End of Life

Michael 1976

He looks a lot smaller this day,

disappearing under the bed sheets,

shrinking into the mattress.

 

Everything is slowing down…

 

Soon everything will stop

and I wont know what to do with myself

 

I will be lost    so very lost

 

without him.

 

Anna

 

My Michael passed away August 2021 at the grand old age of seventy-two.  His death was expected.  He was the love of my life.

Michael had been a resident in the most wonderful caring care home since 2014.  It became his new home and he recognised the staff more than he did me and our two sons.  This did not hurt us at all as it was proof of how much he was so loved by the staff and indeed he was.  He felt safe, felt loved.  His care was exemplary and how so evident this was in his last three weeks of life, staff visiting him on their days off or phoning in to see how he was, asking if he still was with us.  Lovely lovely lovely people.

I wrote the above words sometime within these last three weeks, filled with grief of expected loss.

Our two sons and I found our eventual loss not as profound as we had expected it to be.  Timewise our grief passed relatively quickly.  I guess a slow separation had begun in 2014… the emotional distance.

I still find myself saying “Hello Michael” to his photograph and kissing him there.  I like that.  He is free and I am not lost.  Loves ya Michael!

Shared with the lovely people at Poets and Storytellers United, hosted by Rommy – cheers Rommy!

Small Print

 

Look at the small print,

look at it just look at it. 

No need to read

between the lines,

it is there in black and white.

 

Addendum to diary entry:

I love him I love him I love him!

 

I am so tiny tiny tiny

 

Why can’t I think big?

Why can’t I say:

I love you I love you I love you.

 

I am so tiny tiny tiny.

 

Oh if only I could sprout

the wings of a bird

I would fly to him,

fly to him

and gather him in my skirts.

 

Say: See here,

look at the small print: 

I love him I love him I love him!

Instead:  I am tiny tiny tiny.

 

I have the wings of a moth

forever searching for the moon…

 

Anna :o]

 

An oldie, resurrected.

I still have writers block – although that is probably untrue.  I have become idle and no longer attempt.  I have slipped into lethargy and my creative juices have dried up/evaporated.

That said, in the past year I have been inspired to write once, sad words, and although done, I am not quite ready to publish yet.  I think I probably will early next year.

In the interim I will endeavour to visit here often, become inspired by the prompts and finally write (regularly) again.

Shared with Poets & Storytellers United, hosted by the lovely Rosemary - cheers Rosemary!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Photographer: Pierre Dalous

Orca

 

Flashing crashing

through the waves

striking diving

into the deep

great and wonderful

the orca whale

 

Jamie (aged five)

 

As I am still suffering from a severe case of writers block, my lovely grandson Jamie has stepped up to fill the void.

On Thursday, his teacher sent him a picture of an orca whale and asked him to write a poem about it and above is the wonderful result!  Well done Jamie!

I asked Jamie if I could post his poem here, and thrilled he said “Yes!”

Thanks Jamie and a big Hello to my other lovely grandson and your lovely brother Theo!

Shared with good folk at P&SU's Poetry Pantry, hosted by the lovely Rosemary – cheers Rosemary!

 

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr  "Orca Roll" by Matthew_Allen is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

3 Across (cryptic)

 

I have paper

weighted down by coffee cup

as autumn winds

seem intent on catching it, lifting it,

giving it the gift of flight. 

I am stuck on 3 across

(and will marvel at its genius

when it finally falls-into-place)

and then I see him (all screwed up)

peripheral

and wonder what demons he does battle with.

 

A wasp alights to feed on sugar

blown by breeze to strew the table,

I am not frightened of it, of its sting –

my fears lay elsewhere (lay with him).

Will he leave or not?

My fear is that he might stay…

(I am still stuck on 3 across.)

 

(I marvel at it (the wasp) – tiny, perfect,

life compact in black and yellow skin.)

 

He unsettles me,

something I-cannot-quite-put-my-finger-on.

Is angst communicable ‘cross café tables?

He lights a cigarette,

takes one puff of it

then snaps it, throws it to the ground.

With anguished moan he lights another

and sucks at it, sucks at it as if there is no

tomorrow.

 

He has that leg thing,

right leg jerks up and down

causing chair to rattle.

He groans as he wraps head in hands.

A backfiring car elicits

startled wide-eyed response,

he panics, half screams,

slams fists down heavy,

shattering plate and peace.

 

He sees them (and me) voyeuring,

shouts “What the f**ck you looking at?”

stands, upturns chair and table

and with one loud “F**K YOU!”

storms off into his private hell.

 

(I am still stuck on 3 across.)

 

Anna :o]

 

Having (hopefully) temporary writers block (again), I have dredged up an oldie and tweaked it a little.

This is a true story.  I worked nights for years and after my final shift, I would meet my friend most Wednesday mornings for breakfast and then go shopping, even if mostly window shopping and then often go to another café for a mid-day meal.

The words are an account of what I viewed whilst sitting at a pavement table, while doing a cryptic crossword as I awaited the arrival of my friend.  I love cryptic crosswords.  If memory serves me well, I wasn’t stuck on 3 across, but whichever it was, it didn’t have the right ring to it, so 3 across it became.

Shared with the good folk at PSU Writers' Pantry # 55, hosted by the lovely Rommy, cheers Rommy!

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr "Do we have enough clothes?? Is our house safe?? Is it difficult to change diapers?? Will I ever sleep the next 18 years???" by zetson is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Mad

She has cut it out, her heart. 

She has stitched it together, it was broken. 

It is now tethered to her wrist by a string. 

 

It floats.  It beats. 

It is… (cold   (it is as frigid as ice))

 

“Beautiful, YOU are” he says as he lies down beside her

(it’s not the he, the heartless heartbreaker

but some unfortunate sap who just doesn’t get

that he’s plain out of his luck.)

 

He will die, this is certain, for the sins of the other,

the absentee lover who left her dejected rejected

that broke up her heart

 

She allows him to take her.  He takes her

and heightened with  passion she brings the knife down.

She roughly rolls him aside and he pleads with her quietly,

quiet quizzical Whys(?) filling his emptying eyes.

 

His lights have gone out – she feels both loss and elation.

She gathers her senses, carves out his heart,

flash fries it (in butter), then consumes it with gusto

with relish and tatties, fried onions and peas. 

Yum!  Yum!

 

She smiles…

One down and countless to go!

Hoorah!  Hoorah!  Hoorah!

 

Anna :o]

Just in case you’re worried, I love men, well most men, but I don’t love all women either (except in pies…). 

Words for the lovely Magaly who is hosting P&SU Weekly Scribblings#45: Artistic Interpretations and whose inspirational prompts are of three images.  (I have used two and the image above is “Carnival Dreams”, by Shelle Kennedy.  The words “Beautiful YOU are” re “Beautiful, YOU are”, by Magic Love Crow)

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse Open Link Night hosted by the lovely Linda.  Cheers Linda!

Alex

He is wise, wise and wizened;

hair thinning, salt and pepper seasoned;

brow lined and furrowed,   quizzical? 

Brows: bushy, grey and wiry;

eyes blue and vision fading;

nose: large and Roman

(now too long and thin (he thinks) -

My, I can almost see where bone blanches skin). 

Cheeks: skin thick and craggy;

mouth small, pursed and wrinkled;

chin cleft, stubble sprinkled.

Ah, and below the chin –

the bugger that will be the death of him. 

Untreated – he too old (he thinks)

for wrath of radiation beam

or cruel brunt of surgeons knife.

So this is he, this is who he is

above the faltering heart in heaving chest –

his face an echo - a diary of a life well-lived. 

His mouth clenching pipe, pipe-puffing,

puffing pipe (vanilla flavour and aroma)

he reminisces on the joys of yesteryears. 

He is alone – yet not lonely,

his memories’ - companions of his past and present. 

(He sips Jack Daniels – no, swigs it back,

his body welcoming each soothing warming mouthful.)

He thinks: if death comes tonight I hope it comes easy –

no crushing pain of heart arrest…  

But should he be blessed to live another day,

to see tomorrow – he will live it for the love of it. 

But should he not he knows    (yes he knows)

that those that gather grimly at his graveside

to pay homage to his passing spirit,

will sigh,    smile and softly say: 

Ah Alex,

he lived life for the love of it.

Anna :o]

An oldie regurgitated and shared in these strange times.

Stay safe!

Shared with the good folk at Poets and Storytellers United, hosted by the lovely Magaly – cheers Magaly!

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by the lovely Kim- cheers Kim!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Source:  https://burusi.wordpress.com/2010/02/13/romanoz-gvelesiani/

Mishunderstood

She had heard it all before.  "Déjà moo.  Déjà moo," she sneered in a dreary bored tone that perfectly reflected her present feelings for him.   Bastard!  Bastard!  Bastard!  “You drink too much and I hate you when you’re like this!” he had said as he pushed her away.

She had loved him and still did, oh how much she still wanted him, arsehole that he was.  Like her, he was a member of the burgeoning community of ad hoc families that were spreading like an unwanted disease in the empty houses that littered the right side of town.  The more the squatters moved in, the more those who considered themselves respectable moved out.

He didn’t understand that drink sharpened her mind, made her more creative, esemplastic as her diverse extraordinary thoughts melded into one.  He didn’t realise that she needed the drink to create her masterpiece.

She gazed at him scornfully as he lay stoned sleeping on the bare mattress, sharing his bed with fellow half-stoned druggies, life’s freeloaders and gypsy hearts that inhabited their sleazy little world.  Bloody hypocrite!

Bastard, bastard, bastard!, she thought as she staggered over to the dark corner that served as her “office” slugging at the bottle that served her imagination.  Bastard, bastard, bastard!  I’ll show ya!  I’ll write the damn book!    She took the grubby sheet of A4 and slid it into the old pink typewriter and her fingers began touch typing, tapping out her masterpiece.

Capter One

Christine decide yjsy djr epi;f yitm dkre[o’fyoymjker … … … …

… … … …

Anna :o]

(This is not about me she said (hic!))

Shared with the good folk at the Writers Pantry #7 at Poets and Storytellers United, hosted by the lovely Sanaa.- cheers Sanaa!

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr  Creative Commons, "drunk unicorn" by Tom Frisch is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0