Enough

How could I have ever loved this man,

this man this pathetic apathetic soul

who lies prostrate pissing on just-shampooed floor,

whimpering like some pathetic scolded puppy? 

(No-muscle-strength-means-

he-needs-me-to-get-him-up (long figured out –

then exhilarated at my inventiveness)) 

He has fell so many bloody times before –

but this time, this time I have had enough of it

and no longer stalwart heaving sobs

rack mind and body.   I have had enough.

I have had enough of it, enough of him. 

How could I have ever loved this man –

once dapper now a drooling food-slopping mess –

top and trousers both a ready bib,

trousers a ready sponge for now venting bladder

(and he lies whimpering, whimpering like a scolded puppy). 

This night I have had enough of him. 

I have had more than enough of everything.

How could I have ever loved this man?

He tall dark handsome then,

those zillion million years ago –

now a mere grey disappearing shadow

forever needing, forever tugging at resilience,

rubbing-it-out with every crushing crisis. 

How could I have ever loved this man?

How could I, but I did I did

I do.

Anna :o] 

Karin at dVerse has us writing of repetition

YesterDAY was a bad day – whatever could go wrong did.  YesterNIGHT was even worse.

I wrote the above late last night, early this morning to vent my feelings.  It proved cathartic – and with a bit of tidying-up fit the prompt.

(I am better as in calmer now!)

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Contentment

I had a drum once, I was like that - I kept mementoes of who I was.   I kept it in a bag of brittle bones and rubber bands.  It had its own rhythm, its own beat and I would dance to it, jerk about like some mindless marionette.

Long time ago I exchanged it for a stone which I tossed into the sea; tides ebbed and flowed and cast it to the shore, a mere pebble on some sequestered beach.  I am smooth round and polished, yet but for a rare day - a day when sun breaks through the clouds, I am cold as ice.  I am content with that.

Anna :o]

Written for Form for all at dVerse where Sam has us write prose poetry.  Thanks Sam.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Remi Mathis

Brendan

She sees him there

lying in his own shit

and piss and vomit

and rage ignites

explodes within her chest. 

I hate you she screams,

I hate it when you’re like this…

(She is like the rest,

those that preach and pester

drive him to distraction.

She does not – or chooses not –

to listen understand

that with every morning waking,

his mind screaming, body aching

he is yearning dying

for that first liquid mouthful…

(She is a tangle in his hair –

he should tease her out

and toss her on the pile

of   f*cking interfering arseholes.))

She carries on

with her relentless screeching moaning

and he mumbling groaning

wraps head in hands

to SHUT HER OUT,

then pleads with her to go buy him a bottle. 

And all she wants to do is squeeze throttle

the last whisky smelling breath life outa him

and she explodes again with steaming anger

and tears streaming down her face

she pummels him with empty fists.

He is fighting for his life now,

thumps her and rises from his bed,

his legs unsteady he collapses to the floor

and he lies there, twitching. 

She recognises, knows those orgasmic groans

and forty minutes in, watching with a selfish glee

rather than inserting *Diazepam PR

she steps over him instead.

She closes the door,

realises she doesn’t care

anymore in any effing way. 

She wants him dead,

wants an end to it,

she pours herself a coffee

lights up a cigarette

and listens to the news.

Anna :o]

Brian at dVerse has us telling stories – and this is a story that I guess I have wanted to tell for some time.  It is a story of Brendan – who could quite easily be a Brenda – who is a resident in my workplace.

Brendan is a (very) intelligent long term and readily admitted alcoholic who has insight into how his alcoholism has detrimentally affected his life.  He is the first alcoholic who has given me insight of the horrors of waking, knowing that there is no alcohol in the house, of how knowledge of this lacerates your body with the most unimaginable exquisite pain.  He tells of scrambling to find money to buy the first bottle of the day, hiding in some quiet space to take the first sup and the relief that this brings.  He also relates the horror of being penniless – knowing there is no end to his craving…

Sadly, what Brendan has no insight into, is the effect of alcoholism on the brain.  His recall is less than thirty seconds and he tells me this story over and over again, night after night.  What a sad waste of a very intelligent life.

*Diazepam PR (per rectum) is a drug given when a patient is in status epilepticus.  A sudden cessation – after an episode of heavy drinking - can cause seizures and several of our residents are admitted in the knowledge that we must continue to feed their drinking habits.  And this we do until some cease to drink of their own accord and ?oddly enough they do not have seizures?  Some who continue to drink do have seizures…?

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Winter

Cirrus veiled,

she wears her halo

as La Luna,

neath her,

neath her hazy filtered light,

stark silhouette      stands

his limbs outreaching,

he blacker than this frigid night.

Silhouette bears

the bitter brunt of winter,   

wears its coat

on bark and boughs and branches,

white wrought and crystalline.

Neath him,

his roots give him iron anchor,

anchor him to terra firma,

and here he shall stand,

stand the cold  of winter

until spring begs he bud again.

Anna o]

Björn at dVerse has us writing of trees – love those luscious things!

I feel a bit guilty entering here as I haven’t read all others responses to Thursdays prompt – as yet..  Mega – but mega- problems with PC continue – the constant need to reboot same and router and that the keyboard appears to have developed a very strong-willed life of its own are driving me nuts!

A click to dVerse from blog list took over two minutes to load - same problem when clicking onto links – hence visiting others is taking time and typing comments does too.  So apologies are due!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Ævar Arnfjörð Bjarmason   

Erm, just previewed and  I don't know where the white background hails from...

Gloom

I have borne this burden with a martyr’s crown,

worn its thorns with a fractured smile

and for a while I tarried there,

but now with patience paled and tether torn

I find that I no longer care.

I must differentiate twixt love and hate

and tis true that I could not love you more,

yet anger dominates  almost every passing thought,

lays heavy on this  tired bleeding heart

and now I find I wish you dead.

Selfless I was but now selfish (if but to survive),

yet selfishness perpetuates this growing hate,

a hatred of what my life has become

and the tears I cry are for me – not you,

and all I want is for you to die.

Forgive me my love for these selfish thoughts

and you do know that I could not love you more,

but I can’t ignore these feelings that proliferate,

recur with every passing hour,

or deny that for me to live you must surely die.

I am so sorry my handsome one.

Anna :o[

Victoria’s prompt at dVerse is that of writing a poem rich in verbs and above is my offering.

Tis true that of late, I have become entrenched in self-pity due to a series of events.   My handsome one’s condition is accelerating in pace and the future is a frightening concept – something I will have to deal with – but don’t want to.    Also PC problems have occurred – and are still occurring to a lesser degree   - as in intermittent or no connection.  I am heavily reliant on my PC for ‘companionship’ in my home life – it is a friend that talks back – and when there is no connection I am lost.  What is there to come home to?

I think I have overcome this phase, but nevertheless, even though the anger has subsided, my ‘effort’ would say that it has not completely?

Kind regards from the morbid one!

PS: I have no intention of killing my handsome one!

Image: courtesy of WikimediaCommons

Author: Mikhail Ivanovich Sapozhnikov (1871–1937) 

Whatever

I

ask

him: Do

you like me?

He says: Like? Y’know, whatever.

And my cool dude speaks into his cell

And I take his callous hand; place it on my ever growing belly.

He shrinks back, says: Hey! What the hell

I have never ever said

I loved you,

have I?

Well,

whatever,

I

mumble

in defence

and turn away

tears drooling down my face.

Well, I guess I will be going then

I say and he cuts me dead (two-fingered Well F*ck You Whore)  

and laughs into his cell: Won’t see her

no more, the stupid cow.

Stupid I am. 

I know

that

now.

Do I care…well, whatever.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us looking back to prompts of 2013 and regaining inspiration there.  I chose to return to his Mathematical Series and a Fib.  (The last line shouldn’t be there – but do I care…well, whatever :o])  Also, the title and theme of the poem was inspired by the prompt ‘Whatever’ by those fine folk at Trifecta – long time since I visited there – so hello again (and thank you) Trifecta!  

Many of my young female colleagues are single mums - who were so overjoyed when becoming pregnant and initially their 'partners' professed to be too - and then they legged it.  When I ask these naive young folk - who truly believe they are liberated - if they are hurt, they invariably answer: Whatever...

Mega PC probs over the hols left me isolated from the wonderful world of t’net – so, so glad to be back.  Hope you all had grand hols and that this New Year will be grander!

Anna :o]

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  istolethetv from Hong Kong, China

Alex

He is wise, wise and wizened;

hair thinning, salt and pepper seasoned;

brow lined and furrowed, quizzical? 

Brows: bushy, grey and wiry;

eyes blue and vision fading;

nose: large and Roman

(now too long and thin (he thinks) -

My, I can almost see where bone blanches skin). 

Cheeks: skin thick and craggy;

mouth small, pursed and wrinkled;

chin cleft, stubble sprinkled.

Ah, and below the chin –

the bugger that will be the death of him. 

Untreated – he too old (he thinks)

for wrath of radiation beam

or cruel brunt of surgeons knife.

So this is he, this is who he is

above the faltering heart in heaving chest –

his face an echo - a diary of a life well-lived. 

His mouth clenching pipe, pipe-puffing,

puffing pipe (vanilla flavour and aroma)

he reminisces on the joys of yesteryears. 

He is alone – yet not lonely,

his memories’ - companions of his past and present. 

(He sips Jack Daniels – no, swigs it back,

his body welcoming each soothing warming mouthful.)

He thinks: if death comes tonight I hope it comes easy –

no crushing pain of heart arrest…  

But should he be blessed to live another day,

to see tomorrow – he will live it for the love of it. 

But should he not he knows    (yes he knows)

that those that gather grimly at his graveside

to pay homage to his passing spirit,

will sigh,    smile and softly say: 

Ah Alex,

he lived life for the love of it.

Anna :o]

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Artist: Alexander Beridze. (1858-1917)

Source/Photographer: burusi.wordpress.com

I do realise that the image bares no resemblance to the description of Alex – but those I found depicting his physical appearance bore no resemblance to the essence of his good self.  This smiling man – with the sun shining out of him – is Alex!

(That ‘Alex’ and the artist share the same first name is purely coincidental)

Shared with the good folk at Poets United – thanks Mary and the good folks at Real Toads – thanks Marian!

Christmas Past

Madonna With the Milk Soup, 1510, Gerard David 

He remembers her;

she all proud and plump and pinafore(d),

she mythering and a-muttering

as porridge splattering and a-spluttering

simmers (like her temper) on the stove.

He watches from the door,

mouth drooling and tongue a-lolling

for the toast she is a-buttering,

nothing else mattering

but the grumble in his belly.

The kids are on the floor

pulling paper off their prezzies,

sucking satsumas found in stockings,

delirious with delight as *Magoo

(in black and white)

finds his way onto the telly.

This was the time! 

The beginning of The Day! 

He remembers her, he remembers then.  

And then she went away.

She ran off with anyone who’d take her,

tinker tailor butcher baker

and finally met her maker in the year of ’84. 

The kids are big shots in the city,

(who conveniently forgot him)

who selfish and rich rotten
never set a foot across his door.

So this day he sits alone

but by crikey he still misses her

and in these Christmas dreams he kisses her,

she all proud and plump and pinafore(d)

(in his dreams his toast she’s a-buttering)

and he hears himself a-muttering;

she’s the one that I adored.

Awww!

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration – the Milk Soup (porridge) bit – not necessarily the image; also shared with the good folks at Poets United - thanks Mary.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all; have both – or else!

When I was a lass an essential part of Christmas was Mr Magoo - watch below and treat yourself!

Christmas Eve

My sis and I had attic rooms

and cold they were on winter’s night

and I was certain in that whispered gloom

hid bogeymen intent to do me harm

once I had lain my head

on cold feather-down yet hot water-bottled bed.

So the ritual:

heart in throat I looked in wardrobe first,

gingerly opening door then scanned the floor

neath wooden cot with metal springs

and then the most awful thing:

pull the curtains back check window ledge

that large enough could seat a man

and phew   phew
no-one there.

And so it was on Christmas Eve

envelope(d) betwixt the sheets

I lay in fitful sleep

dreaming the dream of Christmas Fare –

turkey (yum yum) and all the trimmings

plus the most important mushy peas –

and stockings brimming

with gold-wrapped chocolate coins

and satsumas tangerines –

and of course beneath the tree

wrapped treasures of Judy doll,

magic set, books,     sweets and smellies.

And so it was on Christmas morn

to celebrate the Christ Chikl born

we children came sleepily down the stairs

yet in excitement of the presents waiting there

beneath the tree, in room 
with blazing fire warming

even coldest nook and nose
pressed into Bunty book

how glad was I to be alive.

And I didn’t want to go to church…

Anna :o]

Gay at dVerse has us writing of ‘Hearth, Home and Common Speech.’  I attempted to write of my life now – but whatever I wrote, because of present circumstances appeared full of gloom – and my life is not like that.

So I decided to return to my childhood.

My parents hailed from Yorkshire and though having its accent were not broad Yorkshire, although did use some of its dialect.  Flower and luv are Yorkshire terms of endearment and I can remember having moved to colder climes, my dad calling the milkman luv…(dint go down very well.).  I too had a slight Yorkshire vernacular – dint=didn’t and cunt=couldn’t - the latter caused much amusement and sometimes offence…

I loved my parents so much and hope they have found their place in Heaven – if it exists.  Despite being brought up in a (non-oppressive) religious household – I hold no beliefs – never have, too much time in children’s wards as a child…  But I do love Christmas and the closeness it brings.

The rhyming thing is not false.  Although my mother never wrote poetry – most of the time (except for but sometimes including serious conversation) we would speak in rhyme – often with hilarious results.  Lovely lovely mother.

And so I offer the above as my contribution to the dVerse prompt and when doing so offer my heartfelt thanks to all at dVerse for making my life so much richer.  Merry Christmas to my friends there and look forward to joining in the fun in the coming New Year.

Kind regards

Anna :o] xxx

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons– I couldn’t locate a Christmas(y) one

The Forester

Cherry Blossom (1905) John Reinhard Weguelin

She:

a product of a poisoning

is unblemished fruit

         ripe for the picking.

He is hiding there,

hiding neath the woodpile

yet affords her a view of single eye;

he watches   waiting

waiting as she fills her basket,

fills it with the want of him,

he a fuel for her fire.

Oh how she longs for warmth,

she his unfeathered maiden,

maidens who too young to burn,

bleed and sizzle, spit in protest,

until engulfed,   they are consumed

in his awkward awful flame.

She waits   wide-eyed  

understands not what she sees.

A crisp December morning,

she clears the grate,

clears it for a new day

and he rises from the ashes.

He takes her there,

takes her in the cold of winter,

takes her there on winter’s table,

presses down and takes her there.

She bleeds but does not sizzle

spit in protest, rather succumbs

to warm breath warm hands,

takes comfort

from the closeness   rhythm of his body. 

(There is rhythm in belonging.)

She is fallen, fallen high from grace,

she falls as cherry blossom,

a pink confetti , a scattering

in a cemetery of childhood.

She is fallen yet somehow whole.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at Poets United – thank you Mary,  and also at Open Link Night at dVerse hosted tonight by Joe - thanks to you too Joe.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Small Print

Look at the small print,

look at it just look at it. 

No need to read

between the lines,

it is there in black and white.

Addendum to diary entry:

I love him I love him I love him!

I am so tiny tiny tiny

Why can’t I think big?

Why can’t I say:

I love you I love you I love you.

I am so tiny tiny tiny.

Oh if only I could sprout

the wings of a bird

I would fly to him,

fly to him

and gather him in my skirts.

Say: See here,

look at the small print: 

I love him I love him I love him!

Instead:  I am tiny tiny tiny.

I have the wings of a moth

forever searching for the moon…

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for her prompt (the image above is not that of the prompt.).  Also thanks are due to the commentator of a news item who stated: Look at the small print – and the above sprouted from the two.

Also entered at The Poetry Pantry – thanks Mary.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Photographer: Pierre Dalous