Eyes Wide Open

– Weheartit.com

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!

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

There Will Be No Spring

There is an air of neighbourliness here;

it is a mere pretence, a sham.

We nod, exchange pleasantries,                        

share small talk as I walk the dog;

watch (and mention) his hard labour

as he  cuts a swathe through evergreen

and he seems a little distant now.

We live our solitary lives

preferring the comfort of our own potting sheds,

there is necessity of order here,

we choose what will live and bloom

or twist out and die. 

We have our sanctuaries’ our Edens’

guard ourselves against the possibilities of harm. 

We, victims of our own defences become a garden full of weeds.

We had talked some time ago;

he told me of his blight, proliferation of disease. 

He had hope then, an optimism. 

He would lend himself to those with greener fingers,

they would tend him and he would thrive again.

The seasons pass and he has a look of autumn,

a withering of summer. 

He tells me the laurel will not outlive the winter

and crestfallen his sad smile flutters to his feet.

Anna

MLM at Mindlovemisery has us trying our hand at prophecy.  Sadly the prophecy is that of a near neighbour and I fear he might be right in that he, the laurel will not outlive the winter…  Not quite sure the above is what MLM had in mind but after talking to my neighbour a few days ago i felt compelled to write of our discussion and I honestly think I did so to cope with my own felt inadequacy.

(Also shared with the good folk at Poets United)

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: User:Burrows

Alive!

photo by Elena Kalis

Let not this ocean consume me,

rather,

let me know of its tides, fathom its depths,

let me ride out its storms, sail on its seas,

let the stars and moon guide me safely to shore,

let me wiggle my toes in the sand.

Let me feel the wind in my hair, the rain on my face,

let the sun beat in my heart filling my soul.  

Let me love life.

Anna :o]

M (thanks M) at Mindlovemisery asks if we are an optimist, pessimist or realist.  I consider myself to be a realist, but realism is often burdensome, dampening the spirit and destroying hope, so I self-medicate with a constant dose of optimism and for the most part remain happy, happy, happy!  (I do so love life!)

Tess at The Mag provided the image and the inspiration for the setting of my words.  Thanks Tess

Poets United kindly opened its pantry.  Thanks PU.

Petrified

Image by Musin Yohan

Tomorrow holds bleak promise,

offering naught

but that of darker days ahead. 

Storm gathers up its tricks,

marks time.

You are the burden that I carry,

tote on heavy laden shoulder,

shoulder well leant upon. 

I am weary of it all. 

Of late I’ve wished you dead.

I shall dream of Medusa, gaze on her. 

What better than a heart as cold as stone

no longer beating to your rhythm. 

I could be no more petrified than I am.

Anna :o]

My handsome one was diagnosed with young-onset vascular dementia while in his early forties, some thirteen years ago.  He is in a sense lucky as his dementia presents as apathy and he sleeps perhaps eighteen-nineteen hours out of twenty-four.  He could not exist alone and requires prompting for most of his daily living needs.    Without prompts he would never wash, shave (he has a beard and it would be down to his knees) or change his clothing.  He would eat!

He is never unhappy and it is probable he is more content (he was a worrier) than he was prior to dementia.

His happy apathy has been a blessing in another way, in that I know he is safe when I go to work – I do not have to worry about him ‘wandering’ when I am away from home.  I need to work to pay the bills, the biggest being the mortgage.

A recent event has changed everything, an event that could have led to his death and indeed mine if I had been at home.   After much angst I have sorted the problem out, removed its potential of harm.

But I know and have known since last November that his decline is accelerating and there will come a time when he will not be safe at all if left alone.  But the need for me to work will still exist.  In today’s depressed market it is unrealistic to consider down-sizing, and if indeed this were possible, the upheaval and the ‘strangeness’ of a new home would accelerate his decline even further.

So the need to ‘put him in a home’ – a place of safety -sometime in the future, possibly the near future is the only option available.

This is something I have been aware of since not long after his diagnosis.  It is something I do not want.  How could I hurt him like that?   How could I forgive myself?

The stigma of dementia hangs heavy on all those involved.  You find out who your real friends are – it appears my husband had none…  even close family members, (handsome one’s)siblings back off and you become more isolated…

Dementia is a terminal illness, of that there is no doubt and it devastates all it touches.  I do not want my handsome one to go into a home – I would rather he die first; die before he becomes a stranger to me and I to him.

I went to sleep yesterday hoping he would be dead when I woke up.  If you are not in the same position as me, you will not understand this.  I do not want his mind to die before his body does.   It is not a selfish thing; I want him to die now while his personality still exists, I want him to die because I love him.

Entered at The Mag, Mindlovemisery and Poets United.

Sundowners

Skies blaze as shadow casts

her dusky blanket,

sun dip-sinks below horizon. 

Twilight nags at those

who would sleep forever,

jolt-jars them from their slumber,

irritates, alters perception;

Reaper glimpsed                                                                                      

they shiver in their bones.                                                                                     

Charleston Farmhouse Door (The Mag)

Under half-dead eyes

they rise like jangled puppets,

strings pulled   ease aching limbs

from chairs that confine

like waiting coffins,

zombie-like they shuffle

until agitation animates their every action.

The Sundowners, brain atrophied,

this is their time,

a time of purpose. 

Fists, voices raised;

locked in on the other side of freedom,

they clamour at the door.

Anna :o]

Late afternoon, early evening and sometimes further into the night, some of our residents stir from their lethargy, lose their contentment, become agitated, argumentative, restless and wandersome.  These are the Sundowners who for reasons not yet quite certain are disturbed by and disorientated (at) this time of day and symptoms worsen.

Giving evening/teatime meds is fraught with distractions, little Edith will be hanging onto the bar of the drugs trolley bobbing up-and-down like a jack-in-the-box, Annie will be crying her heart out as she tugs at your sleeve, wonderful kind and pleasant Bill becomes a raging hulk demanding to know why he is kept a prisoner here and so it goes on.  The drugs trolley has become a magnet compelling all Sundowners to stick to it (and you) like glue.

Some Sundowners form escape committees – my mum did in her first residential home – sweet little mother morphing into a horrendous screaming banshee inciting her fellow residents to take action and escape this strange place they found themselves in.  As it was a residential home the door was unlocked, that is until my mother became a resident there and come early evening it needed to be locked!

In my home (where I work) some residents, confusion increased, attempt to leave the building with the day staff, adamant they have finished their shift too and demand to go home.  (We got round this by staff leaving by the back door.)

My lovely, lovely people – I hate to see them distressed.  But it will pass…

MLM’s prompt at Mindlovemisery made me think and Tess’s image prompt at The Mag gave me direction and so both these good people gave me inspiration.  Thanks MLM and Tess!  Also entered at dVerse -grateful thanks to Brian and Claudia!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author/User: Fir0002

Drum Roll Expected Please

You wind me up!

I watch you as you wind me up,

knowing

you care naught of my mechanics,

what makes me tick,

I merely a visible denotation

of your self-perceived position

wrapped round your flabby wrist.

You wind me up!

You think you manage me

but I manage you, set your pace,

my hands upon my face indicate

where you are  or should be 

in this very time and space. 

I am your controller.

You wind me up!

I am horoLogical, I am movement,

I am energy, I am precision. 

I move, wheels turn,

I bring societal recognition.

Your value is in me!

You wind me up!

I give you time, guide you

through the passage of existence,

offer a future state of potentiality

from this present to the finality of your past.

You wind me up!

I watch you as you wind me up,

knowing

you care naught of my mechanics,

what makes me tick,

I merely a visible denotation

of your self-perceived position

wrapped round your flabby wrist.

You wind me up!

 Value me – or time will quick run out for you!

Anna :o]

MLM at Mindlovemisery writes:

“This week’s theme is Personification! Personification is the attribution of human nature or character to animals, inanimate objects, or abstract notions. By all means feel free to submit stories as I feel this prompt lends quite well to fantasy. Any type of poetry goes, even just a blog posts about your encounters with animals behaving in a human manner would work beautifully.”

I thought I would write about my watch – not a Rolex (!) - which I would be totally lost without, the odd thing being that I have a pretty good sense of time and can almost always predict same before looking at my horological instrument – I guess I must need confirmation!

Time fascinates me and I often wonder what has preceded me in the annals of history - who/what occupied this very space in which I sit at my old computer desk…

‘How a Mechanical Watch Works’ – courtesy of Daniel Radeck at YouTube.

Narcissist

Ponytail by Last Exit

She self-observes,

she is beautiful,

a looking-glass of pure perfection,

black swirls of hair ‘gainst fair complexion

Self-absorbed she valourises,

Recognises desirability epitomised,

sylph-like, dainty light and airy,

the pretty-looking f***ng fairy,

contrary to appearance

her ugliness is in her vices,

she entices passing souls

to taste her spices,

hot she is and seals the fate

of those who yield to sultry kiss,

and simmering, full of hate

of those she despises

slices visceral  and heart excises.

She somatises stolen hearts;

deep underground in her darkest places,

she savours it, the heart that is,

it thumps in her, the heart that is,

naked beating heart plucked out

with sultry kiss on willing faces;

driven to destroy she romantacises

love freely given is free for taking,

taking riven minds and hearts forsaking.

She departmentalises,

subdivides her life in seamless layers,

compartmentalises lurid love affairs

mind all neat and tidy.

Self-absorbed she valourises,

recognises the perfection she epitomises

opens up her cruel heart

and slowly pulls others lives 
apart.

Anna :o]

Mindlovemisery has us composing using the following words: Naked, sylph, somatic, underground, depart, light, passing, tether, entice, seamless.  Tess at The Mag kindly provides the image and Poets United have kindly opened the Pantry.

Psychology Today: Narcissistic personality disorder.

Accident & Emergency

Old Couple, Togan Gokbakar

If your heart stops, do you want to be resuscitated?

The words in the space where my mouth should be

are sewn in with fragile thread, denial embroiders truth,

words unsaid are silent; I shall not talk of it.

If I had known it would be like this,

I would not have gathered history in my bones,

content perhaps to say No! at first onslaught on my breath

as life-congested lungs binding death to concave chest

breathed life again. 

Do you want CPR if your heart should stop?

(I would not talk of it). 

They chant the mantra of abstinence,

abstinence equals good health or all in moderation

as if longevity will somehow become the nation’s wealth.

Value spent, I am old now, three score years and ten,

wit keen, mind still sharp, I hide behind skin leathered,

cracked by toil and sun, back bent crooked, laid heavy

with the burden of my years.  

He must be deaf. 

Do-you-have-a-living-will?

I gathered darkness in my days, sucked down beneath the depths

as each breath issued exquisite pain, brain wracked with black,

black dog dogged; death now circling overhead, spirit broken,

he drones inside my head

If your heart stops,

do you want to be resuscitated?

Care cradle to grave avowed, who will save me now

as I drown ‘neath fluid filling well-ripened lungs;

to old to hold significance, a burden on the state, expendable. 

He must be deaf! 

Do-you-want-CPR-if-?

Lips unsewn, weary of it all, angry irritated,

just to annoy the callous bastard

I whisper Yes.

Anna :o]

The Health Police would have us abstain from doing anything remotely enjoyable to enable us to bounce high with rude health and live forever and ever and ever.  It is now deemed okay to stigmatise and dehumanise smokers and the obese –who’s next I wonder - and how much we enjoy this government sponsored lark of well-deserved ridicule and openness of contempt of those whose habits offend our own self-righteousness.   We must be healthy at all costs.  We must fit the new mould.

Problem is that if we eat sensibly, drink not at all – or at least in moderation - and don’t smoke – we will not become a disease free society, disease will be with us forever.

True, we might live longer – but hey, don’t we have a problem coping with an aging population now?   They are considered a burden, right?  What are we going to do with all those extra old folk of who many will succumb to disease of the body, and damn it the older they get will become diseased of the mind too?

The state is already creaking under the burden of these pensionable folk and to fill the dwindling pot of gold, some of us will be required to work until the tender age of sixty-eight.  Yet, as general hospitals are too creaking under the strain of a large elderly patient population, two thirds of beds being filled by the over sixty-fives and three fifths of these suffering from a mental disorder (80% depression, dementia & delirium) – efforts are being made to ‘treat’ these would-be inpatients in the community…so you will work until sixty-eight – but not be welcome in hospital if over sixty-five...especially if you have a mental disorder…

A ?large proportion of these over sixty-fives are regarded as ‘bed-blockers’ as it is not felt safe that they should return home from whence they came – so provision has to be made for social care – which is a lengthy process as social services have a tight budget too.  What I don’t get is that if it is not felt safe that they return home – how would they be safe if treated nursed (at home) in the community instead – or am I missing something?

So there is much packaging of the pleasures of death with all wonderful agencies sprouting up here there and everywhere to help the elderly on their way…

Mental (ill)health is much stigmatised and so increasingly are the elderly.   Old with mental health problems, hospitalised – what a bummer.  Your ‘care’ will leave much to be desired…  

You only have one life - enjoy it to the full.

…………………………………

mindlovemisery has us writing of stigma, Brenda at The Sunday Whirl gives us the words: space, mouth, circling, vow, drone, sun, broken, cave, crook, chants, first, binding to play with and Tess at The Mag gives us the pic.

The Promise

What scares me most is that woman,

the new woman, I never guessed,

it never crossed my mind

she could be a patient, dressed

as she was in the finery of designer labels,

and the jewellery, it’s the kind you see film stars wear

and that hair, all coiffured up, y’’know

I thought she was a social worker.

It’s cruel this dementia thing,

it’s cruel here too, what they do to them,

within a month, this woman who was able

to chat and laugh was just like the rest,

degraded, empty,

joined that naked morning crocodile

of skinny shivering souls

waiting to be hosed down,

and I mean hosed down – not showered.

I suppose they just give up,

how can they treat people like that?

I couldn’t live like that, couldn’t die like that

and what hurts me is that I am part of it,

working here as I do, but I try to change things,

be kind and things, talk to them and try to make them smile,

but it terrifies me this dementia thing

and I need to ask you, plead with you,

if I should begin, well, to lose my mind –

will you tell me please, promise me you will

so I can overdose myself on insulin?

Anna :o]

The above is a bit too ‘prosee’ for me – so not quite happy with it and it is definitely work in progress – and it is probable that I will tinker with it every time I read it. Mlm’s prompt at mindlovemisery is that of fear and this is my mother’s story.  Thanks for the inspiration mlm!

In the seventies my mother worked as a ward assistant on elderly female long stay at a local psychiatric hospital.  Care then was very much of don’t care as many of the nurses still possessed the ‘warder mentality’ and the patients were mere things to amuse themselves with.  It is true that the demented ladies were lined up naked every morning for a ‘shower’ and were the daily butt of jokes and cruelty.

My mother hated it – but stayed there for the ?right ?wrong reasons.  She loved the patients and gave them her time, so much so that some were able to remember her name.  The poem is based on a conversation we had in the grounds of the hospital on the day of a fête.

I promised her there that I would tell her if she was ever ‘losing her mind’ – but when the time came I broke my promise – how can you tell your mother it is time to kill yourself?  As dementia cruelly took hold of her – sometimes I wished that I had…

I entered psychiatric nursing several years later and on the elderly wards care had improved in that there was no outright cruelty – bar that of the cruelty of neglect, the neglect of the recognition that the patients were people.

Poem also entered at Poets United Poetry Pantry – thanks Poets United!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.  Author: Gert Germeraad