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

SIGN THE PETITION NOW!

Please read this post at ISOwatch - read it NOW - and please click on the links there!

If you care about YOUR NHS - visit 38 Degrees - read it, digest it and SIGN the petition - SIGN before it is too late.

DO IT NOW!

TIME IS RUNNING OUT!

Female? How to Advance Yourself in Politics.

Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali

I.

She viewed him as quite statuesque

as she lounged on his office desk;

he put his hand on her knee,

but did with such dignity,

she let him handle the rest.

II.

She felt herself quite disarmed

as she fell for the spell of his charms;

his heart seemed as big as his waist,

but much to her distaste

she soon realised him naught but a smarm

III.

He cleared his throat and uttered ahem,

said madam you want to be one of them,

the sure way to get ahead

is to share the warmth of my bed,

that’s the way we do it Lib-Dem.

IV.

Ambitious politicians are conveniently blind

of misconduct towards womankind;

they sing silent applause

when he puts his hand down their draws,

(Well, they’re only girlies – they won’t mind.)

On my break at work (last night) I was puzzling over a response to Tess’s prompt at The Mag while reading the Sunday newspapers – oh how I love Sunday newspapers.  Reading the latest media attempt to besmirch our (pure hearted, innocent, honest as the day they were born, whiter than the driven snow) politicians who gallantly proclaim ‘I have done nothing wrong’ (and I believe them…)… and all fell into place.

For those of you that are unaware of the accusation of sexual harassment, misconduct, abuse within the LibDem Party – half of our coalition government – please read of it here – and to know more of the background click on the links provided there.

When will these attacks on our wonderful governments – past and present – end.  It is so unfair.

It is also so so very unfair that past and present governments are killing our NHS.  You didn’t know?  Yes they are!  (Wonder why the media are keeping us in the dark along with the government?)  To know more please visit Dr Grumble, JD, ISOwatch and Abetternhs's Blog.  Read, learn and for you, your children and grandchildren’s sake – do something, please do something.  For if you don’t,  not so far in the future – your NHS will be of that of the Venus de Milo – something beautiful – but a relic in memory only.

Cheers me dears – depending on your support.

Anna :o]

Political Graffiti

Anna loves Steve

There was a time

when it was good enough

to leave my presence etched

in eons of the grime

of history lessons,

heart ♡ carved upon a desk. 

Then an awakening,

an epiphany of knowing

that all
that had gone on before,

rest not upon desires

of love and peace

but that of the greed,

the spoils of war,

war spoilt the past,

dictates the future. 

And I throw away childish things,

suture innocence inside lest it be forgot.

Politicised,

I leave X as my mark,

foolishly 

believe in democracy,

believe I have the power

to elicit change with simple stroke of pen. 

How innocent I was.

Then realisation that I have no power at all,

I leave my presence scribed on brick

IT

HAPPENED

ANYWAY… 

-STILL   THINK  

 YOU’VE    GOT  

      A          SAY?

______________________

FUCK  PARTY  POLITICS

Anna :o]

Graffiti has existed since ancient times and perhaps in its early days was the only means of those without power to make their voice heard.   In the present, graffiti offers not only an opportunity to voice ones opinions but also to display artistic talent, such as that of Banksy, marking territorial boundaries by those wonderful people who belong to street gangs and so such more.

Is graffiti vandalism or artistic expression?  Read the history of graffiti here at Wikipedia.

Anna’s prompt at dVerse is that of graffiti and searching through Wikimedia Commons – I found the above image there and decided to centre my offering round it.  (The graffiti is not mine – although it mirrors my views.)

My dad was a mild-moderate political animal and there was much reading to be done in his library – from religion to politics to Agatha Christie to natural history and I learnt much there.  As young as eleven I wrote my thoughts on the injustices of the world in letters to newspapers and the majority were published.

Like my father my politics were to left of centre (learnt behaviour?), my first vote cast to Labour – and it was not long after this I truly opened my eyes and discovered that for the most part, political parties exist (almost) entirely of self-serving (and of their donors) hypocrites and seemingly (some of) those with original good intentions were capable of being seduced and thus soiled by the politics of power, the power of politics – and sold their principles along with their souls.

Conservative, Labour, Lib-Dem – I find it hard to differentiate these motley crews.  Democracy – it’s an illusion…

(Image:  Graffiti on the South Bank of the Thames in London. Graffiti by Arofish. Photograph taken by Michael Reeve, April 24, 2005)

If I Have Been Unkind

                 Leonard Cohen - Bird on the Wire (live performance 1972)

Cohen dirges on,

If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by. …

And drink in hand, tears in eyes,

his mournful song does naught but deepen my distress.

It is the knowing that cruel words

spat out with such finesse,

so delicate in aimed precision,

so skillful,   artfully used to cut nerve deep,

pierced your very being, rocked your self-esteem,

keeps you away from the want of me.

I first well with this, triumph-filled -

but then derision framed in sweet revenge

for such a meagre sin,  rebounds,

mocks me from within,

conscience pricked sword turns in upon itself.

I have to ask myself –

is this self-pity or self-contempt,

do I exempt myself from all but perfect love,

am I hurt for you or am I hurt for me?

(But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.) 

Is slight for slight worth all of this? 

God how I long for you,

yearn soft kisses lip on lip,

bodies moulding hip on hip. 

Forgive me; forgive me please.

Please, please take me back

as I do so love you so (heart and soul)

and I have saved me, saved me,
saved all my ribbons,

saved all my ribbons for thee. 

I am so sorry.

Anna :o]

Mary’s prompt tonight at dVerse is that of Leonard Cohen and Place.

I was first introduced to Leonard Cohen by my (ex) brother-in-law and immediately fell in love with his words, his gravely voice and all that was him.  As teenagers do I would play him at full blast, after opening my bedroom windows, so that the entire world could take a share of him, know of him.

The above poem is a true story and relates to a time when I (publicly) said hateful things to my handsome one – the man I was eventually to marry.  It was slight for slight – but my venom was totally uncalled for and he ‘broke up’ with me and for ten awful days we were apart.

After much pleading with his mother (on the phone) he agreed to speak to me and we met up again.  During these ten days he had grown a hairy caterpillar above his top lip and later a full beard followed and he remains my hairy handsome one to this very day.

Although I love Leonard – I would not recommend anyone listen to some of his songs if depressed and in charge of alcohol – for tis true you will become more depressed.

PS Not quite happy with the final stanza – will probably tinker with it on a daily basis.

Smoke Rings

Artwork by Joseph Lorusso

Smoke rings

- Gauloises Disque Bleu –

sophisticate the bright young things

as they dream to change the world

amidst the ambience of distant chatter,

joyous yeses,

cries of ‘Strike!’

as pins topple fall and scatter.

Behind the counter,

amidst the clatter of the dishes,

hiss of steam and till kerching -

she wishes so
she were that girl, 

so wants the the thrill 
of love and kisses,

the exuberance

of her life of yesteryear.

Home now, amidst the tears,

the fears of tomorrow 

and the forever broken heart,

she cries the names 

of long lost lovers,
sups from the bottle,

drowns her sorrows
as she blows sad smoke rings 

in the dark.

Anna :o]

The above is a response to Tess’s prompt at The Mag – thanks Tess.

The pic reminded me of my past life when many of my teenage years were spent socialising at the nearby bowling alley.

I think I only ever played bowls about five times for to me and many other young things it was a meeting point for friends - where often love blossomed and sometimes died…

There was a café at the front framed by large glass windows – upstairs there was a members only bar – never made it that far as underage – but we all yearned to be there.

One of the waitresses at the café was a sour old woman – she,  probably only forty or so – but to us then that was oh so old – and we used to make up stories about her, imagine why she was so miserable – that is, when we weren’t saving the world!

Also entered at dVerse Open Link Night - hosted by Tony - thanks Tony.

Fruit Salad

   Pocket money, none,

   but I know where

   there is    

   a shiny
   six-penny piece…

   Sixpence will buy

   an awful lot of goodies,

   fruit salad, black jacks

   just a farthing each,

   that’s twenty-four

   lovely 
   sugary confections

   to delight my taste buds,

   chew to high heaven,

   stick in the gaps

   between my teeth. 

   …will I?

   Tis summertime

   as the four of us

   in gingham dresses,

   catch sticklebacks

   in glistening stream;

   blow bubblegum,

   suck sherbet lollies –

   tis all the stuff

   of childhood dreams.

   But then

   there is my conscience…

   oh there you are

   trying to hide amongst

   the flying saucers,

   pineapple chunks

   and liquorice sticks;

   fruit salad luscious

   sweet’n’lovely

   brings no pleasure,

   leaves a sour taste

   upon my lips.

   Anna :o]

   Victoria’s prompt at dVerse is to write of childhood memories.

   When asked what my most vivid memory is – it is always that of the above.  During my childhood sweets were not everyday expectations rather a Christmas, birthday, Easter egg or an occasional treat thing.  Of course, well-earned Saturday pocket money could be spent on them along with a comic or a little toy – however pocket money then was not a fortune – but enough for us and gratefully received.

   One Saturday saw me without any as I had been naughty (can’t remember how) and I so wanted some sweets to take along and share with my friends.  I knew my mum saved sixpences in a long narrow tube painted as a pillar-box, specifically designed to accommodate forty and thus a pound (and they were calling me, oh how they were calling me).   So I stole two. 

   My pleasure was short lived and I was overcome by guilt, a guilt which was to burden me for years to come.  I attempted to ease my conscience by buying my mum extra special birthday, Christmas or ‘just because’ presents – but it never worked.  Some thirty years later I confessed – mum had never realised, never missed the shilling – but I knew and that was important, important that I knew it was wrong.

   Why do we remember some but forget most of our childhood – I don’t know and I don’t think scientists do either.  Why did this particular memory become crystallised – was it because I first experienced the emotion of guilt then and couldn't let it go?

   On a lighter note -does anyone remember the original wrapper of Fruit Salad?  In my (?false) memory it was light coloured pink and green stripes with a picture of fruit at the centre – certainly not that gaudy orange stuff – do you remember?

  (Can't explain the white background  - although Blogger is tell me I/it is experiencing problems...)