Monday 30 April 2018


Walking has always been a problem for me, what with gait and balance issues.  That said, it didn’t bother me much as a child, or at least I can’t remember it doing so.  Now an old biddy, joints ache, knees give way and I fall now and again – but I get up and just carry on.  I know that in part, this is my fault for since retiring I have become sedentary and ‘use it or lose it’ kicks in and walking is tiring, not quite painful – but I ache and tire like crazy.  Only this weekend I have realised that only I can address this and I have begun to walk around the house for five minutes every two hours, but this eventually will become every hour and I will benefit from this.  I will become fitter.

But you my love, I remember walking with you.  I remember you walking me to the bus stop when we first met. I remember you walking me home after our first date and how you shook my hand at my front door and I thought I’d never see you again – but I did.  I remember how thrilled we were when our sons took their first steps and I remember walking (secretly) behind them when they wanted to walk to school alone.   I now walk (reluctantly) into your care home to visit you, for I find it hard to bear that most of the time you don’t know who I am.

Oh those little steps,
salad days then summer till
autumn befalls us…

Anna :o]

For dVerse where Bj√∂rn  asks us to write about walking.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Tomascastelazo

Thursday 19 April 2018


Back then I wrote lists on the back of my hands,
notes to my long-to-belong little self,
lists of things to remember,
things that don’t really matter,
well to me, but not to everyone else.

I peered at my lists through wide-open eyes
then erased with a finger & spit,
for whatever I did I was not the right shape to fit
in this clique exclusively fashioned by you.

Thinking of it, why did I want to belong
when I don’t want to change who I am,
I won’t play your games to beg to belong 
to your close-knit vain little clique,
- if you don’t like that, well I don’t give a damn.

Butter each other up; scratch each others backs
whilst you almost ignore me as I won’t play your damn childish games. 
I don’t give a damn if you don’t like who I am,
and quite frankly the way that you act defines how little you are
and I don’t view myself as the same.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at dVerse, hosted by Grace, cheers Grace.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Bert Kaufmann

Wednesday 18 April 2018

Blubell Wood

Blubell Wood, Abbeystead

I remember when…back bent against the wind; he trudged through woods ‘cross farmers’ fields, through hail and storm ‘cross rushing streams, till wet and worn and caked in mud he all but fell upon his knees, all this to bring his heart to me.

Grateful I held his heart against my chest and tired he, took him to rest in waiting bed and warmed him in my warm embrace, lay kisses on his wondrous face, and joyous thus we made love and cuddled till the morn, glorying in the light of day.

And in that summer we were wed and tilled the land and fed the earth, gave birth to fields of kale and wheat, and our sweet child who grew strong and kind, and as time ticked by became the gentlest man, so good and kind was he, and how full of pride of he were we.

But ‘cross the years the time had spread, till (my love) so thin was he, in he no pastures new no seed to grow, he wilted in the sultry summer glow, till breaths slowly ceased and dead was he and so lost was I and so alone.

Skeletal now and bent my back, I trudge through farmers’ fields and silent woods, eye the barren trees bereft of green, know this the path on which my love had been upon his journey long ago, as he trudged through mud, ‘cross rushing streams, till so tired all but fell upon his knees, all this to bring his heart to me.

I search for him through days and nights, till one morn upon the dawning light I see him there amongst the trees, and smiling he, he takes my hand as breathing slows and eyes grow dim, and released from life and happy now, I give my heart my soul my love to him.

Anna :o]

Sarah at dVerse asks us to write an ekphrastic poem inspired by the fine work of artist Fay Collins.  I chose the above artwork found at Fay’s website which can be found here:  I chose this for as soon as I saw it, it spoke volumes to me.

Cheers for the inspiration Sarah and Fay!

Tuesday 10 April 2018

Eyes Wide Open


I lack vision its true,
live for the thrill of today,
tomorrow will sort out itself,
always has and almost certainly
always probably will…                Still

I do see the me in the mirror
and quite beautiful I am,
framed in myopia,
my eyeballs unusually long
but my eyes quite alluring,
do you see how they ask you to come? 

Come, please lie beside me…
I have so much to give…
I’m a bicycle ride…
a journey in living…
maybe mount me and
we’ll see how it goes…

Life is a sweet smoking gun,
but is passion a crime?

You may think me immodest,
that I should hide behind veils,
but I am who I am,
willing and giving,
almost selfless in sharing,
proliferating myself for the good of mankind.

And you, you think you better than me,
use that tail twixt your legs like a god-given right,
wanting and needing, all women a possible conquest,
even those with a nerve to dare utter No.
How are you better than me?

I am the spider,
you a fly in my web,
tangled in fine threads,
thrashing in passion,
In flagrante delicto
caught by design.

Anna :o]

For MLM's photo challenge and also Sumana’s prompt of Vision at Poets United.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads

Cheers to all for the inspiration and opportunity!

Sunday 8 April 2018

I, Esurient

We are the scourge of ourselves,
sucking our world dry,
greedy for 'now',
for immediate pleasure,
the satisfaction of having,
of want without need.

Conquerors we once were,
the fear of alien nations,
we plundered their planets,
gorged on sweet bread of their flesh. 
But now we, devils of our own making,
forever forsaking our future,
feeding on the now of our wants,
we have finally conquered ourselves.

We have raped our own planet
and almost barren our world,
our suns raging in anger
melts our scales into slough
that drips off our backs.
Light fades in our vision,
shy neath a nictitate blink,
its membrane near failing to moisten
and almost blind we become. 

Fear growls in our hearts as our claws claw 
for strength from each fought after breath,
and we know we must act now,
for if not we are doomed as a planet
and doomed as ourselves.

I, Esurient, a scientist,
tasked with others of my ilk my design
to come up with an answer, and driven we are 
to save our world and our kind.
There is great need of research,
to conquer this disease that destroys us
and what better than snatching miserable lab rats
from that pit that names itself Earth.

(They are not far behind us, those humans,
seeming intent on destruction of self,
feeding on the wealth of today
and discounting the dearth of tomorrows...
the horrors to come.)

We come in the night stripping their planet of power,
switching off all lights, for what better than darkness
to feed on their fears and fill them sour with dread. 
We hungry (for life) suck them up to our ships,
in their millions their billions; we take all those
pathetic in living and the dried bones of their dead.

Testing DNA ribbons proves of nothing to aid us 
as a cure of diseases that ail us bewail us,
but we find humans nutritious and at least 
(for a while) we will feed well and thrive.  
And the planet though now hostile
to our alien life form can be altered to suit us,
give a temporary respite and keep us alive…

then we must begin again…to seek out new worlds,
to savage and plunder, seek out an answer… find
planets like us, intent of destruction,
that will feed us and home us,
will keep us alive,
well at least for a while…

Anna :o]

Inspired by Brenda’s Wordle 346,  the words being:  Stranger, drive, bread, light, on, switch, growl, devil, shy, off, stripe & snatches – although I couldn’t find a place for stranger and stripe.

Also inspired by MLM's prompt of “Alien Abduction” where she asks us to write from the viewpoint of the alien.

And shared with the good folk at Poets United too! 

Image courtesy of: Pixel's

Wednesday 4 April 2018

Its Beginnings...

Its beginnings … well
she hoarded she did,
threw nothing away,
everything had its value,
nothing was wasted,
might be needed tomorrow…

In the kitchen it started,
but not as you might think
on dirty old worktops
littered with used plates
humming malodourous,
grease congealing the remnants
of yesterdays’ dinners cooked eons before,
nor the myriad of cups of all shapes
and all sizes solid with mould,
milk soured & congealed & firm at their base.

Nor in the sink stagnant its water,
globules of grease floating idly atop,
no it started in there,
that place in the corner,
that place in the corner
behind that grubby old door,
the door to the larder, the larder
where she flung her old foodstuffs
or anything unwanted anything definitely dead;
oozing sprouted potatoes liquefying in plastic,
chewed bones from the roast & her mouldy old bread,
anything rotten or rotting, her meds never swallowed,
Tigger the old cat, dirty broken old dentures
and stuff from the downstairs commode
(you’d rather not know).

And the sun and the heat and the air did its thing…
isn’t life beautiful?

Came the time when her worried son visited
for it was time for that talk of where she should live.
That talk of the need of a care home for her needs
far outstretching the care he could give.

Tommy came too
(her delightful young grandson)
and he baulked as she hugged him, hugged him
ever so close to her bony old chest,
and (he) wanted to vomit as her dentures
clacked as she kissed him, and squirmed
as saliva wetted his tiny horrified lips.
(And oh how he quivered, he quivered,
poor little terrified mite,)

Go now said his father
and he willingly did so,
wandered the hall to the kitchen
and opened that door. 
That door to the larder
where new life was pulsating,
and inquisitive he, he sat on the floor.

In its glutinous puddle a potato thing
eyed him with its mean green solitary eye,
its orifice bursting with her dirty old dentures,
and terrified he, he knew he should run,
but so wanted so needed to touch it
and touch it he did. 

It bit off his finger and ran up his arm,
'granny' kissed him wearing the most terrible smile,
and terrified he peed at the moment his heart stopped
(poor little mite (paying the price of an inquisitive soul!)). 
And potato thing, bloated with blood & hungry for humans,
grinned and opened its mouth and swallowed him whole.

Anna :o]

Susan’s prompt at Poets United is that of the word Beginnings and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan!