Wind Turbine (and the Effort of Being)

I stand here, inshore, tis true

not cursed by lash of cruel sea,

yet still no peace of mind have I,

ennui the only cruel certainty as

arms spin in a desperate semaphore,

as I plead implore (in infrasound)

mankind to please acknowledge me,

for I exist, I am, I am, I am!

I am sentient! 

I am sentient and bored witless!

Can someone not read me a book or something?

Anna :o]

Lillian at dVerse has us writing of anthropomorphism and above is my offering.  It is true that I often think or wonder what it is like to be another living form, whether flora or fauna.  It is also true that I think the same about inanimate objects.  I do wonder about the wind turbines forever, or almost forever, spinning their arms in the harbour of my town, one so large or maybe so near, it rises above every building in the town centre.  I really think it must get bored silly doing the same thing day in day out day in day out…

Also shared with the good folks at Toads Tuesday Platform

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Photo: Molgreen, Animation:Amada44

Chimney Pots

Twixt chimney pots moon glows amidst

a misty haze, and neath through thick

of silhouette of swaying trees

a window flickers candle lit.    

*And she inside has cried enough (she thinks)

and snuffs out candle at the wick

and flings herself upon the bed,

and in that troubled mind of hers

with demon of the night confers

her wish of *errant husband dead.

And in the morn she sets her plan

pulls neath the sheets a *book of spells  

and mixes notions with intent;

creates a gateway straight to hell.

And not for him an eye of newt

nor toe of frog nor tongue of dog,

but salami slice and sausage links,

bacon, eggs and deep fried chips

with loads of salt and full fat dips,

all washed down with sugary drinks.

*And as his girth begins to spread 

as diet takes its morbid toll,

she feeds him more and more and more

and boosts his smokes and alcohol.

But best laid plans do not bear fruit

despite disease, his blackened lungs. 

For determined he she be his nurse

and tend his needs eternally,

he grinds her down til on her knees

and *she the first to ride the hearse. 

Anna :o] 

*For those who know me (and now suspect me) I wish to make clear that these words are not, I repeat, are not, an analogy of my recent court case in which I was the accused, although I accept that comparisons can be made.

*He wouldn’t dare be errant.  He knew, sorry knows, I would kill him!

*As stated by the prosecution, yes I had borrowed an inordinate amount of cookery books over a short period of time from the library.  They were cookery books of bygone years when we ate rich fatty stuff because we enjoyed it, and oddly enough were not fat.  Hubs and I enjoy our food, therefore no crime! 

*The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach – we all know that!   I just love him so much!   

*Proof positive – if it were needed – of my words being mere coincidence, as I am not dead!  I am disgusted at the actions of my vicious neighbours, who with their dirty lies to the local constabulary, brought about the ?need for the court case, a case thrown out through lack of evidence.  Hubs is not dead, he is just lost, so lost I can’t remember where I buried him…(oops!)

Frank at dVerse has us writing of irony.  This afternoon I was searching for clues of what might be served up tonight and found same at Lillian's.  It was then I remembered a poem I had written last year, or maybe even the year before (these were years when real life held me prisoner and I did not blog very much) and said poem seemed to fit the bill.  And above it is.

Kerry at Toads asks us to add annotations to a poem and that I have done.  With humour!  This gave a ‘nowness’ to the long ago written poem.

So cheers Frank and Kerry for your inspiration!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Edwardwexler

Yum!!!

We would all pile into dads recent acquisition, his first ever motorised wheels, a light blue Morris Minor Traveller, we being mum and dad, sis Chris and me and little brother John.    This little blue beauty had opened up new horizons for us, no longer hampered were we by the limitations of bus routes.  The countryside was ours.

Mum would pack a little hamper of food, this wonderful and simple feast bringing the fondest of memories of the oft happiness of childhood.  My favourite of this delightful fayre being the cheese and tomato sandwiches, which we would unwrap from the little greaseproof paper packages mum lovingly made.  Salt was not regarded as a problem then and when making, mum would liberally coat the innards of the sandwiches with it, facilitating osmosis drawing the tomato juice until it ran into the bread and softened the cheese.  My first memory of food is the heaven of soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches (and I am salivating now thinking of this delight) washed down with what was then a treat of dilute orange juice.

I only have vague memories of our trips out, the enjoyment of our green and pleasant land.  But I do so remember the wonderful the delicious soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches!  It is a lasting and pure love!

Buds fit to bursting

feasting on sunshine, alas

no crumbs for the ducks

Anna :o]

Toni at dVerse has us writing of Yum!!! for Haibun Monday, that is ‘The Best Meal You Ever Ate.’

The above is mine and will always be so.  It must be said that this meal also consisted of a packet of Smiths crisps with its little blue salt bag and a two finger Kit-Kat and mums homemade currant buns.

Maybe this first love is why I continue to enjoy buffet lunches, most wonderful things!

Image:  courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Reinhard Kirchner

Home

There are people in my home,

shuffling in the roof space,

banging on the windows

and banging on the doors.  

‘Please leave me, please

leave me alone’ I plead

as I turn off all the lights…

Old bones snap on the tricks of tired eyes,

tumble I do to the shock of terra firma…

as they shuffle in the roof space…

turning off the lights…

Mind is tired, forgets to remember…

father’s in my bed, telling me he loves me…

sharing (with me) awful secrets of the night…

’Please leave me alone,’    I scream (inside me)

as I fumble and stumble, trying to turn off the lights…

Pain in my leg and I don’t understand it,

wonder if you’ve hit me

as they  shuffle in the roof space…

banging on the windows

banging on the doors…

I lie in my bed here, screaming deep inside me,

hoping and praying they don’t turn off the lights…

Anna :o]

Brendan at Toads has us writing of our interpretation of what Home is.  To me, home is not merely bricks and mortar, rather a sense of belonging, a feeling of safety, a knowing of unconditional acceptance, indeed, a place where the heart lies, a place of comfort and love.

Home is not necessarily just the house in which you live, it maybe your place of work which gives you that same sense of belonging, or your town or your country, whatever defines the place of where you want to be, are happy in.

My words tell of ‘Violet’ who lived in the care home in which I once worked.  She was a very confused lady and regarded and saw  the home as hers, her fellow residents and staff being intruders.  This belief made her very agitated and physically aggressive as she would forever attempt to remove us, and how deep her frustration when she could not.  She was also at great risk of falls, and if she did so, sustaining a fracture, she was adamant these strangers in her house had pushed her.

Violet was a lady who feared the night and her light was always left on.  Despite this she would become very scared and tearful, a timid shadow of her daytime self, and staff sat with her until she fell asleep.  It was a couple or so of years before something she said made us realise why she feared the night, her childhood home never offering itself in how we perceive home, rather a place of abuse…

How sad that her memories and indeed lack of memory, made the care home, to her, a place of fear too.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Gelonida

Mask

She cradles his soft innocence as he suckles at her breast, nurturing him.  All she feels is a deep unconditional love, an overwhelming love she never knew existed.  He is her world, the total sum of her.

As he grows he will be nurtured by his culture and he will turn against her.  She will become what she was and perhaps always will be, the nothingness of that that is woman.

You ask her of this and she softly replies:  It is my culture, it is who I am, it is all that I know.    Confronted, she returns the imaginary veil to her face blinding her vision, a veil that will mask her, mask who she is who she dreams to be, thus forever binding herself to her own fate.

But she will feel safe.

Anna :o[

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of (yesterdays) International Women’s Day whose campaign theme is:  Be Bold for Change.  Above is my offering of which I am uncertain as to whether it is poetry or prose or prose poetry.  I have difficulties with the concept of prose poetry…please see previous post.

In my lifetime I cannot recall any occasion I felt second class as in gender inequality.  But perhaps I am blind to the subtleties’ of it, perhaps I was gently and not deliberately conditioned into accepting a specific role, a role passed down in generations…I don’t know.  That said I do know that gender inequality exists.

In some cultures for a woman to express boldness for change would be tantamount to signing her own death warrant.  It is not right but that is the way it is, in these cultures women live in fear (of men).

Will International Women’s Day change a thing – probably not?  Things will carry on as they are.  From an IWD  page:

Some regions should expect to see their gender gaps narrow faster than the global rate of change. Among these are South Asia, with a projected closing of the gender gap in 46 years, Western Europe in 61 years, Latin America in 72 years and Sub-Saharan Africa, due to achieve parity in 79 years. Projections for other world regions suggest closing their gaps will take longer than 100 years, namely 129 years in the Middle East and North Africa, 146 years in East Asia and the Pacific, and 149 years in Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Given the slow progress over the last decade, the gender gap in North America is expected to close in 158 years. None of these forecasts are foregone conclusions. Instead they reflect the current state of progress and serve as a call to action to policymakers and other stakeholders to accelerate gender equality.

 On a more cheerful note, please watch the video below, a video by the excellent Harry Enfield & Co.  Things have moved on for some of us, maybe not enough but one day that day might come…

Photo header image:  Courtesy of:  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  John Thomson (1837–1921) 

Struggling

I’m struggling you know, struggling with being me, timid little mouse that I am, forever nibbling at my nails until the blood runs and the pain soothes and the heart aches.

All I want is to be liked.

Anna :o]

Frank at dVerse has us writing prose poetry and above is my contribution.  I wasn’t going to enter as I am not quite sure  what I think of prose poetry… however, when I was just about to move away from beloved PC,  the word ‘struggling’ jumped out at me from some TV programme serving as a background noise, and well, my head became full of other words and so joining in I am!

Please know the words are not about me.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Vinc3PaulS

An Awakening

Constrained by prim and proper Englishness

she giggles (nervously) as slowly he unzips her dress

and unclips her conforming comfort bra. 

In love with this, his heady scent his luscious kiss,

she wonders how far to let him go,

throwing caution to the wind.

Anna :o]

De at  dVerse has us writing a quadrille (44 words) containing the world Giggle and above is my offering. 

It is a true story based on a holiday I shared with my mother and aunt when I was sixteen or seventeen, I can’t quite remember which.   We holidayed at St Goarshausen, a delightful town located on the left shore of the Rhine.

It was here I had my first holiday romance, in fact my first ever ‘boyfriend’ and learnt of that that is love.  And love him I did.    Peter was about 6’6” and very muscular, sporting a shock of blond hair.  Jeez, the heady scent of his aftershave was pure bliss, sending me to seventh heaven - I probably loved this heady aroma as much as I loved him.

Did I throw caution to the wind?    In the end No – the bra was re clipped and the dress rezipped.  He appeared to accept this and we continued our dates and how thrilled I was when he asked for my address before mum aunt and me left for England.

Of course he never wrote, and I cried myself to sleep for weeks as dreams of marriage and a shock of blond kinder dissipated with each day that past.    So it was that I had made the right decision on that wonderful night we walked along the banks of the Rhine.  (I still remember his face – I guess you do with your first love…)

Image:  courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Dirk Schmidt (Celsius auf Wikivoyage) - erstellt mit Autostitch

Horsetail

I cross o’er the tracks

where once the trains

click-clacked along the lines,

until the coal ran out. 

And opposite where once

farmers loved the land and

miners toiled in earth below

now stands row on row of grand abodes

in a habitat forever spoiled.

And here live I behind these gates

that keep me in and others out,

and round the door and up the walls

the ivy creeps encircling windows while we sleep. 

And on these painted walls within, spiders spin their webs 
ensnare moth and fly who dare enter in, 

invade this place we call our own.

Outside in neatly tended beds  

flowers bob their brightly coloured heads

and on lush-green lawns manicured

so grass is just so-high, the weeds fight through

refuse to die and flower and seed and multiply,

bobbing yellow heads in a grand defiance of our fight.

And upon the once smart block-paved drive
Horsetail breaks through and forever thrives, 
nature forever fighting back. 

And here live I, surrendering,

giving my garden back to nature

from whence it came and still belongs

in this place we call suburbia.

Anna :o]

The above was inspired by d'Verse's Tuesday prompt in which Oloriel challenged us to write Suburban poetry.   Although visiting prompts here there and everywhere nothing nudged creative juices within the past two months, until now – so thanks Oloriel!  Nevertheless, I waited until thoughts jumped into my head, so Tuesday has now become Thursday, so I will enter here on OLN, today.  (I am not quite happy with my words so will probably continue tinkering with them)

My words are loosely based on where I live.  I live in an I-shaped street in which three points of the ‘I ‘are dead ends.  The name of the estate tells of its history of once farm land.  One end of the head of the‘I’ I live on is the entrance to the street, the other end being adjacent to a hilly meadow, a beautiful return of nature on spoil heaps echoing past mining history.

When we first moved here, nearly a quarter of a century ago, the front gardens were open plan, but across the years things have changed, walls have been built or fences erected, and we gate ourselves in, creating our own little castles.

Horsetail is indeed running rampant in my block-paved drive despite a long-waged war with it.  I realise I shall never win…  In my back garden – given over to nature, blackberry bushes thrive – they certainly weren’t here when we arrived, their existence courtesy of bird-droppings.   There is also a tree fifteen foot high that wasn’t there when we arrived here too, arriving in the seed of some wind.  I should have dealt with it earlier – but didn’t.     It is not fifteen foot from the house so must be felled.  A tree surgeon will be contacted and he must do his deed lest the foundations of the house be undermined.  I love nature but can’t give it my home.

Prior to moving to this coastal town, we lived in the concrete jungle of streets that surrounded a city centre – certainly not suburbia.   Sometimes I miss the vibrancy of these streets where life was lived with hearts outside, thumping the beats of reality, life lived in the open.  But that said. I enjoy my little life in the suburbs, enclosed in my little castle… I have a certain sense of peace here…

(Of my previous post in which I invited discussion – I apologise for not giving personal responses (which I intended to do) but sometimes real life gets in the way.  Apologies.)

PS  Of the trains that ran along the tracks near the head of my estate – they still do.  Mining is long dead here, so of the twenty or so wagons pulled – I don’t know what they carry or from whence they came.  Googling tells me the line is closed…strange…

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Zorba the Geek

Glass Cliff

No hygge for me as I click in the meter key

before the lights’ go out.   

Alt-right is not alright, it’s not me,

just needing  change does not make me a demon,

does it?

Voting for change is the only power that I have. 

Have you woke up yet?

Anna :o[

 Mama Zen at Real Toads has us writing (in seventy words or less) our thoughts using words from the Oxford Dictionaries words of the year and above is my offering.

Hygge - A quality of cosiness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being, regarded as a defining characteristic of Danish culture

Alt-right - An ideological grouping associated with extreme conservative or reactionary viewpoints, characterized by a rejection of mainstream politics and by the use of online media to disseminate deliberately controversial content

Glass cliff - Used with reference to a situation in which a woman or member of a minority group ascends to a leadership position in challenging circumstances where the risk of failure is high

Woke - Originally in African-American usage meaning alert to injustice in society, especially racism

Jeez, I worry about ‘Alt-right’ and the assumption that those who reject mainstream politics are by definition – right wing.  (How easily we have accepted/swallowed this word - differentiating us from them.)  Our corporate masters – those who govern us, our politicians - continue to rule (by defamation in words) those who seek change, seek to be a heard voice, seek the right to exist in ‘hygge’.   It appears that the have-nots, the disillusioned (including the intelligentsia) have no right to a voice and if they should utter – they are demonised.  Those who rule have power over the ordinary folk (us) and it is up to us whether we bend with them or stand upright and be counted.

I live on the other side of the pond and do not pretend to understand the razzmatazz of American politics – it is completely alien to me.  The elections were well televised over here and Trump came across as an ego-driven nutter whilst Clinton came across as a self-opinionated warmonger who was completely out of touch with (perhaps) 50% of the electorate, her people, Her pointy-finger, snarling at the ‘deplorables’ almost certainly pushed the vote towards Trump.   Her arrogance (egocentric) was the agent of her failure – her failure to understand the needs of her people.  Her arrogance pushed her people into a corner, a corner of which they have come out fighting , many fighting blinded, that is blinded by the  ‘truth’ of Trump.

And now there is the shit, the total right-wing shit where those who are indeed deplorable have been given a voice a right to exist by Trump – and (possibly) soon, all hell will break loose.   I fear for this world of ours.   I fear the manipulators’ who play on the fears of the electorate, the electorate governed – and to much part ignored –by the business that is politics.

On this side of the pond is the Brexiteer   (A person who is in favour of the UK withdrawing from the European Union) and (for the first time ever in Blogland) I will admit to being one.  I voted exit for totally valid reasons – but those remoaners would have me a half-wit, a racist, a bigot and would have me a totally ignorant swine.   But I am none of these nor are the ordinary folk and the intelligentsia that voted with me.  Label someone and they come out fighting – but I didn’t – I never ever believed the shit of Farage.  I didn’t vote for Farage – I voted for exit.  And (politics) would suggest that in time the UK will be the first of many.  Europe is fed up of being a business where real people don’t count.  We do – woke up politicians, don’t at your peril.

 Woke up world, see the seen injustice.  The little man – whether he knows it or not will win, win as the loser (he seems to be), maybe by those who do harm by manipulating the fears of those who have no voice, a voice in the wilderness waiting to be heard.   Politicians listen to your people, all of your people – woke up !

Off my soapbox now – but I seriously worry about this world of ours.  Discuss? 

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Tomorrow

You leave lights on everywhere,

an unconscious graffiti scarring the night.

Yesterday pales into insignificance,

becomes the thrill of tomorrow.

The world weeps and you sit on your hands.

Where will you be when the lights go out?

Anna :o]

Isadora at Real Toads has us writing future/tense as in our uncertainty of tomorrow and above is my offering.  Cheers Isadora!

Also entered at dVerse OLN hosted by the lovely Grace.  Cheers Grace

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Invisible

“ I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in a circus sideshow, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination- indeed, everything and anything except me.” 

― Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

INVISIBLE

Invisible they are,

the have-me-not’s

the underclass squashed flat

beneath the piles of what-we-have.

Poverty is hard to find,

almost invisible

unless you care to look for it. 

Look hard behind the eyes

of that dirt smudged child

with half-empty belly and vacant stare. 

Judge easy, fear his progeny,

another stain of dumbing down,

the underclass that never try. 

If only you lived inside his belly,

felt his gnawing hunger,

brain starved of the ability to learn. 

Would you feel for him?

Would you?

Perhaps for a moment (conscience pricked)

you lay pennies in a begging hat

of that waste-of-space that apparent poor. 

Is he really poor or merely a wise

street entrepreneur speculating

on our moments need to put things right? 

You can’t trust the poor.  

Well can you?

Why don’t they get a job instead

of leeching us who earn each and every penny? 

Hard graft we do to fill our bellies

with each and every trinket, consumables.    

How long does an iPhone last

before you need another?

Not long.  Not long.

How can we understand poverty unless

we have lived through it ourselves? 

And if we do, how we long

to remain invisible, the shame of it,

hide in darkened rooms when bailiffs call,

shudder at our situation. 

Of bread, there is two slices left

after eking out a single loaf

for one never-ending week. 

How do I feed my children?

Anna :o]

The above was inspired by Susan’s prompt of Invisibility at Poets United.  Cheers Susan!

The last two stanzas are accurate to a situation my family found ourselves in many many moons ago.  Until I wrote the poem and perhaps of being now (and for a long time) relatively ‘comfortable,’ I had forgotten about it and I am ashamed of myself.

I can remember pretending not to be in when the milkman called for his money each Friday night. I can remember handing over the last money in my purse to the insurance man as I was too embarrassed to say I couldn’t afford it.  I can remember borrowing the bus fare for my son to go school from my next-door neighbour because I couldn’t even scrape that together.  I only did this once, so mortified I was.  I can remember the fear of the postman dropping debt letters through the letter box.  I can remember the bailiff calling, him finding there was nothing of value to take away to solve the debts.

I remember most the two slices of bread.  My hubs and children had had the last of cereals for their breakfast and I knew there was two slices of bread left in the breadbin, so looking forward to toast I was.  When I pulled them out of the packet, they were turning green with mould.  I had never felt such helplessness such despair such utter disappointment in my life and haven’t since.

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN.  Cheers Grace!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: For 4the children   

Fallen

I am the fallen.

Fallen, I became the earth

below this Flanders Field

where once battled raged

now a blaze

of wondrous poppies grow.

I am the fallen.

Two minutes is all I ask of you,

two minutes to remember me. 

Stay silent then,

rid your mind of cluttered thoughts,

turn off your phone,

stay silent then,

remember me.

I am the fallen,

please remember me.

Anna

War and strife continue to rage across this world of ours and soldiers and civilians continue to fall day after day after day. 

Lest we forget - many of us do, many of us have.  We seem unable to learn…

Shared with the good folk at Poets United.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Tijl Vercaemer

Goodbye

Caught in it I am,

this ever decreasing circle,

this life of ours. 

How to say Goodbye? 

The dog whines in the cellar,

the kettle whistles on the stove,

the baby mewls in its crib

and we hear naught but the silence.

Stuck we are, silently suffering

and the circle ever decreases,

sucking us in.

Love has long floundered,

hearts are all empty

and we sit here in silence,

each unknowing how 
to say the longest

goodbye. 

Anna :o]

Walt at dVerse has us writing of the oft sorrow of parting, the oft pain of adieu and the forever goodbye, cheers for the inspiration Walt.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons.

Author: Skedonk

Gas Chamber (If Walls Could Talk)

I am what I am;

I have neither a heart nor a soul,

yet I have purpose.

Come to me you scourge of the earth,

you gravid with vermin,

you mothers and children,

you sick crippled and old. 

I have use for you.

Show me your bodies naked and awful

and I will show you my worst.  

I have purpose,

I shall cleanse this world clean.

Anna :o[

Mish at dVerse has us writing on the theme of ‘If Walls Could Talk’ and the above is my offering.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author: Walter, Bernhard

Act One, Scene One: Abandonment

(Poor Richard mourns his long lost father,

lost to that void of nothingness.)

Poor Richard, heavy hearted,

filial duty now departed,

how could he have ever loved this man,

this stranger in his father’s body. 

Hero that he was, his guide and mentor,

afore that dark place took him over,

polished off his very mind     til all about him lost.

(Poor Richard backs and backs away.)

Anna :o{

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing micro poetry following the theme of “This is not what we came to see…”

The words are of how difficult my sons find it to visit their dad.  A particular son, whose dad was his hero, is visibly shaken to the point he is robbed of speech on the  occasions he visits his dad, his grief his loss is palpable.  He is slowly backing away as this is the only way he can cope.

I understand this as when my mum was robbed of her identity by that that is dementia, I found it very difficult to love this stranger  who inhabited my mothers body and eventually didn’t…

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gert Germeraad