Sunday, 15 April 2012

Infidelity

Red Roofs, Marc Chagall, 1954
I cannot make myself thin,
no sin-eater I,
I cannot devour
past transgressions,
cannot lay
the feast of me
on naked breast -
grist to the mill
for those who chatter. 
No matter,
(for now)
I will bear this load,
add fat to my lean.

Occasionally,
conscience pricked,
I peck at me like
some mean eyed gull,
let hot blood run red,
try to pick clean my guilt
of loving you - but fail,
cannot let you go,
remain hungry
for the love of you,
want to eat you up,
get fat on you.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.  Also entered at The Poetry Pantry at Poets United – thanks Poets United

Monday, 9 April 2012

Wistfulness

Wistfulness: the cockroach catcher
Grey day inks
into the blackest night,
sleep elusive,
I think of you,
remember,
and heady
with the scent of you,
I search beneath the sheets,
find emptiness.

I have tried so hard
to erase you from my mind,
suppress
the pain of longing,
but find
I’m saying “Yes” again
as I long for your caress again,
as I live within
the ghost of you.

I do sleep a while,
world weary, unrefreshed
I rise,
press feet
into waiting slippers,
try to warm the chill,
heat coffee pot. 
I want to smile again,
see sunny skies again,
be glad again.

Blue skies elude me,
all I see is grey,
I think of you
and all I can be
is sad again.
I try to rouse my spirits,
wonder how
my mind can be so empty
when it’s so full of you,
I fear every lonely moment
but most of all fear myself
as I sink deeper in this gloom.

The ghost of you
infiltrates my very being,
roots out, stirs each emotion.
I have this notion
that if I could rid myself
of you,
extinguish memories,
snuff out your flame,
I could be whole again.

But fear is real,
for without you
I have nothing 
and I shed tears again
as I softly
call out your name.

With thanks to JP at Olive Gardens (Poetry Picnic Week 30: Doubts, Fears, Inhibitions and Hesitations) and also posted at The Poetry Pantry at Poets United – thanks Poets United!

Image: used with the kind permission of the cockroach catcher at flickr. (The Cockroach Catcher Blog can be found here!

Anna :o]

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

Denormalisation

They come;
those harbingers of death,
the underclass
who fouled
with the most
malodorous breath
infiltrate the very core
of the sweet,
the innocent, the pure.

Particulates expelled
with every demon puff,
mainstream and drift smoke
pollute the very souls
of those so pure,
so clean, so whole,
and were that not enough,
the smokers
cry of their rights
when isolated
in their leper groups
outside of office doors,
or smoking booths
outside pubs and inns
as if they should be
absolved from their sins,
their sins of selfishness
as they spread disease
with every dirty stinking
exhaled breath.

They come,
those harbingers of death,
those much maligned,
much stigmatised,
denormalised
to seek their fix,
their filthy weed,
their cancer sticks
to find their demon
now behind shuttered doors,
for it decreed that no more
should they be on view
for we all know
of the harm they do,
they bring disease
and kill our kids
and it is right
that society rids
itself of these evil folk
who insist upon their
right to smoke.

I wrote this as a reaction to finding that when purchasing my weekly supply of the disgusting weed that my fix was  shuttered behind black sliding doors – and I was aware this was coming – and was surprised how dirty I felt, something akin to buying dirty postcards, hard core porn videos from ‘under the counter’ (okay my secret’s out! :o])and I felt more stigmatised than I normally do, a non-human,  denormalised.

If you are a non-smoker – and I mean a normal human and not the rabid anti-smoker zealot – and you feel it is your right to socialise in restaurant or inn free from my smoke – then I am a 100% in agreement with you (for despite being a smoker I consider myself a fair normal human being) but would ask do I not have rights too?  It would not be a problem for me (and you I am sure) if there were smoking and non-smoking establishments and we could both exercise freedom of choice.

I do not have a problem with smoking bans on public transport, in the workplace and other sensible legislation – but I do resent that I am being denormalised.

My current reading is The Death of Humane Medicine and the Rise of Coercive Healthism (Petr Skrabanek) and will admit that (for the purpose of this post) I had to jump ahead for his views on ‘Lifestylism’  and “Damned tobacco” as I had not yet read that far. 

Quotes from Damned tobacco:

“Smoking together with drinking and fornication, has always been a mote in the eye of the virtuous.”     

“In recent American health propaganda, smoking was described as ‘second only to nuclear annihilation …”

“Smoking is a complex behaviour, with little understood neurophysiological and psychological mechanisms.  A smoker of 20 cigarettes a day for 50 years will smoke 365,000 cigarettes, which, if laid end to end, would stretch 30 kilometres.  Assuming an average of 15 puffs per cigarette, the smoker inhales five million puffs.  With the alleged 5,000 poisonous substances in smoke, he receives 25 billion doses.  What is surprising is that many smokers survive this chronic poisoning relatively unscathed.”

(I will have received 15 billion doses of alleged poisons and yet I remain healthy, my children grew up in a two smoker household (I did give up when pregnant) and now smoke themselves and are healthy.  (This is not a blind denial that smoking causes disease – for I have no doubt it does – but there is much manipulation by selection or omission in research to achieve required aims)).

You may have no problem with coercive healthism, you may want to live for ever – but you won’t – and if you do away with “… every eatable, drinkable and smokeable which has in anyway acquired a shady reputation.” (Mark Twain) you might, but probably won’t, be so bloody healthy you will have to be shot when you have outlived your usefulness – but I doubt whether you will be happy.  You may want to pop whatever pill is prescribed to you under the guise of preventative medicine – see here at The NNT re statins – but what of their chemical composition, what of their adverse side effects?  (I would like to give personal opinions and observations on this (relatively) new opium of the masses – but wont, not yet.) 

However – believe it or not – this post is not the stance of a rabid, selfish smoker but that of a person who is afraid, so very afraid of the rise and rise of coercive healthism and the deliberate denormalisation of sections of society deemed irresponsible by those who deem themselves superior and would direct our very lives.

This is a post of a person who is so afraid of bias in and deliberate selection or omission presented in research as a means to give credence to a prevailing point of view.  Alcohol and obesity are already on the agenda for denormalisation.

This is a person who is so very afraid how most of us allow (for we have nothing to hide) our government (of whatever colour) to make inroads into our right of privacy in the name of security – CCTVs and data collection (phone and web surveillance) immediately spring to mind.

This is a person who thinks of book burning in Nazi Germany and eugenics and the destruction of those considered imperfect and wonder why we do not see parallels here expressed in our present society.

This is a person who decades ago thought her husband bonkers when he talked of the ‘thought police.’  He was not bonkers; I was, for I did not see the insidious creep of control of our very thoughts and lives.

What say you?

Anna :o]   (The paranoid one?)

Sunday, 1 April 2012

Toxic Love

Image: ParkeHarrison
Imperfection
seeking perfection,
never quite good enough,
feathers ruffled,
you shut me out.

I should not answer back;
show my strength,
strength is my weakness,
enough to gain your wrath.

You need a perfect boy,
a boy grateful
for your love
and I am never quite
that good enough,
I always fail you,
make you cry.

I cry alone,
for alone is what I am. 
I have no-one but you
and I always disappoint. 
You smother me
with your
smother mother love,
tie me to your apron strings,
stifle who I could be.
Imperfection
creates imperfection,
the imperfect me.

I fled your apron strings,
tried to untie the knots
that clog my mind,
attempted
to reconstruct the boy
who was never allowed to be,
I just wanted to be me.

I have failed again;
I cannot break free,
tied to you
in some unnatural way. 
I hate you
yet I long
to earn your love,
be the perfect boy,
your perfect little man.

Always
the cuckoo in the nest,
 I will never quite belong. 
But I am home mother,
shoes lain outside
in reverence. 
Smother me
with your love mother,
smother me.

Anna :o]

“Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat.”
(Mother Teresa)

I work in mental health and see many damaged souls, some so obviously damaged by the oppressive love of their mother.  This is oppressive love and not possessive. 

Some of these folk are the mothers of these smothered children and when relating their history they talk of feeling/being unloved by their mother and their need to compensate for their perceived/real neglect of maternal love by overwhelming their children with not only their own love but also that denied them by their own mothers.

 However this love is never unconditional, always conditional on the child being totally dependent on and eternally grateful for this imperfect gift of the deepest felt yet the most destructive kind of love.

Talk to (the adult) children of these mothers and almost always they will talk of oppression, manipulation and tellingly, reveal that they themselves felt unloved and that they hate their mother.    Many of these (adult) children have mental health problems of their own, resultant of their existence within a dysfunctional family.

They talk of how they will never allow their own children to experience their emotional stunting, lack of nurturing and unconditional love and vow to love their children oh so very, very much.   And the cycle continues…

Anna :o]

If you would like to understand more of how parental behaviours impact on the mental health of our children, a recommended read  is “the cockroach catcher” authored by the excellent Dr Am Ang Zhang.  He also has a blog just here!

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration and also entered at Poets United ‘The Poetry Pantry’ – thanks Poets United!

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

DSM-IV Code: Not Specified


Image: Duane Michals

Look at me,
really look at me,
look past my beauty,
see me,
see the inner me,
the ugly side
wherein resides
the me who gloats
as I pull off
the wings
of living
breathing things.

He loves me,
he loves me not,
he loves me.

My handsome one,
I detest your goodness,
despise its vulnerability. 
You will dance my dance.
Sing to my tune.  
I pick petals off the
most exquisite blooms.

He loves me,
he loves me not,
he loves me, loves me!

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Evil Nurses, Care of The Elderly - or Lack of It.

Unless of course we are called to higher office sooner, as sure as eggs is eggs we will, well, all end up old, some of us very old and well past our sell by date, we may succumb to the old arthuritus (sic) and/or diabetes and/or heart disease - perhaps multiple comorbidities and our little grey cells may thin at the same rate as our greying hair.

It is well known that unless a relative of yours, old people are a burden on the state and indeed society itself and are not worthy of the title of human being, okay they might be human but their being here is, well, bothersome.

Never mind, the hope is that they will end up a hospital patient and then – God bless’m – the nurses can finish them off!  What more satisfying than leaving someone’s gran or granddad lying in their own excreta, starving to death or dying of thirst while you read Hello at the nurses station and discuss last nights date in sordid details!   And then there is always the LCP if all else fails!

But of course it is not that easy for when learning of this despicable care via that stalwart of the media The Daily Mail, suddenly the entire world and his brother are up in arms stating that nurses don’t care any more and “They were Angels when I was a lad!”  Suddenly everyone cares about the elderly while they ignore Mrs Miggins next door who is so damn lonely the only friends she has is her GP and that nice nurse who visits weekly to dress her wounds.  (Mrs Miggins sometimes accidentally on purpose pulls off the dressing so that nice nurse calls more often.)

Interesting then that this recent  RCN survey shows that these unfeeling nurses (caring for the elderly) report that due to unsafe staffing levels “that activity was left undone, or was done inadequately on their last shift due to lack of time.”  These activities include comforting/talking to patients (78%), falls prevention (45%), helping patients with food and/or drink (34%), helping the patients use the toilet or manage incontinence (33%), pain management (19%) and care of the dying (17%).  Please read the full list, the full survey yourself.

Read the whole thing and learn that although older people “who often have the most complex and intense needs…  …have a more dilute skill mix than other types of wards.”

Staff (nurse) ratios are thus: 

·        9.1 to 10.3 patients per RN on older people’s wards.

·        6.7 patients per RN on adult general/medical/surgical wards

·        4.2 patients per RN on children’s wards.

This survey mirrors findings of the RN4CAST survey which found:

·        High nurse BURNOUT and job dissatisfaction were common among nurses in Europe and the US.

·        On average, only 60% of patients were satisfied with their hospital care.

·        Those nurses reporting high levels of burnout (notably in Greece and England) also reported an intention to leave their current employment.

·        Each additional patient added to a nurse’s workload increased the odds of a nurse reporting poor or fair quality of care.

·        Patients were less satisfied with their hospital stay in those hospitals that had higher percentages of burn out ore dissatisfied nurses.

Dean Royles, director of NHS Employers, said: "Mandatory staffing levels can not guarantee safe care.
"We do not believe that imposing a crude system of staffing ratios is the right way to tackle poor care."

Well there you go – bloody typical – things will stay as they are!

It is a fact that these unfeeling nurses – alongside completing only tasks they can do such as meds, admissions, discharges, etc, - spend their time completing reams and reams of required (tick box) paperwork that is deemed more important than the tasks they are tick boxing.

It is also a fact that working under these conditions, these unsafe conditions, they are in breach of their Code of Conduct.  However there is always the safety net of the Nursing and Midwifery Council (NMC) who stand up for their subjects and demand change (not)!

“There are now almost 3,500 fewer nurses working in the NHS than in 2010 and the number of managers has also dropped, the NHS workforce census has shown.” ( Daily Telegraph).   So much for Cammers promise of protecting front line staff then folks!  Things will only get worse for granny now the HSCB is soon to be enshrined in law – you were warned!  (See Jobbing Doctor). 

I don’t deny that crappy nurses exist as do crappy doctors, plumbers, electricians and whole (coalition) governments for that matter – but if we continue with this scapegoat (the nurse) crap – nothing will change and granny and granddad will continue to be left to stew in it.

Stand up and be counted – do something – complain about staffing ratios when you see poor care – please do something!  The odds are YOU will be old one day!

What say you?

Anna :o]

Urm - the cutting and pasting shows - didn't before I posted!

Friday, 23 March 2012

Pills for All Ills

Pills for All Ills

I feel like a walking prescription
Taking drugs of every description.
I take so many tablets I rattle
While fighting a continuous battle
To unsubscribe this prescribed addiction.

Body Surgery

A daft woman ran a campaign
To have her body removed from her brain, 
Her surgeon complied,
She not surprisingly died –
But she’s not in the position t’complain. 

Anna :o]

Madeleine Begun Kane who blogs superbly at Mad Kane's Humor Blog  is todays inspiration at dVerse~Poets Pub  – the form is of course limericks.  My two offerings are not new – but what the heck – I thought I would post them anyway!

Monday, 19 March 2012

Democracy is Dead.

Armed Police at Save the NHS protest - photo by heardinlondon
On Saturday several hundred people protested against the Health and Social Care Bill and gathered in front of the Ministry of Health.  Armed police were in attendance.  You might not know anything about this protest for it was not reported.  Why?

Visit the good Dr No and read For You, The Democracy is Over at Bad Medicine and also the good Julie and read The Death of Democracy at Campaigning for Health.

Tonight there will be 25 NHS Candlelit Vigils nationwide - I wonder if they will be reported?  I wonder if armed police and the riot squads will be in attendance?

Be afraid, very afraid - for democracy is dead.

Anna :o[

Monday, 12 March 2012

Subarachnoid Haemorrhage

Image: Uzengia Alexander Nedic
A lightening strike? 
A thunderclap? 
Pain exquisite
he stumbles
at the shock of it,
falls,
tumbles down
the grassy bank,
comes to a stop. 
Tries
to make sense of it,
looks for a storm,
a fallen branch,
feels head and neck
for gaping wound,
for blood,
finds none of it

He stands,
great toe tingles,
stands erect. 
Confused
he undresses (bottom half),
tries to press down toe
with other foot. 
None of it. 
It stands erect. 
He falls again
(the shock of it)
arms headlock
as if to quell
the pain of it.

He sees her in the white,
fuzzy, undefined,
unrecognised,
light dims
turns black.

She stands
atop the grassy bank,
waits for him,
impatient,
angry,
hurt. 
He has not come. 
Looks down,
does not see him
taking root
amongst the undergrowth. 
“He will not do this again!”
she seethes,
cries,
turns on her heels
and leaves.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.

Sunday, 4 March 2012

I Just Know Things...


Image by Sarolta Ban
 “I just know things”
she had whispered softly,
thin cold hands
combed through his hair,
brushed escaping wisp
from sweat beaded forehead
 “And you must know that I really care?”

He had thought her
some famous psychic
able to read his troubled thoughts;
some shrink wise to his chaos,
knew he was fraught,
nearing madness…

She’d picked him up
at some drinking hell hole,
slumped over half-drunk whisky,
racked with emotion,
slurring he was steeped in badness,
that his God would forsake him…

“No Sir” she had interjected
“you have a soul worth saving,
let me take you home,
let me give you love and succour,
let make you whole again.”

Drink sodden
he had drunk her potion,
entered her thin cold body,
inhaled her cold dank breath,
died there alone
in that cold lonely *bedsit
embraced within the arms of death. 

Anna :o]

*A bedsit is a form of rented accommodation consisting of a single room and shared bathroom and kitchen, an American equivalent would be a SRO or rooming house.

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.

Wednesday, 29 February 2012

The Tutor

Not so deep
inside his psyche
exists the  
frightened little man;
defences up
he walls him in;
ego inflated.

Square, angular
'Chiselled from some
metamorphic rock'
(he muses)
jaw juts forward;
he gives emphasis
to every uttered word,
each morsel offered
as a tasty crumb
of wisdom
to be shared
vainglorious.

His students wait,
impatient
as he pauses yet again,
sits,
adopts his Rodin pose,
his thinking stance,
scratches
at his salt and pepper head,
dandruff flakes extracted,
he rolls twixt thumb and finger,
creates tiny oily balls,
flicks into waiting pocket
lest they contain
some random thought,
some stroke of genius
leached out,
secreted accidentally.

Class done,
'Young minds broadened'
(he muses)
he wanders
head bowed, shoulders slouched
as if carrying the burden
of his intellect
(self-perceived),
hands firmly clasped
behind waiting back,
through corridor and cloister.

The young ones,
see through his affect,
his pseudo-intellect
and titter ignominiously. 
He flinches,
hurt
and not so deep inside
his psyche
exists the
frightened little man,
defences down,
wall tumbled,
ego deflated.

Anna :o]

(Please note that the above is not an attack on the teaching profession only memories of one particular tutor!)

Thanks to the good folk at Open Link Night ~ Week 33 (hosted and posted by Hedgewitch) at dVerse Poets Pub.