Tuesday 26 February 2013


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.



Monday 25 February 2013

Female? How to Advance Yourself in Politics.

Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali

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.


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


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.


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, JDISOwatch 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]

Thursday 21 February 2013

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.

I leave X as my mark,
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


 YOU’VE    GOT  
      A          SAY?

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)

Saturday 16 February 2013

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.

Tuesday 12 February 2013

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.

Thursday 7 February 2013

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
   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
   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...)