Thursday 24 October 2013

With Rapier Wit

With rapier wit- his words his sword,
a cut deep into her heart he scored
and twisted thus (with daggers thrust)
and she (poor thing) her longings crushed,
wailed, as from her eyes her tears poured.

And he (the fool) knew that she he adored
and knew his words himself had gored,
and knew deep inside that he was cussed
with rapier wit.

He genuflect, forgiveness he implored,
his heartfelt wish; her love be restored.
And she (good thing) her worries hushed,
a kiss upon his cheek she brushed.
And he: lust crude confessed lost her once more
with rapier wit.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us write a Rondeau for today’s Form for All, thanks Tony.

I subscribe to Wikimedia Commons Picture of the Day and as today's was so perfect I had to use it and gained my inspiration from there.  (Author attribution: Marie-Lan Nguyen)

Thursday 17 October 2013


You never quite forget the hell of it,
the smell of it:
charred flesh and cordite;
and the never ending mortar fire
and sometimes you go mad with it.

I body-rock:
rhythmic   repetitive 
like a ticking clock,
tick-tick-tick, to-and-fro
not side-to-side like a stick insect
and he asks:
how do you feel about this;
and I say I don’t know,
not being arboreal 
I've never lived in trees.

My feelings for you are inchoate
although I’ve known you
longer than a piece of string
and I can’t help wondering
if that time we smoked all night long
and I got paranoid
whether you just might’ve set fire to the bed
as you rocked to-and-fro in candle light
grinning like a Cheshire cat.

My heart
has the monotony of a metronome
and my mind
is bored with its click-click-click-click
and I think I am bored with you
but as said feelings inchoate.

The garden is overrun by weeds
and ivy strangleholds the trees
and sometimes I think you are strangling me
and I wonder if I should cut and run.

I think my mind is running out of time
and I don’t quite know who or what I am. 
And I wonder if this coldness in my breath
is death whispering holding out its hand,
and whether it is or not,
either way do I give a damn.

Anna :o]

Gay at dVerse has us writing beat poems and she writes: Beat poems have no set form. They are free verse influenced by blues, jazz, post-war angst, the feeling of being beat down by society  (therefore a little rebellious) inspired by hallucinogenics (surreal) also influenced by meditation, Zen Buddhism, Native American and other ethnic tribal lore and folk stories.  The challenge for this article is to take some of these elements and create your own beat poem.

Not quite sure the above is one, but I chose to write about post-war angst and the effects of hallucinogenics.  The image sourced at Wiki is itself sourced from the 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Research Fact Sheet' authored by The National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH).

Interestingly (or worryingly?), the fact sheet advocates cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and I wonder about this having personally seen the damage that can be done in taking this 'talking' path, where the patient becomes stuck on the merry-go-round of constantly reliving a traumatic event or events.

Of course the skills of the counsellor are paramount here but sometimes I wonder if all this ‘talking’ is to meet the needs of the counsellor…

One of my great mentors (on this subject and via reading his blog) is The Cockroach Catcher and you may be interested in reading his posts on PTSD here.  He writes:

What was most surprising was how the group that had counselling generally faired worse, much worse than those without any counselling. The group that did best were the ones that drank, and drank a fair amount.

Please visit his blog and read more.

Monday 14 October 2013


As mean as any howling cur, that’s him
an’ I seen what he done to her,
that one we thought the sweetest thing
who refused his plea to be his wife,
an’ he as mad as hell, he slapped her hard
an’ screaming to the floor she fell. 
An’ he with keenest butchers eye
took hand his favoured sharpest knife
an’ plunged it deep in t'cavity
where we thought her beating heart would be.  

An’ to our horror ‘twas just a stone
laying cold an’ hard twixt flesh an’ bone
an’ she with the wildest eyes I’ve ever known
let out this god-awful ear piercing moan,
grabbed at his knife and stabbed at him,
stabbed at him ‘til she could stab no more,
then curled back her lips an’ ate him raw. 

Me master gone then she turned on me,
you’re next she screeched an’ tried to cut me up
an’ I bit her hard an’ she lost her grip
an’ I took a chance and fled as fast can be. 
An’ courage now almost drained from me
I hide quivering whimpering like some discarded pup,
hoping life be bled from me an’ I be long dead and gone
‘fore she finds my scent ‘fore she hounds me out 
'fore she curls back her lips and eats me up.

Anna :o]

This gruesome tale (which still requires a bit of tinkering) was inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag.  Also entered at The Poetry Pantry at Poets United, kindly hosted by Mary; thanks Tess and Mary!    

Friday 11 October 2013

Chalked daffodils

That lad: you’ve never met
but you know he’s there,
a lad – not now perhaps,
or still perhaps
(hiding behind that greying hair) –
that lad with an obvious flair
of giving reason to the rhyme,
the rhythms’, the reasoning of life.

He thinks of things,
well thinks out things,
that man, that lad, that David King,
he gives off the air of innocence
as he writes (abstract)
of brutish bears and angel wings
in such a way that anything is possible.

He says his life began
when his good lady became his wife
and how good is that how good that man,
that man, that lad who  could who can
(still) inspire that fire within the heart of us
to write of things,
of brutish bears and angels wings
and that anything is possible.

He taught me so much by the wisdom,
innocence of his words and my sorrow
is that I did not let him know
or perhaps I did (I hope I did)
in comments in which I bestowed acknowledged 
the greatness beauty simplicity innocence
of his words in which he understood
the complexities of this world
in a way I never will or never could/can.

Chalked daffodils on pavement stone
cut vapour trails where planes have flown.”
The genius in that, the beautiful simplicity,
the electricity it stirred in me,
Dave you will always be the teacher,
the lad, the man, who realised in me
the impossible is not impossible
for if you try you can.


The above is a tribute to the great Dave King who sadly died this week.  He was and still is a great inspiration to me.  He had a wonderful innocence but still a great understanding of this world in which we exist and wrote of it in his wonderful unique way.  I will miss him greatly and wish I had taken the time to know him better.  Friendship is not a thing we should wait for others to initiate – but oft we do.  I first emailed Dave not that long ago – not long before he let us know of his illness.  I held my handout too late and that I regret.  I shall endeavor to do better from now on.  Miss you already Dave and keep writing wherever you might be.

Written in tribute with his fellow friends at dVerse.

Tuesday 8 October 2013


Image by crilleb50
He sits pondering,
well wondering really,
wondering whether
she’ll be late or early,
late probably, she always is.  
This time thing gets to him;
he hates the way
she keeps him waiting.

He ruminates:
is time but a mere linear continuum?
Not so (he thinks) for she
always late
has it flexible, stretched out, elastic.

The minute hand never sweeps
as he sits anticipating her arrival. 
Anticipating?  Nah! 
Not that plastic smile
or those heaving boobs
she thinks he finds fantastic. 

If the truth be known, she to him –
a mere residuum
of a whim at computer dating –
has had her time!
The ennui of his continuous waiting
has been (to him)
somewhat ego deflating
and his heart has sought another!

Oh yes, in his mind his secret lover,
his flesh so ripe just for her taking;
the heaving boobs are worth forsaking
for the clever beauty in accounting.

Perchance to dream! 
For him the problems mounting
for how does one so weak in nature
(a failure would be his nomenclature
in this thing, this thing called love,
well no, character strength,
of which he is sadly lacking)
say Sorry kiddo, it’s all over?

He hesitates, should he end it today?  
His resolve dissolving by the minute 
and much to his sorrow
he procrastinates,
he will wait, kiss her, pretend to love (?) her
and ending it? 
Well he will make another date 
and ending it will perhaps be

Anna :o}

Inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag and (some of) the words provided at The Sunday Whirl.  Thanks Tess and Brenda.

Some of the words: (Per)chance,  hand, sweeps=swept, flesh, ripe, secret and clever.