry at Poets United, kindly hosted by Mary; thanks Tess and Mary!    

Chalked daffodils

That lad: you’ve never met

but you know he’s there,

a lad – not now perhaps,

or still perhaps

(hiding behind that greying hair) –

that lad with an obvious flair

of giving reason to the rhyme,

the rhythms’, the reasoning of life.

He thinks of things,

well thinks out things,

that man, that lad, that David King,

he gives off the air of innocence

as he writes (abstract)

of brutish bears and angel wings

in such a way that anything is possible.

He says his life began

when his good lady became his wife

and how good is that how good that man,

that man, that lad who  could who can

(still) inspire that fire within the heart of us

to write of things,

of brutish bears and angels wings

and that anything is possible.

He taught me so much by the wisdom,

innocence of his words and my sorrow

is that I did not let him know

or perhaps I did (I hope I did)

in comments in which I bestowed acknowledged 

the greatness beauty simplicity innocence

of his words in which he understood

the complexities of this world

in a way I never will or never could/can.

“CHILDART

Chalked daffodils on pavement stone
cut vapour trails where planes have flown.”

The genius in that, the beautiful simplicity,

the electricity it stirred in me,

Dave you will always be the teacher,

the lad, the man, who realised in me

the impossible is not impossible

for if you try you can.

Anna.

The above is a tribute to the great Dave King who sadly died this week.  He was and still is a great inspiration to me.  He had a wonderful innocence but still a great understanding of this world in which we exist and wrote of it in his wonderful unique way.  I will miss him greatly and wish I had taken the time to know him better.  Friendship is not a thing we should wait for others to initiate – but oft we do.  I first emailed Dave not that long ago – not long before he let us know of his illness.  I held my handout too late and that I regret.  I shall endeavor to do better from now on.  Miss you already Dave and keep writing wherever you might be.

Written in tribute with his fellow friends at dVerse.

Waiting

Image by crilleb50

He sits pondering,

well wondering really,

wondering whether

she’ll be late or early,

late probably, she always is.  

This time thing gets to him;

he hates the way

she keeps him waiting.

He ruminates:

is time but a mere linear continuum?

Not so (he thinks) for she

always late

has it flexible, stretched out, elastic.

The minute hand never sweeps

as he sits anticipating her arrival. 

Anticipating?  Nah! 

Not that plastic smile

or those heaving boobs

she thinks he finds fantastic. 

If the truth be known, she to him –

a mere residuum

of a whim at computer dating –

has had her time!

The ennui of his continuous waiting

has been (to him)

somewhat ego deflating

and his heart has sought another!

Oh yes, in his mind his secret lover,

his flesh so ripe just for her taking;

the heaving boobs are worth forsaking

for the clever beauty in accounting.

Perchance to dream! 

For him the problems mounting

for how does one so weak in nature

(a failure would be his nomenclature

in this thing, this thing called love,

well no, character strength,

of which he is sadly lacking)

say Sorry kiddo, it’s all over?

He hesitates, should he end it today?  

His resolve dissolving by the minute 
and much to his sorrow

he procrastinates,

he will wait, kiss her, pretend to love (?) her

and ending it? 

Well he will make another date 
and ending it will perhaps be

tomorrow…

Anna :o}

Inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag and (some of) the words provided at The Sunday Whirl.  Thanks Tess and Brenda.

Some of the words: (Per)chance,  hand, sweeps=swept, flesh, ripe, secret and clever.

Unbidden

photo by Mark Haley

Death will come unbidden,

it will not come today

it will come tomorrow.  

He will be tomorrow’s ghost.  

He half expects it,

his mind played out its scene a hundred times before.   

He cannot envision pain

rather seeing blood spill

from imagined gaping wounds. 

His wish is if and when it comes

it will be quick. 

It is.

This theatre, this theatre of war,

he plays but a minor role;

he is expendable, no glory in his death,

no rapturous applause 
at his final curtain call.

There will be no homecoming,

no coffin draped in national flag. 

His remains are no remains at all,

mere fragments scattered on a foreign land,

fragments that putrefy and leach into the soil.

He is here, on this hillside,

his life extinguished where this tree now stands,

he is part of it,

it absorbed his memory

tapped it through its searching roots,

its twigs and branches now his arms and hands.

He is unaware

as his leaves turn blood-red and fall;

it is the cycle of things,

lines quite never understood,

lines never learnt in war. 

He has become the Earth. 

It is the nature of things.

Anna :o]

Inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag and (some of) the words provided by Brenda at The Sunday Whirl.  Thanks Tess and Brenda.

George: Schizophrenia, Cognitive Decline & Antipsychotics

11.11.08	George admitted on a Section 117.  George is sixty-three with a long history of schizophrenia having being diagnosed in 1969 (24yr old).  Revolving door patient although mainly inpatient.  Usual stuff (in some cases) believing he was well (if discharged) and stopped meds resulting in re-admittance.  Intractable auditory hallucinations which seem to govern his thought process.  Well educated and apparently his life fell apart after university and his first employment being his last.  Physically well (statins and senna).   No known NOK.   Stayed in his room, appears distracted, unresponsive to communication.
12.11.08.	George has remained in his room again this AM.  Does not initiate conversation but appears to welcome it, smiling and holding out his hand for you to take it.  He is a very pleasant man with a seemingly gentle disposition.  Distracted this PM, quite haunted appearance.  Will not communicate or make eye contact. OK by teatime.
18.11.08	George appears well settled.  Stays in his room most of the time but will venture into the lounge occasionally. Other residents appear to have accepted him into the fold and include him in conversation to which he enters – although still does not initiate same.   Often distracted by auditory hallucinations to which he does respond, often angrily.  Other residents seem to tolerate this, some amused by it, others ignore it and the rest by nature of experience, understand it.
09.12.08	George very well settled.   He has been designated his own chair by his circle of friends!  Goes out each morning for his newspaper accompanied by staff.  Remains fully compliant with meds.   Does not initiate conversation but readily responds.  Auditory hallucinations continue.
18.03.09	Section 117 terminated – George now free to leave the building without supervision.
21.01.11	George returned to the home (by the police) for the third time in succession after apparently getting lost.  No evidence of cognitive decline when in the home – but perhaps too subtle?  Monitor.  George now to be accompanied by staff whenever he leaves the home.
26.08.11	Cognitive decline continues.  Defecates and urinates inappropriately.  Manually evacuates bowel smearing contents in room.  Very hostile during interventions, always verbally, often physically.   After re-referral to psychiatry, depot discontinued and ‘given’ as oral meds.  Donepezil initiated.
23.02.12	Further decline evident.  Needs assistance in all aspects of daily living.  No longer able to feed himself.  No longer mobilises.   No longer speaks bar that of responding to his voices, but this being of a bark.  His psychiatrist continues to decrease and reduce (the amount of) his antipsychotics.  We don’t understand why!  Donepezil stopped.
17.10.12	Apart from a rare moment when he smiles that smile and offers his hand for the taking, George appears to exist in a permanent state of torment (hell!), he appears distracted to the point of being haunted most of the time, haunted by his voices that he no longer understands.  Every intervention becomes a battle – how horrific his life must be for him.  We have requested his GP refer him (urgently) to psychiatry; he is on the lowest dose of one med only; how can this be right?
14.11.12	Accompanied George to see his new psychiatrist  - always seem to be temporarily filling a post before they move on elsewhere  - who despite explanations refused point blank to visit him in the home.  I suppose one benefit of him not doing so allowed him to see George at his most agitated.  But benefit it wasn’t.  He (the psychiatrist) was adamant that George’s problems/behaviours’ lay with his ‘dementia’.  He has ordered that George’s remaining antipsychotic be reduced across the next fortnight then stopped.  I am horrified and dare question his judgement.  His response: We both know of the dangers associated with antipsychotics and dementia, don’t we?  WHAT ABOUT HIS SCHIZOPHRENIA?
14.11.12 -present	George’s existence must be pure hell.  Psychiatry will not have a re-think – so this is George’s lot until the day he dies.  The rare smile continues, lost as it is amidst his continuous torment as he barks in response to his voices and lashes out at all those who go near him. He has ‘dementia’ but his voices haven’t. Perhaps his psychiatrist is following the ‘wisdom’ here, but perhaps he should visit here where it is concluded that most elderly patients remain symptomatic and impaired. Perhaps I don’t know what the hell I am talking about as I am not a psychiatrist – but what I do know, what is so horribly evident to me, is that George is tormented by his voices and psychiatric services will do naught to alleviate his obvious distress.   How can this be right?

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gert Germeraad

Starfish Enterprise: Assimilation

Nylon admiral really quite admirable   

sails briny galaxies surfs bluest sea. 

Nylon admiral really quite admirable,   

ex-electronic castaway, now PC. 

Sails on his gigabytes’ into the starry night   

seemingly nonchalant but always on guard,   

to save him from his personal hell relies on his   

personnel, step forward please  Jean-Luc Pil-Chard 

Jean-Luc Pil-Chard the master of his bridge and crew,   

earthy and unearthly the stuff of female  dreams.   

Jean-Luc Pil-Chard the master of his bridge and crew,   

seemingly nonchalant but naught is what it seems.  

Starfish Enterprise sails briny blue galaxies

pursued by Borg Cube how Kafkaesque. 

Starfish Enterprise pursued by Borg Cube,

Pil –Chard assimilated how grotesque

Cyborg sea-dog relishes his tasty dish: 

Starfish Enterprise served in sea salt pie.  

Cyborg sea-dog relishes his tasty dish:   

Pil-Chard assimilated, me oh my!

Anna :o]

Inspired by Izzy at Real Toads who has us using lines from Future Sailors and for Thom at Three Word Wednesday who has us using Earthy Grotesque and Nonchalant -Thanks Izzy and Thom!   

Neath Golden Harvest Moon

Here comes the fall of autumn leaves,   

here comes the harvest moon,               

and full shall be my heart that grieves,   

my love thou didst impugn.                     

How can it be thou misconceives           

a love in torment hewn,                          

how can it be that thou believes

of love I am immune           

Thou sayeth thee can love me not

thou shalt not love affine,

take mine and not my brothers heart,

let’s drink of passions wine

Harvest my heart for thee it grieves

cast on the earth it strewn               

Harvest my heart for it is thine     

‘neath golden harvest moon.

Anna :o]  

Tony at dVerse has us writing ballads (thanks Tony) – being half asleep not quite sure this is one?   Nevertheless it is a case of publish and be damned (if it isn’t).  (Found it difficult to think of a title as both Ted Hughes and Carl  Sandburg had pinched my idea(s)…)

Now off to make myself a strong cup of coffee, wake myself up, visit dVerse and read others excellent poems.

Also entered today (20.09.13) at Real Toads whose theme is Harvest Moon!  Thanks Marian!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

If wishes were horses...

Woman on her Deathbed

I am not that old she says

as she grabs my hand,

well maybe,   maybe seasoned

with a little salt and pepper.

She smiles 

and I shy away;

do not want to share her death;

her inability to love

remains uppermost

plays depressing dirges in my mind.

I am distracted, lost in self,

cold indifferent to her needs.    

Pain, physical or otherwise

is all encompassing,  draining,

drains      emotional response

and I leave her there,  

alone.

I hear her whimpering,

wanting, needing;

her incessant pleading for my return

does naught but to quicken anger

and fetal-like

I curl into a tiny ball, try to shut her out

Clock ticks marks out time

and hours pass in eternal gloom. 

I am with her now

and she whispers

Child, if only I could change the past,

I would have loved you more.  I wish

that you could love me too.  But I do I do I do

but let not beggars ride…

She has gone now, died,

gone to where’er it is

the callous go,

yet she is here still

deep inside this memory,

a memory of  what could have been

in time so long ago

a childhood passed away

Anna :o]

Shanyn at dVerse has us writing of phrases heard somewhere or other that remain in your memory and emerge when you least expect them.

Eons ago, when I was a young thing, I went nightclubbing with a work friend and her mother; I can’t remember why her mother went, maybe to chaperone?  My work friend was called Lesley and I can still picture her face, but can’t recall her surname but can recall when I wished for something – can’t remember what that was either – her response was that of: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

I had never heard this before and couldn’t understand her response, for it appeared callous and unnecessary – but this response has stuck with me to this very day and I hear myself saying it (in my head) should anyone wish for something.  And it was only today I sought its true meaning given as better results will be achieved by action than wishing, but of course this is often not so.

The poem bears witness to an experience of some years ago while I was attendant during the dying process of one of our residents, she a product of a dysfunctional family who continued the cycle producing one of her own.  Some mothers who have felt unloved by their own mother smother their children with ‘love’ to compensate, but it is a destructive love, a love of mixed messages, a love that creates hatred. 

Her (adult) children could not bear to be alone with her, hence my presence there.  I can remember our resident pleading (of her daughter) for proof of love, wishing to hear it in words… and the proverb spoke itself in my mind.  I felt bad about this then and still do.

(The words of the poem are that of the daughter.)

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Van Gogh

Who Art Thou?

Who art thou fuzzy buzzy bumbling busy friend replete in striped pyjamas,

we should humble in thy presence be,  thy busyness should charm us.

How odd it then the gentle hum of flapping wings does naught but to alarm us,

how odd it then we fear defensive sting as if thee intent to harm us

Oh let it be that ignorance fear be gone, let thy buzzyness disarm us

for thee it is to us abundance brings, for thou art natures little farmers.

Anna :o]

Samuel at dVerse has us writing in riddles.  Thanks Sam!  And if you haven’t guessed, I am writing of frogs.  No I’m not really, the beautiful image was to confuse.

The theme of the topic was inspired by the lovely Charlotte on her Facebook message in which she requested a petition be signed, a petition urging Bayer and Syngenta to drop their lawsuits against the European Commission.  Read of it here – PLEASE DO DO READ – sign the petition and save our bees from the greed of Big Pesticide.

(A third of the crops we need require pollination by our insect friends – not just bees.  We need them and not all insects are pests, some/many we rely on for our survival – and not just pollinators.  Tis our children (probably not us – depends how old you are) that shall suffer the effects of future bad harvests and loss of insect life.  Please sign the petition.  Cheers!)

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Tuxyso

The Greatest Tragedy is Indifference

I am not at liberty to speak my truth,

it tempered by myth of equality;

I can hold no opinions of my own

should I offend those who would silence me.

I shall be watched, monitored, thought controlled;

moulded, become some mindless automaton

who blind yields to the bid of those that rule,

blind to the loss of self and freedom gone.

I but a small cog in a larger wheel,

a cog of insignificance and worthless say,

yet still while strength remains will mourn the death

of  Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.

Come let us arm ourselves with righteous voice,

let us fight for return of common good,

let us regain our thoughts and freedoms lost, 

let us embrace again in brotherhood.

Let us fight for our humanity,

for shall we not our spirits surely slain,

we will lose the sense of who and what we are,

we will become a number and not a name.

Anna :o]

I like the French.  Many Brits don’t as they see the French as moaning, but do not understand that the French will readily admit to being "râleurs,” that is unafraid to speak their mind or show their feelings.  To "râler" is not to be confused with rudeness, it is getting things out in the open, sorting out a problem and moving on.  And long may it continue.

I guess with my French heritage – oh so long ago, the time of the Huguenots – I have a propensity to ‘tell it like it is.”  But my ‘telling it like it is’ is never confrontational, always wrapped in soft fluffy blankets with the comfort of moving on sure to follow.

Well apart from my personal life, the bit I have an element of control over, this is not strictly true - for as do my fellow countrymen/women I yield to the dumbing down and regimentation - by the forever increasing rules and regulations - of my life and watch helpless as my personal freedoms are whittled away under the lie of equality and ‘human rights.’  And it is true that most of us, worldwide, are indifferent to both the states (ours - not the US) overt and covert policing of us as we ‘have nothing to hide’…

The health professions’ are fraught with loss of autonomy as medicine and nursing becomes an exercise in ticking boxes, no matter that patients do not necessarily fit the boxes.  (In mental health some patients/clients/service-users do not meet the criteria of the ‘speciality’ of (any of) a particular psychiatrists remit and God help them if they need the input of a psychiatrist – it takes months for one prepared to take them on to be found.)

In the good old days, governance of said professions’ was done under the elected leadership of doctors and nurses (how strange!) but is now that of government quangos, mostly ignorant of the professions’ they supposedly serve.  (But they do not serve, they police in the most oppressive way and bow down to whatever government is in power.)  Added to this are countless regulatory bodies whose aim is to police and find fault – if praise is due, it is never given.

I can only speak with authority on the effect of all this tick boxing, regulation on nursing and although I still love my job, I am afraid in it.  There is a constant need (and knock on effect) to cover my back lest I fall foul of some obscure and ill-thought out regulation, I am constantly treading on eggshells and it is taking its toll and although I really do love my job – I would leave tomorrow if finances permitted.

I am not alone here and would ask you to view this article in The Guardian highlighting a recent survey in which (almost) two-thirds of nurses have considered leaving in the last twelve months as they are so stressed.  It is probable that another Mid-Staffs is happening now as burnout takes its toll and those on the bottom rung of the ladder will be again scapegoated. (Please read of burnout – see how it changes you.)

Doctors too are buckling under the pressure an ever increasing workload and excessive policing of their every action and a recent Pulse survey shows that 43% (of GPs that responded) are classified at very high risk of developing burnout.

I do not doubt within this midst are nurses and doctors who are bad, but also in this midst are doctors and nurses who have been suspended due to vexacious and/or malicious complaints (the compensation culture has a lot to answer for here).  I would therefore ask you to read this excellent Dr No post at Bad Medicine in which he highlights the deaths of 92 doctors who were under ‘Fitness to Practice’ investigation.  I would also ask you to consider signing Dr Helen Bright’s  e-petition here.  Cheers!

The greatest tragedy is indifference…

How did I get here?  Brian at dVerse has us writing of slogans – slogans that catch our attention and remain memorable.  And these thoughts just spilled out…  Thanks Brian.

Alive!

photo by Elena Kalis

Let not this ocean consume me,

rather,

let me know of its tides, fathom its depths,

let me ride out its storms, sail on its seas,

let the stars and moon guide me safely to shore,

let me wiggle my toes in the sand.

Let me feel the wind in my hair, the rain on my face,

let the sun beat in my heart filling my soul.  

Let me love life.

Anna :o]

M (thanks M) at Mindlovemisery asks if we are an optimist, pessimist or realist.  I consider myself to be a realist, but realism is often burdensome, dampening the spirit and destroying hope, so I self-medicate with a constant dose of optimism and for the most part remain happy, happy, happy!  (I do so love life!)

Tess at The Mag provided the image and the inspiration for the setting of my words.  Thanks Tess

Poets United kindly opened its pantry.  Thanks PU.