Sunday 14 October 2018


The ivy doesn’t look too well and I wonder if I have watered it too much or too little?   Its leaves are soft fading and curling.   It looked healthy before as did you. I wonder if my efforts to nurture have been in vain and that somehow I have missed the point, the point of survival.  Is survival to merely exist or to live life to the full or to just survive whatever the cost?  What worth is our history if we just die, the memory of us diminishing across generations, words on a headstone, nothing more.

You are frail now my love, yet I don’t understand how a sixteen stone man can be described as frail – it just doesn’t correlate.   Frail to me is a stick-thin person teetering on the edge of life and death.   Rest is rust they say as if somehow these words of wisdom will raise you like Lazarus from your bed, strengthen your atrophied muscles, reactivate your mind.

I feed you thickened fluids from your sip cup and you drink with a want.  I wonder if you thirst too much or there is just never enough.  Is this your way of hanging onto life or do fluids bring comfort?  You smile at me and grab at the cup sipping on blackcurrant goo.  I love you so much you know – I will quench your thirst forever.

How the wind rages,
precipitating the storm,
winter is coming.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by the lovely Mary - cheers Mary!

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads, hosted by Vivian.  Cheers coming to you too Vivian!

Wednesday 10 October 2018


“And yesterday the bird of night did sit
Even at noon-day upon the marketplace,
Hooting and shrieking.  When these prodigies
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,
“These are their reasons.  They are natural.”
For I believe they are portentous things
Unto the climate that they point upon.”
(Julius Caesar, Shakespeare.)

I’m not one prone to superstition, I’m not.  I defiantly walk under ladders, step on cracks in the pavement and chatter whilst walking under a *monkey puzzle.  If I break a mirror and cut myself clearing the fragments, that is carelessness.  I do not fear the next seven years. 

But this is different.  He (owl) has stood sentry outside my window for nigh on two days now, staring at me, unblinking.  He appears to need neither nourishment nor sleep, his only need seeming that of me.

Winter is here and I find myself fading as if day into night.  And he watches.  He watches.  He watches…

Night yawns at sunrise and I welcome this new day –
I  live!   I  live! 
Snow falls gently from the heavens,
casting itself at my window,
blankets the earth in its white finery,
offers me strange comfort.

Still, there is a sense of foreboding, a hollowness,
and owl, he watches, he watches. 
I fear his vigilance and wonder if I shall live to see the thaw…

Oh that he would leave me alone…

Anna :o]  

*During my early childhood I learnt of the superstition of talking whilst walking beneath the branches of a monkey puzzle tree - it was believed that bad luck would occur or we might lose something and in some cases grow a monkey's tail!

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of The Owl and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Sumana!
Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Richard Fisher

Thursday 27 September 2018

It's Nowt To Do With Me!

Mother and father know best, they always have don’t you know,
feathering their nests with unneeded appliances
they only use once or never take out of the box, so what,
at least they have the power of ‘have’ and keep up with the Jones’s,
although ideally they would be winning that race.

Wealth is relative to your wants and your needs,
but if you have it why not flaunt it, buy this and buy that
whether you need it or not, for when you tire of it,
you can find it a new home at any old landfill. 
(Give it away to those less fortunate than you –
are you kidding - I will not furnish the needs of those
who don’t even bother to try. 
(I’d rather die first, don't you know - freebies won't come easy from me))

My brats are the same with their Game Boy’s and smart phones
which of course need to be replaced at the very least yearly,
and then there’s their clothes that must be designer, must be designer
for the kudos and the power's in the brand don’t you know,
and when they tire of a thing, off to the jolly old landfill it goes.

Today is so wonderfully pleasant for a stressed mum like me
what with disposable nappies that I dress junior in, for I must confess
I feel a little bit queasy at the thought of dropping his shit down the *netty
from one of those awful terry towelling squares.    
And those disposable ones,
I don’t have to wash them when their purpose is done, just drop them in
the unrecyclable bin and off to the landfill they go. 
Isn’t life so wonderfully easy?

You ask if I’m worried that our planet is in meltdown,
well of course I am for whom in their right mind wouldn’t be?
But I can state categorically indeed quite emphatically
that this pollution is not down to me.  I do as I’m asked
when meeting the task of sorting my rubbish into this or that bin,
tossing whatever in into its designated (right colour) receptacle – 
so see I follow all of the rules.
What happens to them when I’ve done what is asked is beyond my control
for, for my part I’ve just followed them damned written rules

And that plastic polluting the seas, well again it’s not just down to me,
for I rarely visit the coast don’t you know. 
So get off your high horse you who think you’re so so earth friendly,
for of course you haven’t seen me watching you arrive home
in your posh four wheel drive with particulates puffing outa its exhaust. 


Anna :o]

*Netty – a toilet, Northumberland dialect., also ‘nowt’ a Northern English word for nothing.

Sherry at Real Toads has us writing of Earth’s grief as we watch it empty down the plughole, we pulling out the plug ourselves and above is my take on it.

Of disposable nappies/diapers, do you know that apart from the few biodegradable nappies in the marketplace, the following happens?

"Decomposing disposable nappies emit noxious methane gas. It will take 200 to 500 years for a disposable nappy to decompose, leaving a legacy to your children's grandchildren.
"The production of disposables uses 3.5 times more energy, 8.3 times more non-renewable resources, and 90 times more renewable resources than real nappies.
"They produce 2.3 times more waste water and 60 times more solid waste than real nappies."
WEN goes on to say: "Tributyl tin (TBT), a chemical compound which is known to disrupt sex hormones, has been found in disposable nappies on sale in the UK.

Please see source of this information here.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Author:  Thue

Sunday 23 September 2018

Life Hurries On

Life hurries on and at this moment,
at this very moment
she is touched by the touch of his hands,
one slipped twixt her breasts,
the other feeling its way to her pants

Old she may be, all wrinkles and rickety limbs,
but she is grateful to him for the attention he gives,
for she lives and she breathes and she wants and she needs
and she is beautiful both inside and out.

He is as ancient as she is, memory fading and pissing of pants,
fears of tomorrows’ and the forbidding ‘no dad, you can’t(s).’  
It’s not right dad.  You’re too old dad.  Seriously,
I think it’s a teeny bit grubby.  No dad, forget it, you just can’t. 
You can’t fall in love again – you just can’t.

But he loves her and the drive is still there,
keeps him alive and in this moment of passion he lives how he loves,
gives all that he is to this woman he holds in his hands. 
He is beautiful.

He is all over her and she loves it,
loves the love of it, the intimacy of it,
maybe   even the lust of it, but it’s a want and a need,
and she loves the feelings that come with it,
that powerful needing and wanting, the soon to be ecstasy
as he fumbles his way  to her heart.

Anna :o]

As an ancient one, this article  'How to have great sex in later life' in Patient interested me greatly as it touches on the sexuality of the more mature individual, the older and wiser person, as I am.  :o]

There is a certain societal taboo with regards to us older folk having sex as it somehow feels ‘dirty’ to those younger than us, for as we all know sex is that wonderful drug that is only the property of the young…  I do remember as a spotty teenager hoping beyond hope that my parents had only had sex three times resulting in me and my brother and sis, for it didn’t bear thinking about that they actually would do that for the sheer enjoyment of it, as they were far far to old, and it just wouldn’t be right.  I also remember my eldest son (teenage then) asking if his dad and I still had sex for he never heard us…  None of your business son!

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by the lovely Mary.  Cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels.

Thursday 20 September 2018

Mox Nix

Mox nix my friend, it matters not a jot
that now there is to be three of us,
you need to leave to find your stupid sorry self.

Oh there you are, you pathetic little stupid scrote,
crawling back beneath that rock from whence you came.  
Shame on you for running scared, but what the heck,
at least I really know you now.  So sod off, go forth and multiply,
spread you wimpish genes make other little baby boys who cry like you,
little wimps like you who run scared when the going gets a little tough.

I shall bear the child the boy and call him George
and raise him good and kind and strong,
he will become a man finessed with fairplay & fortitude,
something your parents never did with you.

So mox nix my friend, sod off and ne’er come back
for I’ll be glad to see the back of you.

Anna :o] 

Shay at Real Toads asks us to write using (one of five) foreign words/phrases that have become an accepted part of the English language.  One of these is Mox Nix which is a bastardiasation of the German “Es macht nichts” used by American GI’s in WWII Europe to mean “It doesn’t matter” or “It makes no difference” and some of them brought the phrase home with them.

Cheers Shay.

Video courtesy of YouTube 

Thursday 6 September 2018


Sun hums (I’ve always heard her,
oh so long before the sages found her,
heard her self-soothing stimming
sounding in their waiting ears).

Oh how she’s told me of her chaos,
how her mere existence pains her,
how her torrid temper maims her,
how she’s waiting just to die.

Oh how she’s sung her song to me,
sung to me beneath the heavens,
bid me please release her from her anger,
quell fires forever raging in her bosom;
pains me with her plaintive pleas.

Out of body I soar towards her,
soar along this astral plane,
time altered into now or never,
and oh how I long to be beside her
and how she gently guides me to her
as I longingly call out her lovely name.

We are one now forever melded into fire
and I bear her wrath and feel her pain,
yet I can do naught to soothe her
yet she moves me soothes me
with her soulful longing mournful wantings
as consumed I am with love of her.

Anna :o]

For Toni’s prompt at Real Toads where she asks us to Step Into the Void – cheers for the inspiration Toni!

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse, hosted by Grace – cheers Grace.

Video courtesy of YouTube and with thanks to NASA Goddard

Wednesday 29 August 2018

Come Back

What if I stared, really stared, willed you
and you opened up your eyes and said:
Hey don’t you cry its okay its okay,
I’m not dead, I’m just sleeping.

What if I held onto you, held you tight
and begged you please to come back
and you breathed again, took hold of me,
gently loved me and kissed me, saying:
Hey, don’t worry; my heart is yours for the forever of keeping.

What if I said I’m sorry, I never ever meant to hurt you. 
What if I said my words were cruel idle threats
and that I would never ever leave you? 
Would you come back?

What if I said I can’t live without you,
would you doubt me?   Please don’t doubt me. 
You’re all I am or ever was and I need you, need you back. 
I can’t imagine living this life without you.

What if I stared, really stared
and you opened up your eyes and said:
Hey don’t you cry its okay its okay,
I’m not dead, I’m just sleeping.

Please please open your eyes,
please come back to me for
I can’t imagine my life without you...
Please please please just open your eyes.

Anna :o]

For Susan’s 'What If' prompt at Poets United – cheers for the inspiration Susan.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Adam Jones

Wednesday 22 August 2018


Buck yourself up you say granddad, the worlds a wonderful place if you just look for it.  I’d love to be as delusional as you are granddad, still as innocent as the day you were born, aren’t ya. 

Okay, okay, yes where we are right now, this very spot, takes my breath away, fills me up, it is truly beautiful, I love being here.  (And I do love you.)

This meadow where we sit, look at it look at it, look how beautiful it is.  The flowers!  The flowers! Oh so beautifully lovely! But what you don’t see granddad is the battle beneath, the never ending battle between predator and prey.  Little tiny life forms forever at war.  Insect eats insect.  Bird eats insect, small mammals eat insect.  Birds of prey eat small birds and small mammals, big mammals eat little mammals; it just goes on and on.

Look over there granddad, the lambs – well sheep really – nibbling at the grass on yonder hill, how idyllic a scene.  But you must realise they are not there to make the world look pretty.  They will end up on your plate granddad, we are their predator, they are our prey.  Yes I know you’ve never killed one – we leave that to someone else, someone else in some distant abattoir.  The workers there must become immune to death or relish it, killing as cruelly as they can.  I wouldn’t like to be them.

You think I’m a pessimist granddad – well I guess I am, maybe a realist?  Do I think this world a wonderful place?  Overall, no.  But now and again wonderful things do happen here and I do love life.  There are some beautiful things here granddad, including you, beauty breathes from you, straight from that wonderful mind of yours.  So right now, this very minute, the world is indeed beautiful, a wonderful place to be. 

Thanks granddad.

Anna :o]

Sumana’s prompt today (at Poets United) is that of The World Is A Beautiful Place, this being the first line and title of a wonderful poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  

Above is my response to same, this written as prose.

Cheers Sumana!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Thursday 16 August 2018


There is no flag fluttering overhead, no patriotic symbol ‘neath which we, hand on heart, pledge allegiance.  We are just us. Nevertheless our flag marks out who we are, from whence we came or if new citizens, where we now reside.

Red white & blue the Union Flag (or Jack), a flag to signify the union of England and Scotland in 1606.  (Sadly, in this divided world of ours, ?some ?many in Scotland now wish independence.)  The Union flag bears many a stain of the blood of others, has fluttered over horrors I cannot even imagine.  I would suggest that the flags of many (most?) nations share similar shameful histories, these histories being written even now.

Am I proud to be British, English – I think I am.  If not quite proud, seeing the strife that scars the world today – I am glad I am.  I feel safe here, mostly safe, relatively safe, fearful sometimes perhaps. I think (perhaps viewing through rose-tinted glasses) that the silent majority of us Brits are okay as people.  Am I proud to be British, English – probably.  Am I proud to be human – definitely not.

Flags flutter madly,
earth signals in semaphore –
winter is coming

Anna :o]

Written for Susan’s prompt at Poets United  where she asks us to write of National Flag(s).  My response a bit of doom and gloom perhaps, but sadly, this is how I view this world of ours at present. 

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Original flag by Acts of Union 1800 SVG recreation by User:Zscout370

Saturday 28 July 2018


When between the ages of five and eleven, my family lived in Bognor Regis in West Sussex, Bognor being a coastal town, a seaside town.  My memory tells me it was almost always sweltering hot each summer and I have vivid memories of my clothes sticking to my back, so hot it was.  At weekends and during the school summer holidays, as a family we would often spend a day at the beach, taking with us my favourite thing – a picnic.  Mum would make up her wonderful fare, cheese and tomato sandwiches which would be deliciously soggy by the time we ate them (I still love these even now) and boiled eggs mashed up and mixed with Heinz Sandwich Spread, both these wrapped up in greaseproof paper parcels.  There would be her homemade currant buns, so deliciously soft and sweet and then the big treat of Smiths plain crisps with the little blue salt bag   I loved sprinkling on the salt and then would crush the crisps into tiny pieces, for in my child’s mind – it meant I had more.

We children would tread gingerly over the pebble beaches and make our way to the sand, which showed itself at low tide, and then swim in the sea.  Dad would join us in the water – but never in trunks, instead rolling up his trouser legs and going for a paddle.  The day was always a wonderful adventure and it was rounded off by the treat of soft whipped ice-cream, my favourite being this in an oyster shell cornet, the last delicious bits being sweetened by the marshmallow and coconut which provided the hinge.  Sometimes dad would buy a stick of rock, and once home, mum would smash it (with a rolling pin) into little tiny pieces which we three children shared.  I loved the sweet smooth outer shell and then the strange feeling of air sucked through the sucked porous middle.  Yum!

Oh memories are made of this!

Bare feet and warm sea, 
the sweet laughter of children, 
gulls squawk overhead.

Anna :o]

The above image is of Butlin’s indoor heated swimming pool where we children went for school swimming lessons, and I just had to include it for it evokes so many memories too.  I remember it so much, its magical appearance, its smell and the echoing expanse of it all.  I also remember us children desperately trying to hide the brief yellow stain that appeared as we peed ourselves, not wanting to leave this wonderful place for even one minute of the wonderful hour we spent there!

These words inspired by Kim at Real Toads – cheers Kim for this wonderful trip down memory lane.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United - hosted by Mary.  Cheers Mary!

Images courtesy of Pinterest.

Sunday 22 July 2018


The bantams are broody,
not a single egg laid
for at least the last month.
They hide in the hen house,
fretting and moody,
still in their silence
bar an occasional half-hearted,
a softest cluck-cluck. 
They long for the crow of a cock,
the warmth of the nest,
the gentle tap of the beak,
the cracking of shell,
the chirp of the chicks
as they welcome this world.

And she?
She is broody, her belly ballooning,
but this a mere phantom,
pregnant only with yearning, the want
the need of a tiny babe suckling,
grasping deep comfort in the warmth of her breasts. 
Oh how she longs for a life growing inside her,
if only, if only, if only.

This morning she rubs at her tummy,
fondles it strokes at it,
and yet knows it is naught but a dream,
for she has only ever been oh so desperately lonely,
she never having been kissed, never ever been loved
and never ever been laid
(Oh how she dreams of being laid,
safe in the arms of a man, she sure such a good man,
(she imagines the feel and the smell of him). 
Oh how she aches to be taken. 
Oh how she wants to be wanted.)

She hears the kettle click-off,
makes up a cup of  instant black coffee,
sees the bacon near-ready, (mmmm (licks her lips))
cracks an egg on the pan side,
lets it drop in
and watches it solidify in the sizzling hot fat.

Anna :o]

Inspired by the bantams – the bantams are broody.  They are not my little clucking friends, rather that of my son and daughter-in-law.

Just finished a few days stint of looking after my wonderful grandsons – loved it, but I’m now worn out!

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary – cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Jon Sullivan

Sunday 15 July 2018



Starling squawks,

sparrow cheeps,
song thrush sings
bee buzzes,

plane drones ‘cross
cloudless sky,
summer’s here! 


Cloudless skies,
sweet mown grass,
sprinkler swish.

Lie with you,
cuddle in,
steal a kiss!  

happiness -
salad days!


steaks, chicken
sizzle spit,

odours waft,
fill the air.
Magic taste,

charcoal grilled,
tummy filled
Yum!  Yum!  Yum!

Anna :o]

Marion at Real Toads has us writing Tricube’s.  Each Tricube should have three syllables per line, three lines per stanza and three stanzas’ per poem.

So above is a little trio of them.          

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels

Wednesday 11 July 2018


World sleeps, almost silent now
but for the steady hum of city lights,
the echoing of footfalls of the running man
as he races through the city streets,
adrenaline pumped,
he rushes, he rushes.

He has ghosts here
that shadow him through each and every day
through each and every night, haunt his very being,
spark adrenaline flight,
heart pounding as he flees his awful fears,
and in terror as he runs away;
he rushes, he rushes.

He wishes she hadn’t been like that,
hadn’t made him want her oh so very much,
hadn’t sucked him in then spat him out
‘til there was nothing left but miserable.

He had never known he could think like that
be like that plan like that act like that,
revenge had been oh so bittersweet,
the thrill of when the knife went in
countered with ache the deep regret
of robbing life of one he once loved so dear,
the rue of watching blood spill out,
pooling neath her lifeless body.

He had left her there, litter in a city street,
she decomposing neath unseeing eyes,
back alley dead, a discarded ready meal for gnawing rats,
a bounty there for fox for dog for feral cats,
for gulls and multitudia of insecta.

The city has devoured her,
she has now become the city,
has him in her grip, his every thought is full of her,
she resides in him, 
hides ‘neath his paper-thin fragility,
pouncing out at will.

He wonders whether he should confess,
whether this would rid the guilt,
whether a certain kind of peace would come.
‘Til then, ‘til decision made,
fear guilt adrenaline sparked,
he rushes, he rushes,
he rushes to escape himself.

Anna :o]

Sumana’s prompt (cheers Sumana) at Poets United, of City, reminded me of a long forgotten draft of city rough sleepers who exist in our cities.  But a trawl through documents found nothing, so I guess I must have deleted it when the PC told me You Are Running Out Of Space!  So I decided to pull on (my own) memory, but my words morphed into something else.  Where it came from, I do not know.  

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Altoona Police Department/Medical Examiner

Saturday 7 July 2018

Nag Nag Nag

Morning 1906, Clarence White (Fair Use, Public Domain)

Okay, so you’ve left me,
I can cope with that (or can I?).

But why leave all the mess,
the toilet seats up,
toothpaste spit in the sink,
curly pubes stuck in soap,  
dirty towels stuffed in cupboards,
and tidemarks ringing the bath –
it’s no wonder I nag you, no wonder I drink

I don’t know how I put up with you,
you dress like a tramp,
you stink of raw garlic,
snore like a pig
and your conversations a bore.

And now you have the cheek to leave me
saying you can’t stand me no more!
(Can’t stand me – I just don’t get that!)

Go then I said and damn you, you did!
You’ve gone and you’ve left me you garlic-breathed pig!
Damn you!  Damn you and damn you!
Damn you!
You’ll so regret leaving me
for I’m perfect you know!

Anna :o]

For Kerry’s Camera Flash prompt at Real Toads  – cheers Kerry!

Thursday 28 June 2018


When the End came,
this final End,
we were biting at our nails,
chewing on our lips,
tugging at the memories of our mothers skirts,
waiting the safe embrace of our long-dead fathers.

Greed had long left us hungry,
famine had devoured us;
thirst had left us dry,
our bodies shrivelling under the sun.

Hunger, conflict had scorched this earth, robbing
men of their hearts and us of our future,
our mothers raped, tortured, killed,
left to desiccate on this barren land,
ghosts they became,
ghosts of what was,
ghosts of what is.

We became carrion feeders,
teeth tearing at the souls of the dead,
sating our hunger with flesh,
our teeth grinding on their bones,
the bones the flesh of our mothers our fathers,
our brothers our sisters,
our friends, of strangers, of enemies -
for in us is a will to survive,
a will to live.

When only the living remained
we ate each other
and we began to eat ourselves,
one hungry mouthful at a time.

There are other predators,
those who are stronger than us.
The dogs are the worse,
savage in their packs,
as savage as we have become,
maybe always were.. 

I think they will inherit this earth;
they have the teeth for it,
the hunger.

Anna :o]

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing Speculative Fiction and above is my offering. 

If I were one of the last survivors in this possible future world, the dogs would worry me very much, oh so very much…

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United.  Cheers for hosting Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Source:  Wellcome Images

Sunday 24 June 2018


There, outside, starlings squawk
squeaking squabbling
fighting over suet balls – posturing,
Wings flutter,    then flapping beating,
feet outstretched, threatening threatening.
Battles quickly won, winners’
peck-peck-peck at (suet) prizes,
losers peckng scattered titbits - 
‘til the next war, (in moments moments,)
then they’ll squawk and fight again

Here, inside, we squabble
over little things, the minutiae, the meaningless,
as if our sorry lives depended on it. 
Posturing, chins jutted out,
teeth bared; lips curled & snarled,
we lace into one another,
venom in our screeching voices.

You win this time, even if by default –
I’ll no longer, can’t be bothered
to play this losing game, this silly blaming game,
where (somehow) you believe
I’m the driver in your sorry stupid life.

You preen like some vain cock,
cock-a-hoop over shallow victory,
smile smirking across your stupid face. 
Whilst I, defeated by the pain the chore of it,
seethe so strongly deep inside, &
mutter silent words in venom breaths.

Outside, now, all starlings gone,
two wood-pigeons coo and woo,
he follows her across the lawn,
tries to mount and with a flap of wings
she flies away, he follows her,
pursues his love…

I wish I could fly away but I’m still here
squawking screeching deep inside,
seething, spitting silent venom
whilst putting out new suet balls. 

Anna o]

Inspired by watching the birds in my garden, the human bit is pure fiction.  

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary, cheers Mary!

Video courtesy of YouTube