The Significance of Birds

 

Death comes in threes

she says solemnly as if somehow

mere utterance of these words

will cause the Sword of Damocles

to hang teetering, teetering over the head

of some soon-to-be-dead    unfortunate.

 

We do Last Offices;

lay him on the purest whitest sheet. 

First stage (Clinical),

turn him and he groans

as last air expels from lungs

and watch horrified

as blood spills in rivers through his lips. 

Can you now understand my pain? 

his dead body asks.

 

We lay him prostrate

as if in reverence to his God

and cleanse all that is corporeal,

gently pull his legs apart

and place padded pants. 

Oh the indignity of death

his dead body oozes.

 

Second Stage (Aesthetics),

he now supine, gazes

with unseeing eyes

as we again wash away his life,

trim brows and beard,

anoint him with essential oils,

dress him in his Sunday best. 

I am at rest now his dead body whispers,

I am ready and we usher in his family,

leave them to their grieving. 

 

My best friend wants me to lay her out I say

as we both drained,

clutch at warming coffee cups.

 

Y’know she says,

on my way into work today

there were magpies, four strutting confident.  

Four for death. 

Do you think…?

 

Just as I mean to tell her she is stupid

I see crow and catch my breath

as he tap tap taps upon the window.

 

Caw, caw, caw(pse) he advises

as he views me with his beady eyes,

and one not prone to superstition,

nevertheless, a chill shivers down my spine.

 

Anna :o]

 

An oldie shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by the lovely Sanaa.  Cheers Sanaa!

Also shared at PSU's Poetry Pantry hosted by the lovely Rosemary.  Cheers Rosemary!

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr "Crows" by In Memoriam: Mr. Ducke is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

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/

One Night Stand

An elaborate ritual,

you dance behind

my shower screen.

Intimately connected,

I watch

as you wash away

the memory of me.

Cleansed,

you leave,

passing me

without recognition.

Anna :o]

Shared at dVerse OLN, hosted by Grace– cheers Grace!

Also shared with the good folk at Poets and Storytellers United Writer's Pantry #10 hosted by the lovely Sanaa - cheers Sanaa!

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr "August 30, 2016" by osseous is licensed under CC BY 2.0 

Unbidden

Death will come unbidden,

it will not come today

it will come tomorrow.  

He will be tomorrow’s ghost.  

He half expects it,

his mind played out its scene a hundred times before.   

He cannot envision pain

rather seeing blood spill

from imagined gaping wounds. 

His wish is if and when it comes

it will be quick. 

It is.

This theatre, this theatre of war,

he plays but a minor role;

he is expendable, no glory in his death,

no rapturous applause 

at his final curtain call.

There will be no homecoming,

no coffin draped in national flag. 

His remains are no remains at all,

mere fragments scattered on a foreign land,

fragments that putrefy and leach into the soil.

He is here, on this hillside,

his life extinguished where this tree now stands,

he is part of it,

it absorbed his memory

tapped it through its searching roots,

its twigs and branches now his arms and hands.

He is unaware

as his leaves turn blood-red and fall;

it is the cycle of things,

lines quite never understood,

lines never learnt in war. 

He has become the Earth. 

It is the nature of things.

Anna :o]

An oldie, resurrected and shared on Open Link Night at dVerse - cheers for hosting Lillian!

Also shared with the good folk on Writers' Pantry #8 at P&SU. hosted by the lovely Magaly - cheers Magaly!

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons:

"Cherry Tree in Autumn" by Chickens in the Trees (vns2009) is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

(I Want to Die in my Sleep.)

There it is (still),

the knowing of impending doom,

the alarm, the dread,

the deep involuntary gasps the sighs,

the cold on every laboured breath,

the knowing that you’re going to die.

And then,

the slowing in your thumping chest,

the heartbeats skipped,

the foggèd head,

the terror when the heartbeats stop,

the horror when you know you’re dead

as you ‘wait the bliss of brainstem death.

Anna :o]

Sarah prompt at dVerse is that of HARBINGER – it sent my brain into overdrive and I thank you for lifting a writer’s block of 3½ month duration Sarah.

‘Harbingers of doom’ reminded me of my time at work – I am retired now – where eventual death of the residents’ was a constant (as death is to us all).  A small proportion of the residents had dementia, the remainder enduring mental health problems.

There is a strong belief in medical circles that all folk have a right to know they are dying, whether this knowledge is helpful or not…  In my place of work we didn’t go along with this, judging whether this should be so on the knowledge of our residents’ ability to cope with this bad news.  Some knew (instinctively) anyway and were filled with either peace or dread.

In this respect I do so remember Adrian.  He was a very nasty man and one could do nothing but dislike him.  He was (also) a person who instinctively knew that death was coming.   (It was the practice in our home that if residents had no known next-of-kin, we would sit with them constantly until death –for no-one should die alone.)  Adrian had no known NOK so I sat with him for most of the night.  He was so scared and knowing instinctively that he was dying; he became very timid and frightened.

Throughout that night I would constantly tell him I loved him, what a nice person he was and kissed him on the forehead.  He was so grateful for the attention – but gratitude was not what I sought – and would say:  Thank you pet.  (I like to think that constant staff attention brought him some sort of peace,)

Although the details were different, this is a scenario I encountered many times, even with residents who had severe dementia.    It was as if impending death suddenly gave these lovely folk insight and they were filled with terror,

On a more personal note, this occurred with my mother-in-law.  Her children (including my husband) impressed upon the medical team that she should never know (she was dying) as she would not be able to cope with it.  However a well-intentioned doctor, knowing that my mother-in-law was Catholic, decided she had a right to know – so she could receive the last rites – so took it upon her self to inform (her) she was dying.  My mother-in-law, upon receiving this information, became immediately agitated and had to be removed to a single room as she was distressing other patients.  (In fact it was a relative of one of these patients that informed of the doctor’s (I’m sure) well-intentioned catastrophic intervention.  The doctor never informed us herself.)

No-one should die in terror for a doctor’s beliefs…

Image:  courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  unknown, but presumed to be Kirtap

Sun

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

Pills

She spills some on her palm, runs her finger through the little moving mound (a pretty shade of pastel blue) of her mother’s little helpers (“that don’t fucking help this fucking mother one miserable iota”).

She’s anxious still, all screwed up, the little pills don’t help at all, amongst other things she’s now  all screwed up about the stinging side effects, feels drunk without a drink.

If someone could get inside my head, they’d know, (she thinks) know how miserable, how screwed up I am, but no-one gives a damn about silly little me.

It’s true, her husband is tired of her/tired of it, she drags him down into her melancholy, he dreads every single day. The kids are sick of her, sick of being a mother to their mother, and wish she’d go away, be hospitalised, be normalised so they could be kids again.

She eyes the pills again, the pills she’s spilled upon her palm, gets anxious about the harm she’ll cause (if she takes every sodding one) of those she’ll leave behind.  She loves them still, her lovely hubs and kids, but knows they’d be better rid of her.

She finds herself suddenly strong. Even though a longing in her heart for all she loves, she cups her palm, swallows all (and other meds), doused down with her favoured alcohol.

She is confident she will sleep tonight – perhaps (she hopes) forever – and no doubt she will.  And those left behind will spill their tears, but (perhaps) will quietly be relieved…

Anna :o[

Inspired and written for Paul at dVerse, who asks us to write of medicine.

Working (as I did) with those problemed with mental ill-health, I know of the devastating affect this can have on the entire family, know that family members will/might become estranged from those experiencing mental ill-health, will ‘suffer’ almost as much as they.  It is a difficult problem. 

I have only ‘suffered’ with clinical depression once in my life, due to external factors that I could not change.  Once the situation was resolved (by others) it took some time to recover, be me again. 

Prior to this, in my late thirties, I began to experience severe PMS, something I did not believe existed until it (literally) dropped on me and the uncontrollable anger that came with this, because of it, was unstoppable.    When it ‘dropped’ I recognised it, explained to my family my friends and my patients that I was ‘like this’ because of it… and felt it right to inform, so they would know that my anger was remote from them, not their fault.

But I knew, they knew (by explanation), that it was transient –not their fault.  Some don’t have this luxury…

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels  

Walking

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 Björn  asks us to write about walking.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Tomascastelazo

Clique

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

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:  https://faycollinsart.co.uk/  I chose this for as soon as I saw it, it spoke volumes to me.

Cheers for the inspiration Sarah and Fay!

Down's & Eugenics

If I was a rose and you had choice,

would you pick me, pluck me down from the tree?  

Would you hold me soft in the palm of your hand,

hold my blush to the rose of your cheek?

My mouth is a rosebud waiting for kisses;

my heart is in blossom pulsating for you.

Please will you choose me; please love me

don’t lose me, for my heart beats only for thee.   

Anna :o[ 

Yesterday was World Down Syndrome Day, but I must admit I would not have known had I not received a (subscribed to) email from MercatorNet. 

It is not the first email I have received re Down’s, and one email (I really can’t remember its source) alerted me to John's Crazy Socks and I became a customer.  John’s Crazy Socks is a million-dollar company run by a young man with Down’s and his father.  We all, all of us, have the potential to succeed (in life), if only others believe in us, believe that we all have value.  And we all do, although this is not the mindset of some, who believe (or are directed to believe) that those with Down’s are valueless, will have no quality of life and be unhappy.  And if a parent of such a child, so will we.

It is a sad fact that most diagnosed with Down’s (in utero) are aborted.  Iceland claims that it has almost eradicated Down’s – but this purely by termination – and the rest of the western world is not far behind.  What does this make us?

Please know that although I am pro-life, I am also not anti-abortion.  This might appear a contradiction, but it is not. If a prenatal diagnosis of incompatibly with life is made, then I agree with termination.  If a baby is born and the same diagnosis is made, and is only kept alive with intensive invasive interventions and has no quality of life, indeed suffering pain, and there is no hope of a ‘cure’ then I believe life support should end, although I do understand if a parent of such a child, I might probably fight this.

But Down’s is not comparable with the above, life has value. And we should think of what path we are taking, a path to where eugenics, the driving out of those deemed imperfect becomes acceptable, becomes the norm.

If my mum had been pregnant with me in today’s world, she could have had me aborted, no question – although I am certain she wouldn’t – but the majority of my life has been ‘normal’.  I went to school, got a job, got married and had two wonderful children and now two wonderful grandchildren.  I have value and am valued.  If I had been aborted, five new lives would not exist.

To close, another heart-lifting most beautiful video found on the Beeb whilst researching.

Shared with the good folk at dVerse.
Please visit the links.

Change

Creative writing has been part of me since I can’t remember when, but definitely early childhood. I love putting my thoughts to pen then paper and marvel at the process, wonder how my thoughts turn into the ink of the written word.

I would go to work with the adventure of a poetry prompt in my head, my trusty cheap notebook and my black pen - the pen had to be black with an extra-fine point.  My notebook and pen would be left in the office and as words appeared mysteriously in my mind, I would return as soon as possible to write them down, to savour them.  Sometimes, when work would not allow me to return, I would scribble them down on scraps of paper.  Once home, I made my words poetry.

But things change, real life changes and gets in the way, and I lost my creativity or lost the inspiration the desire to pursue it.  I desperately want to recapture it, and now and again I might find it, but for the most part, it remains elusive…

Snow leaves its blank page,

nature writing in footprints:

look, see, I was here.

Anna :o]

Kim at dVerse has us writing of communication through pen, or pencil, and paper.  I desperately tried to ignore this prompt, but inspired, I could not fight it.  So thanks Kim, your prompt has perhaps began to heal the wound.

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Anneli Salo

Kerbs

Scoliosed, hips misaligned,

I tend to bend towards the right. 

Each step an art, the art of balance

jumbled with the art of falling. 

Each kerb itself a precipice -

a long way down if I should tumble -

a worry then,

a constant need of (re)calculation.

Anna :o]

Thoughts of an ancient one of how advancing years exacerbate…no self-pity intended. :o] 

(I really do have to think (and plan) before stepping off a kerb, (definite balance issues) – stepping up/on is no problem.  I wrote the words above several months ago and filed away they were, until the frost and snow and ice came and like each year, I began to experience the fear the dread of walking upon these seasonal gifts…)

Shared with the good folk at dVerse, hosted by Björn- cheers Björn!  Also many thanks to all the good folk who have hosted dVerse across the year – I am so grateful for your company.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to one and all!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Nigel Mykura

Sand

I grasp at the sand as it spills through my fingers, spilling itself on itself.

The grains are innumerable but desperate I count them, single grain after grain, this til my voice rasps with the burden, the burden of counting, the terrible aching, the aching of hoping, and the forlornness of hope...

Shifting and penetrable, the violence is sudden, the wind in its rushing, and taken I am and moulded to nature, thus I become.

There is grit in my teeth in the aching of waiting and tired of it all, I gently succumb.

Anna :o]

Victoria at dVerse has us writing a symbolic poem and above is my offering.  Cheers Victoria! 

I’m really not quite sure if my words are symbolism or metaphor….

Image:  Courtesy of Pixabay.

Hedgehog: Thoughts as hibernation ends.

Air warms,

I stir,

awaken from my torpor. 

I hunger,

crave slugs crave sex. 

“Watch out!” I cry

as I emerge into the night.

Anna :o]

Kim at dVerse challenges us to write a new poem, of any length or form, about an animal in a human way or a human in an animal way, highlighting some trait of the animal/human that either sets us apart or brings us together.  Cheers for the inspiration Kim.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads Tuesday platform, cheers Sanaa. 

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:    T137

Meteors...

Refugee Drawing Title : Yesterday.

The ocean our cosmos,

cast adrift we were

neath a myriad of stars.

Sun beats at our bodies,

salt sucks at our tongues,

wind chills to the marrow,

sea calls us and calls us,

bids us beneath it

and dampened our spirits

we wretched,

succumb.

Cast adrift we were

neath a myriad of stars,

the ocean our cosmos

and our hearts full of hope.

Lost we are. 

Lost we are. 

A showering of lost souls,

flooding the sea.

Anna :o[

Susan (at Poets United) provides us with the prompt of Meteor Showers and asks us to take it where we will.  I am not sure the above is what was asked for – but it is what came to mind.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan!

(Little is heard now of the refugee crisis as I guess it is ‘old news’ and maybe we have become numbed to it – but it still exists…)

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by the lovely Toni.  Cheers and Happy Birthday Toni!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Polviak

Child

Skin translucent

almost transparent,

I see inside her.   

Cachexic, body eats itself,

leaves naught but bony barren mountains;

blood slows in stagnant purple rivers.   

Whimpering,

head turns then body arches

as pain plays out its awful cruel game.

And here sit I,

a useless helpless heartless mamma

wishing she would fade away.

Oh how I have called out His Name,

begged Him to take her love her take her,

gave her up in sweet surrender,

yet He seems to want her not.

How I would love to lie beside her,

cradle her in loving arms,

whisper that I will always always love her

while wishing she would  gently

gently

fade

away…

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN hosted by the lovely Grace.  Cheers Grace!

3.11.17 (19:30)

In view of the kind concerned comments from Glenn and Frank (of which I thank them deeply for) I thought it right that I should add this note.

I wrote these words late last year after having been directed to a Facebook page in which a very caring father made the decision to publish a photograph of his four year old daughter who was in the last stage of cancer.

The photograph is very harrowing and haunted me for a long time.  It is true that opening up the page again (as I have not long done) has left me emotionally shattered and I have cried again.  However I am fully behind his brave decision, as we who have never been in this awful situation view childhood cancers as in the images that we normally see, of smiling bald little children with teddies and balloons and we are comfortable with that.  But the reality is far removed from that of happy little smiling faces.

Seeing Jessica’s picture last year reminded me of watching my dad die of cancer many moons ago, and the words I wrote are of him too and how helpless I felt at the time.   He was diagnosed three weeks before his death.  As any loving daughter would be, initially I was praying for him to live to be cured, but not long after, oh how hard and oh how often I prayed for him to die, to be relieved from the torment of his unstoppable pain.

I cannot even come close to imagining how I would feel if I had had to watch my child die. 

It is essential that more money is poured into the research of childhood cancer.

Writing this has left me torn as to whether I should direct you to the page, but it is so that Jessica’s dad wanted the world to know the reality, the awful truth of childhood cancers.  I would suggest however that if you are emotionally fragile at present, that you do not open it.  It is here.

Peace dear little Jessica.

 Anna

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Artist:  Edvard Munch  (1863–1944)  

GHOULAH

The moon a waxing gibbous she,

illuminates this hallowed ground   neath
silhouettes’ of swaying trees,

and in this graveyard here stand I

and drool as little kids pass by

and know this night I will not gorge upon the dead,

but indecent feasts of kids instead.

Anna :o]

Björn at dVerse hosts Poetics tonight and of course we are to write of monsters!  The twist is that we should give voice to said monsters, and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Björn!

(Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads – cheers Magaly.)

Oh dear, I seem to have a bone stuck between my teeth…kids! :o]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Source:   Le Père Peinard, in Le Péril anarchiste

"I"

In the darkness of my soul hides my ugliness, waiting.  I despise the vacuous, the parasites who lust the vanity of my friendship and once trapped, I pull them screaming into the darkness. 

                                              (An incipit for the eventual anthology of my kills!)

I court her, oh the thrill of it the game of it the pleasure in beguiling.  (The stupid whores I pull them in and always leave them smiling!)  He-he!   Ha-ha!  I am a poet!

She is different this one…does she know, suspect, but how?  A question in her eyes beneath her furrowed brow…I CANNOT MAKE AN ERROR!  (I tease her with the softest kiss and mould my hands around her breasts and (then) my hands dance around her thighs.)

(She sighs – oh the magic in my hands the magic of my mind!)   (I pleasure her!)

And then I throttle her, but I can’t get no satisfaction…!

So welcome new babe – feel the action of my trouser trumpet!

My God I’m here you lucky lucky thing!

Anna :o[

Mish at dVerse has us writing of metaphorical masks and it got me thinking of folk I have encountered whilst working as a psychiatric nurse (now retired).

I have come across psychopaths in my time and will admit that in some instances, I was sucked in by them, believing all they said until they made an error, an obvious error in their story.  How plausible they can be!  How easy we are manipulated.

But do psychopaths’ (knowingly) wear a mask or are they just who they are?

We all wear masks, I do, several, to please other people.  Underneath I am just me and pretty harmless - I haven't killed anybody - yet!  :o]

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons 

Author:  Gert Germeraad

Smiffie

I’ll never forget Jean or ‘Smiffie’ as she was affectionately known.  There was little knowledge of her past bar that she had been institutionalised at eleven, seemingly for promiscuous behaviour and spent the majority of her remaining life in a psychiatric hospital.  She came to us in her mid-fifties and was instantly adored by staff and fellow residents alike.  

She was damaged of course and had frantically hung on to a certain kind of sanity by inventing a husband whom she talked to often.  She also adored cats and loving her as I did; I gave her a cat ornament that was very special to me, but she was more special. 

I will never forget her funeral.  Having no relatives her burial was provided by the city.  Torrential rain had created a puddle into which her casket was lowered, even death held no dignity for her, and I was heartbroken.

Sky full of sadness,

rains a cascade of teardrops,

a sorrowful parting.

Anna :o]

Bjorn at dVerse has us writing a haibun, its theme being that of water and above is my offering.  Cheers Bjorn!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:    Pridatko Oleksandr