Friday 11 December 2015


There is a loss of self in peace,
a curious emptiness, a void to fill. 

Wounds too deep to lick crave blood to spill;
congeal on wounds to deep to heal,
a sorry comfort to an empty soul.  

A warrior ever roused,
he seeks solace in barbarity
striking terror to the moment,
the inglorious glorious moment.
And his bloodied hands slake his sordid soul
satiate his lust for blood,
bring completeness to that moment,
that inglorious glorious moment.

Anna :o[

Björn’s Tuesday prompt at dVerse is that of: War for peace – or just hard work?   He requested we use any form or trick to make us long for peace and not just hate war.  Although it is true I yearn for this world of ours to exist in a permanent state of peace, I cannot see it happening, ever, as mankind is as he is, is a predator, his prey being power and possessions.  There are some of us that walk softly on this Earth leaving our gentle footprints and oh so many others who churn up this Earth in unimaginable savagery and greed.

War is the hallmark of our history since the very beginning, the very beginning when we dragged ourselves from the primordial soup, and so it continues.  Look around our world today, the barbarity that exists within it and how we seek (to some degree) to ignore it; let it be some others problem as we hang on to the tiny space we have defined as ours.   Please read this article on War and Peace in which it notes that there have been some 250 major wars since the end of WW2.  

On the same Tuesday night I viewed Meet the Psychopaths, part of which detailed the work of American psychiatrist  Hervey M. Cleckley in which he noted that some WW1 veterans had mental health problems that would not respond to treatment, and further checking showed these soldiers carried a history of poor conduct, that of antisocial behaviour.   Later work in a general hospital setting, he came across individuals who showed the same personality traits, the same disturbed behaviour he had seen in the soldiers earlier.     From his observations he came up with 21 traits that to him, defined the label of psychopath and in 1941 his book The Mask of Sanity was published which brought the term psychopath into popular use. 

Estimate prevalence of psychopathy is that of 1 in 100-150 of us and we are what we are.  Of course not all psychopaths are of the axe-wielding variety, but look around our world today and you will recognise those who probably are, recognise them by their absolute barbarity and the pleasure and power they achieve from it.   

And so it is that evolution has little lifted us little from our primitive mindset and we will continue to battle until we wipe ourselves out.  Sad, but I think true.

I think it important to state that despite the misery above, I am a very happy optimistic soul, this state being due to the ability to dampen and maybe hide the realist in me.  Peace!

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN                 

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Kabir Bakie

Friday 6 November 2015

Terminal Agitation

There is a whisper in each soft staccato
breath bringing awful ambience to the dying room
(she is crying now for death
of him will be the death of her
(she has a longing for the life of him.)) 

How odd it is til two weeks past he was
the man of her, all fit and strong, a belonging
of togetherness and then a stumbled
foot, a fall from grace meant
the end of all of it.

He is dying now and she is she
thinks, grateful for the rush of time, that
pain is not a part of it.  She sits
and thinks of this sucking
in each soft staccato breath. 

There is a certain peace to this (she thinks) til
suddenly (as if full of angst) he rises
from the bed and restless now he paces floor. 
This weakens her equilibrium and she thinks
him an antagonist of acceptance.
(She is sick of herself for this.)

And then he dies. 
(Her fall is in the death of him.)

Anna :o]

Today at dVerse De Jackson asks us to become enamoured with enjambment.  Cheers De Jackson!  Above is my take – which may be enjambment or not!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author: Exploti

Monday 12 October 2015

Remember me...?

George Tooker, self portrait

You look at me and think you know me,
but you know me not at all. 
I am your epiphany, a drawing of last breath.    
In death you will seek me out,
the half-remembered face as if clinging onto life..    
But I would say to you, think on this,
the scythe it swings for all
and I will have no memory of you.

Anna :o]

Inspired by The Mag and Real Toads and also entered at Poets United.   Many thanks to you all!

Thursday 1 October 2015


Frog jumps a solitary jump,
he pauses then
as if planning move from A to B,
then aimlessly he jumps again. 

Neath him lays a fall of autumn leaves,
all crisp and dry a brittleness.   In some, 
decay leaves naught but a skeleton of arid veins,
a remnant of a long lost summer.  

She sees all this and dwells on it,
dwells on death decay and indecision. 

(Then) black dog of night gives way to  mist of morn,
a hovering of almost calm,
and she decision made,
makes incisions cross her wrists
and bathes herself in blood red warmth,
she a remnant of a long lost summer.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, today hosted by the most excellent Björn - cheers Björn!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Randi Hausken

Thursday 3 September 2015


Tis the beginning of that soon to pass,
sun swallowed in abyss of time.  

(He has the keenest eye
and watches waiting.)   

At dawn, birds’ chorus Earths wondrous splendour
as mankind softly stirs from slumber, wiping sleep from weary eyes,
yet once cleared, sees naught other than a selfish path to travel,
blind is he, oblivious.  

Elsewhere chaos reigns as those dispossessed,
afraid of each and all tomorrows,
seek refuge in some foreign land,
dreaming hopeful dreams of milk and honey. 

In their midst the martyrs sleep,
sleep in guise of wailing want and need,
and once bathed in welcome warmth of milk and honey,  
good is by schism rent asunder
as martyr dreams a paradise of dark-eyed virgins,

It is the beginning of the end
and He who has the keenest eye
is watching, waiting.

Anna :o] 

The above inspired by dVerse Tuesday prompt posted by the lovely Grace, her prompt was that of: What does the watchman see?  Also inspiration derived from Isaiah 56:10-12, which really doesn’t offer words of hope (I think).  

I missed the deadline for Tuesday as I only wrote today, so am offering to dVerses Open Link Night, the bar hosted by the lovely Mary.  Cheers Mary.

Am I pessimistic about mankind and this world we live in (seek to destroy?), I guess I am, and I worry greatly for my children and grandchildren’s futures.  Am I paranoid?  I don’t think so.  But I  do live in hope of mankind’s betterment… religion, hate and greed aside...

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Higor Douglas

Thursday 9 July 2015


There is a stifled breath, a quietened fear. 
A heartbeat skipped.
She waits the night to take her up,
scoop her up to silvered moon.

There is a quiver to his voice,  
a loss of vocal strength,  
he fraught with angst and ancientness.    
He sits with her, beside her then,
takes her fingers in his gnarled and knotted hand,
grinding bone against her wedding band;
she winces then as yelp spills from those thin whitened lips.

He is mortified, beside himself,
consumed with guilt he drops her hand
and she screams she screams she screams. 
Oh Jesus I’m so so so so sorry, he cries
and rocks his moaning head in those knotty bony things
that once offered love, now only help rack up her pain.

He stands now, shuffles up aside the bed
til near enough to bend, plant the softest kisses on her head. 
And those gnarled and knotted hands,
now the gentlest and most loving things
comb his tears through sparse strands of hair
that lick her scalp as if clinging onto life.

She gurgles then. 
And he loses her.

She looks tiny now, a tiny doll,
white porcelain face, eyes black still pools. 

He wails as she dissolves into the night.

Anna :o]

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Thursday 4 June 2015

Midst the Miniscule

Midst the miniscule, there is industry,
life teems in towns cities of the smallest breath. 

In crawlspace, twixt rock and terra firma,
woodlouse covets close comfort of her kin,
whilst slug, confined to idle solitude, curls, sleeps.   

Neath this dark damp dormitory
worms burrow aerate
stir a richness to the soil;
roots search out a bedrock
anchor shoots to gazing sun.

Above: under canopy of buddleia
fly wriggles in curtain spider-spun;
ants hurry scurry milk aphid dew;
midges mate  in airborne never-ending circles;
midst life’s miniscule, there is industry,
life teems in smallest breaths.

Anna :o]

The above is a response to Patti’s prompt at dVerse on Tuesday in which she asked us to go outside and get reacquainted with nature outside our back door and write of it.  Having just completed, twas to late to post, so same is offered to Open Link Night, tonight hosted by Bjorn, cheers Bjorn!  Also, many thanks for the inspiration Patti.

The words are of the adventures with my grandson, he is fascinated with minute life forms and we turn over rocks and such and scour flora for same.  I love it when he grabs my hand and takes me to his sandpit to show me the tiniest beetle he has found, his delight and obvious interest is a pleasure, a most wonderful thing.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Ireen Trummer

Tuesday 19 May 2015


artwork by Ulrike Bolenz

tis such a childish thing,
so I metamorphasise,
bare naked soul neath dragon wing,
take flight o’er starry-eyed naivety,
seek error of enlightenment. 

I absorb you,
all flesh and skin and bone of you,
become a shadow of yourself.

I live and breathe you,
consume your very being,
consume myself
til completely lost,
lost in love of love of you.

Anna :o]

Inspired by the pic at Magpie Tales, pic and prompt provided by the lovely Tess, cheers Tess! 
Also entered at dVerse OLN hosted by the lovely Gabriella - cheers Gabrella.

Thursday 7 May 2015


Night chills sun-sweltered day
He nibbles at her, softens her.
[Her back arches at the want of him]

Elsewhere, he    [the cuckold]
explodes within without;
rage heightens senses hammers fists.
owl hoots, waits til
[He hears soft click of closing door]  
sensing prey
he swoops...
Upon her then he is;
scoops her up twixt threat and thunder,
throat becomes a place to hold her,
hold her til her breath is done.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by Abhra.  Cheers Abhra!  
Also entered at Poets United - thanks folks.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Gert Germeraad

Thursday 30 April 2015

A Thickening of the Leg

thus define a perfect pear,
fruits of her labour, that they are.

She wanders ‘bout him,
wanders through the tangles in his hare,
hides in the madness of his march (inside her)
until she comes out.

There is a bone of connection,
a joint diene;
a thermal cracking of the bones.

At the crack of born
she comes out again from within herself,
she is the tail between her legs,
fruits of her labour that she is.

She is the cock that breaks forth within herself,
the chicken and the egg. 
She is incongruous,
a perfect pear (she is),
fruits’ of her labour.

Anna :o]

Björn at dVerse has us writing us writing of Catachresis and above is my take on it.  It was my original plan to ignore Björn’s prompt as I really need to go to bed and slip, slip into slums…

…but I couldn’t as (dogs gone (where)) he inspired my imagination.

My imagination based on a recent film I have viewed, which is: Predestination.  It is a time-travelling film which initially hooked me until I became aware of an obvious flaw in the plot.  Visual flaws I can forgive – but plot flaws do me ‘ed in!  The plot a very much chicken and egg thing with a cock(erel) thrown in…  Have you seen it – what do you think?  Chicken or the egg?

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author: Pava

Thursday 23 April 2015

Upon Learning I Am Soon To Die

How harsh the softly spoken words,
how kind the man of cruel task
in telling tales of flick’ring flames
of candle burning down to wick.

How quick my eyes begin to dim
as lights go out as hope is dashed.  
I suffocate as walls close in
and terror strikes this heart of mine.

How distant are the humming sounds
of those I know who speak of love
and offer me their fond farewells
as panic swells and overwhelms.

How strange the speed of passing time
when heartbeat slows til almost still
and bellows gasp each laboured breath
and terror grips a spirit quelled

How can the candle flicker out
upon this life I yearn to live? 
How can the flame of me just die?
I don’t know how I can’t exist.

Anna :o]

For those of you who don’t know, I work in a care home.  All of us who work there feel privileged, privileged to really care for the residents who reside there, in their home.

It is like any real home, your home, my home.  There are happy times and bad times, fall-outs and forgiveness.  I regard the residents as my friends and they feel comfortable with me too.  Of course there is and must be professional boundaries in that I would not offload any problems I have or have had onto the residents for they have their own burdens to carry and it would just not be right.  There are many other boundaries too, lines that must not be crossed with vulnerable adults.  And they are not crossed.

That aside, the residents are my friends and I value that.  I know them inside out, know their strengths and weaknesses, know what they can and cannot handle.  The residents are why I love my job. 

Sometimes problems occur with those fine folk who exist in GP land in that they have quotas to meet, boxes to tick, orders to be followed (from those who exist in the higher echelons who know nothing of medicine at all).  I wrote of this many moons ago, here:

In our home we will not do certain things to make GP’s happy if we feel it will cause psychological harm to our residents – I cannot say much else or it might identify my home and its sister homes.  (We are small and mighty but each home exists autonomously.)

One of the things we have an issue with is the GP’s belief that everyone has the right, the need to know that they are in the process of dying.  Fair enough, so they have – but at the same time there is also the right, the right of the need not to know, an acceptance of the inability to cope with the knowledge of impending death.

And so above is Jimbo’s story.  Jimbo came into this world with congenital birth defects, defects that affected his ability to mobilise and because of this defect, he was the butt of jokes and cruel jibes and began to exist within himself, a recluse to save himself from hurt.  As the years passed he became apathetic to his own needs and neglected himself.  He entered our home with a diagnosis of dementia.

Across the first few weeks it became clear to us that Jimbo did not have dementia, rather his apathy and depression, his reluctance to engage had been misdiagnosed as such.  We sought the input of his new GP – this needed as he had moved out of his previous GPs catchment area – who treated his depression, but would not shift his diagnosis of dementia.

Across time we developed a rapport with Jimbo and he began to feel valued, that he had a place in this world.  He still would not initiate conversation but was glad when we did; a smile lighting up his face and he offered us snatches of his life.  He remembered our names.

As years passed he physically declined and began to experience pain for which he was treated.  On one GP visit, the GP noted that Jimbo was now in the slow process of dying and we requested that Jimbo not be told this, as we knew he was terrified of same.  We felt we had the right (on Jimbo’s behalf) to request this as he had no next of kin and we were concerned for his spiritual welfare.

This request was honoured, that is until a time death neared, and the GP took it upon himself to break the bad news as he thought Jimbo had-the-right-to-know.  This well-intentioned decision had an immediate devastating affect on Jimbo as we knew it would.

His terror was palpable.  From that moment forth he refused food, fluids and meds, fearing things hidden to hasten his death.  His anguish his terror added to the now untreated depression and physical pain and his life became unbearable, despite his determination to hang onto it.

I was on shift the night he died; knowing as I did this would be the night.  He was screaming out in pain and I knew I could not let him die like this, so phoned out-of-hours docs and explained the situation, asking if they could help.

A doc arrived some thirty minutes later and gave Jimbo pain relief and a sedative via injection.  Jimbo was terrified at the sight of the syringe and I assured him that the doc was there to relieve his pain and not to kill him and he submitted – but never spoke to me again.   I sat with Jimbo til he died.

I often think on this, wondering whether I requested GP intervention for my own peace of mind and not for Jimbo’s sake.  For despite relieving his pain, all this action did was increase his terror and led to his distrust of me and in essence he died very much alone.

Were it not for his GPs good but misguided intentions the situation would have never arisen.  Jimbo would have died pain free and at peace with the ones who loved him.  Some folk cannot deal with the knowing and it is wrong very wrong to force it upon them.

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by Grace, cheers Grace!  
Also entered at Poets United Poetry Pantry.  Thanks Mary!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Thursday 9 April 2015

The Measure of Her

He has the measure of her (he thinks)
and she a clay of skin and bones;
malleable; subservient. 

He has no need of feet or fist
when poisoned words can bruise and break
and she malleable
is subservient.

Quiescent (she presents)
yet still within her heart a lion roars;
yet malleable she is subservient.

Moon waxes wanes.
Within the confines of her mind
lion roar morphs to that of bleating sheep;
malleable she is subservient.

Some day the sun will shine for her,
death free her from her nothingness,
until then, she is malleable subservient

Anna :o]

Shared with dVerse OLN, hosted by Anthony.  Cheers Anthony!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Jiri Hodan

Sunday 15 March 2015

Egg McMuffin

Poetry is dead he said
as he stared at me  
and munched at his McMuffin. 
(There is bread stuck in
between his teeth
and a spot of yoke upon his nose
and I suppose that I should tell him,
but instead gaze into those blazing eyes
as he fills my head with nothing.) 

He pontifies as he nibbles fries
(his ego all a-glowing):
You folk up north should not utter forth
of things you are unknowing. 
I find absurd you think the written word
is art in rhyme and meter,
hah (!) and if a girl can write sufficient prose,
well, I have yet to greet her. 

I don’t give a damn about these poetry slams
(nor do I, I interjected)
where drunken folk mumble poetic jokes
to those-intellectually-affected.
(He shakes his head and stops for breath now) 

(I speak I speak I speak!)
Ah sir (say I) we can’t let it die,
‘twas once all literature was poetry;
remember Gilgamesh and Beowulf,
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.

(I suppose so, he says as he texts nothing words…)

I add: Poetry is like a fine red wine,
so much better slowly sipped and savoured,
for poetry read once and rushed,
why, you miss its subtleties and flavours.

That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard (he says)
like all poets you are pretentious. 
And if I’ve offended you, well that is what I do;
I have no problem being contentious!

The fool he gloats as he grabs his coat
and with a Harrumph then off he goes,
with bread stuck ‘tween his stupid teeth
and egg running down his nose.

Anna :o]

Karin at Real Toads writes: The prompt, should you choose to accept it, is to write something inspired by a breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, coffee, snack eaten out, at the local diner, cafe, restaurant, fast food joint, even, if you wish, camp site.  

I mean this prompt to be as broad as a glass door held open by a very polite person--(you will note that in my own politeness, I make no reference to tall stacks, wideness, and hips.)  You should feel free to write from the perspective of diner, server, cook, table, plate, pancake.  If you want to write with a forked tongue, in other words, go ahead!  If you want to just go sit in a cafe and write whatever comes to mind, that's okay too.  (Just, maybe, smear some ketchup on your screen.)  

And so dear Karin – the above is my offering.  Y’know, although I (attempt to) write poetry, I do not consider myself a poet - strange maybe, but so am I…  Poets are those wonderful people who write wonderful things, masters of words.  So for me to write as if I was a poet – well maybe I am developing an ego…

Also entered at Poets United – with many thanks to the lovely Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Glane23