Starfish Enterprise: Assimilation

Nylon admiral really quite admirable   

sails briny galaxies surfs bluest sea. 

Nylon admiral really quite admirable,   

ex-electronic castaway, now PC. 

Sails on his gigabytes’ into the starry night   

seemingly nonchalant but always on guard,   

to save him from his personal hell relies on his   

personnel, step forward please  Jean-Luc Pil-Chard 

Jean-Luc Pil-Chard the master of his bridge and crew,   

earthy and unearthly the stuff of female  dreams.   

Jean-Luc Pil-Chard the master of his bridge and crew,   

seemingly nonchalant but naught is what it seems.  

Starfish Enterprise sails briny blue galaxies

pursued by Borg Cube how Kafkaesque. 

Starfish Enterprise pursued by Borg Cube,

Pil –Chard assimilated how grotesque

Cyborg sea-dog relishes his tasty dish: 

Starfish Enterprise served in sea salt pie.  

Cyborg sea-dog relishes his tasty dish:   

Pil-Chard assimilated, me oh my!

Anna :o]

Inspired by Izzy at Real Toads who has us using lines from Future Sailors and for Thom at Three Word Wednesday who has us using Earthy Grotesque and Nonchalant -Thanks Izzy and Thom!   

Neath Golden Harvest Moon

Here comes the fall of autumn leaves,   

here comes the harvest moon,               

and full shall be my heart that grieves,   

my love thou didst impugn.                     

How can it be thou misconceives           

a love in torment hewn,                          

how can it be that thou believes

of love I am immune           

Thou sayeth thee can love me not

thou shalt not love affine,

take mine and not my brothers heart,

let’s drink of passions wine

Harvest my heart for thee it grieves

cast on the earth it strewn               

Harvest my heart for it is thine     

‘neath golden harvest moon.

Anna :o]  

Tony at dVerse has us writing ballads (thanks Tony) – being half asleep not quite sure this is one?   Nevertheless it is a case of publish and be damned (if it isn’t).  (Found it difficult to think of a title as both Ted Hughes and Carl  Sandburg had pinched my idea(s)…)

Now off to make myself a strong cup of coffee, wake myself up, visit dVerse and read others excellent poems.

Also entered today (20.09.13) at Real Toads whose theme is Harvest Moon!  Thanks Marian!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

If wishes were horses...

Woman on her Deathbed

I am not that old she says

as she grabs my hand,

well maybe,   maybe seasoned

with a little salt and pepper.

She smiles 

and I shy away;

do not want to share her death;

her inability to love

remains uppermost

plays depressing dirges in my mind.

I am distracted, lost in self,

cold indifferent to her needs.    

Pain, physical or otherwise

is all encompassing,  draining,

drains      emotional response

and I leave her there,  

alone.

I hear her whimpering,

wanting, needing;

her incessant pleading for my return

does naught but to quicken anger

and fetal-like

I curl into a tiny ball, try to shut her out

Clock ticks marks out time

and hours pass in eternal gloom. 

I am with her now

and she whispers

Child, if only I could change the past,

I would have loved you more.  I wish

that you could love me too.  But I do I do I do

but let not beggars ride…

She has gone now, died,

gone to where’er it is

the callous go,

yet she is here still

deep inside this memory,

a memory of  what could have been

in time so long ago

a childhood passed away

Anna :o]

Shanyn at dVerse has us writing of phrases heard somewhere or other that remain in your memory and emerge when you least expect them.

Eons ago, when I was a young thing, I went nightclubbing with a work friend and her mother; I can’t remember why her mother went, maybe to chaperone?  My work friend was called Lesley and I can still picture her face, but can’t recall her surname but can recall when I wished for something – can’t remember what that was either – her response was that of: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

I had never heard this before and couldn’t understand her response, for it appeared callous and unnecessary – but this response has stuck with me to this very day and I hear myself saying it (in my head) should anyone wish for something.  And it was only today I sought its true meaning given as better results will be achieved by action than wishing, but of course this is often not so.

The poem bears witness to an experience of some years ago while I was attendant during the dying process of one of our residents, she a product of a dysfunctional family who continued the cycle producing one of her own.  Some mothers who have felt unloved by their own mother smother their children with ‘love’ to compensate, but it is a destructive love, a love of mixed messages, a love that creates hatred. 

Her (adult) children could not bear to be alone with her, hence my presence there.  I can remember our resident pleading (of her daughter) for proof of love, wishing to hear it in words… and the proverb spoke itself in my mind.  I felt bad about this then and still do.

(The words of the poem are that of the daughter.)

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Van Gogh

Who Art Thou?

Who art thou fuzzy buzzy bumbling busy friend replete in striped pyjamas,

we should humble in thy presence be,  thy busyness should charm us.

How odd it then the gentle hum of flapping wings does naught but to alarm us,

how odd it then we fear defensive sting as if thee intent to harm us

Oh let it be that ignorance fear be gone, let thy buzzyness disarm us

for thee it is to us abundance brings, for thou art natures little farmers.

Anna :o]

Samuel at dVerse has us writing in riddles.  Thanks Sam!  And if you haven’t guessed, I am writing of frogs.  No I’m not really, the beautiful image was to confuse.

The theme of the topic was inspired by the lovely Charlotte on her Facebook message in which she requested a petition be signed, a petition urging Bayer and Syngenta to drop their lawsuits against the European Commission.  Read of it here – PLEASE DO DO READ – sign the petition and save our bees from the greed of Big Pesticide.

(A third of the crops we need require pollination by our insect friends – not just bees.  We need them and not all insects are pests, some/many we rely on for our survival – and not just pollinators.  Tis our children (probably not us – depends how old you are) that shall suffer the effects of future bad harvests and loss of insect life.  Please sign the petition.  Cheers!)

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Tuxyso

The Greatest Tragedy is Indifference

I am not at liberty to speak my truth,

it tempered by myth of equality;

I can hold no opinions of my own

should I offend those who would silence me.

I shall be watched, monitored, thought controlled;

moulded, become some mindless automaton

who blind yields to the bid of those that rule,

blind to the loss of self and freedom gone.

I but a small cog in a larger wheel,

a cog of insignificance and worthless say,

yet still while strength remains will mourn the death

of  Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.

Come let us arm ourselves with righteous voice,

let us fight for return of common good,

let us regain our thoughts and freedoms lost, 

let us embrace again in brotherhood.

Let us fight for our humanity,

for shall we not our spirits surely slain,

we will lose the sense of who and what we are,

we will become a number and not a name.

Anna :o]

I like the French.  Many Brits don’t as they see the French as moaning, but do not understand that the French will readily admit to being "râleurs,” that is unafraid to speak their mind or show their feelings.  To "râler" is not to be confused with rudeness, it is getting things out in the open, sorting out a problem and moving on.  And long may it continue.

I guess with my French heritage – oh so long ago, the time of the Huguenots – I have a propensity to ‘tell it like it is.”  But my ‘telling it like it is’ is never confrontational, always wrapped in soft fluffy blankets with the comfort of moving on sure to follow.

Well apart from my personal life, the bit I have an element of control over, this is not strictly true - for as do my fellow countrymen/women I yield to the dumbing down and regimentation - by the forever increasing rules and regulations - of my life and watch helpless as my personal freedoms are whittled away under the lie of equality and ‘human rights.’  And it is true that most of us, worldwide, are indifferent to both the states (ours - not the US) overt and covert policing of us as we ‘have nothing to hide’…

The health professions’ are fraught with loss of autonomy as medicine and nursing becomes an exercise in ticking boxes, no matter that patients do not necessarily fit the boxes.  (In mental health some patients/clients/service-users do not meet the criteria of the ‘speciality’ of (any of) a particular psychiatrists remit and God help them if they need the input of a psychiatrist – it takes months for one prepared to take them on to be found.)

In the good old days, governance of said professions’ was done under the elected leadership of doctors and nurses (how strange!) but is now that of government quangos, mostly ignorant of the professions’ they supposedly serve.  (But they do not serve, they police in the most oppressive way and bow down to whatever government is in power.)  Added to this are countless regulatory bodies whose aim is to police and find fault – if praise is due, it is never given.

I can only speak with authority on the effect of all this tick boxing, regulation on nursing and although I still love my job, I am afraid in it.  There is a constant need (and knock on effect) to cover my back lest I fall foul of some obscure and ill-thought out regulation, I am constantly treading on eggshells and it is taking its toll and although I really do love my job – I would leave tomorrow if finances permitted.

I am not alone here and would ask you to view this article in The Guardian highlighting a recent survey in which (almost) two-thirds of nurses have considered leaving in the last twelve months as they are so stressed.  It is probable that another Mid-Staffs is happening now as burnout takes its toll and those on the bottom rung of the ladder will be again scapegoated. (Please read of burnout – see how it changes you.)

Doctors too are buckling under the pressure an ever increasing workload and excessive policing of their every action and a recent Pulse survey shows that 43% (of GPs that responded) are classified at very high risk of developing burnout.

I do not doubt within this midst are nurses and doctors who are bad, but also in this midst are doctors and nurses who have been suspended due to vexacious and/or malicious complaints (the compensation culture has a lot to answer for here).  I would therefore ask you to read this excellent Dr No post at Bad Medicine in which he highlights the deaths of 92 doctors who were under ‘Fitness to Practice’ investigation.  I would also ask you to consider signing Dr Helen Bright’s  e-petition here.  Cheers!

The greatest tragedy is indifference…

How did I get here?  Brian at dVerse has us writing of slogans – slogans that catch our attention and remain memorable.  And these thoughts just spilled out…  Thanks Brian.

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.

Alone

He,

he

is no

longer radar identifiable,

wings clipped until he fell,

fell crashed to earth with an almighty thud,

mind all messed up, synapses spilling from his ears.  Mired in mud he

makes no attempt to free himself, for he, brain unwired, no longer comprehends, 

he has nothing left but fear and emptiness.

So he is here, waiting,

waiting for death

to rub

him

out.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us going all mathematical, writing Fibonacci, Pascal’s triangle or triangle poems.  My effort is that of a Fib.  Thanks for the inspiration Tony!

Image: courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons

Author:  Maggie McCain

City, Early Evening

It is Ramadan

and in nearby mosque müezzin sings

and his soothing rhythmic call to prayer

permeates, sweetens sultry summer air,

plane drones lazily overhead,

distant seagulls squawk and screech,

leaves rustle in a whispered breeze,

mimic ebb and flow of salty seas

gently crashing into breakers.

Beneath canopy of softly swaying trees

discarded life snoozes drunkenly

as fellow flotsam sits beside her,

eases bottle from her hand

and washes down remaining cider.

Shoppers compare buys and chatter,

men discuss as women natter (:o]),

children squeal as pigeons scatter

and in the café dishes clatter

amidst the annoying hiss of coffee maker.

Revellers reach their destination

as bus sets down at central station,

girls alight in giggling groups

tottering on their high-heeled shoes,

dressed to the nines to go a-pubbing.

Lads aloud with false bravado,

raid cash machines with credit card so

to impress the girls with apparent riches,

win their hearts and go a-clubbing. 

Boy racers cruise with music blaring,

annoying all and pigeon scaring,

cars all souped up and flash with chrome.

Vendors vie, shout Chroni-kell, Big Issue,

accordionist squeezes tuneless air,

church swings out its bells a-ringing,

street singer croons in city square,

and in the distance sirens wailing,

paramedics rescue lads a-ailing,

felled by youth and drink excesses

as girls pass by in tiny dresses. 

And in the station

weary workers board their buses,

glad to leave the city rushes,

glad to leave the day behind,

glad that they are going home.

Anna :o]

This poem reflects sight and sounds of my city (in which I work – not live) observed across an hour, early evening.  The call to prayer of the müezzin is a case of poetic licence as, as yet, this does not happen in the UK.  I needed to research to discover as to whether an imam ‘sings’ prayers and found this not to be so and what I hear (often – and it is truly beautiful) is the imams rhythmic voice, which has the quality of beautiful music, breaking through into the night air.

(I couldn’t find an image to truly represent my hours observations, it was between 7-8pm and broad daylight and all was well with my world as I awaited my bus home.  The image is not that of my city.)

This poem also heralds a welcome halt to writers block; oh so many prompts attempted and after a reasonable start, words and thoughts dried up or there was nothing at all.

Shared with the good folk at dVerse Poets Pub OpenLinkNight– thanks dVerse!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Author: Brylcreem 2

The Significance of Birds

                                                                                           

Man and The Moon, 1990, Andrew Wyeth

Death comes in threes

she says solemnly as if somehow

mere utterance of these words

will cause the Sword of Damocles

to hang teetering, teeter over the head

of some soon-to-be-dead   unfortunate.

We do Last Offices;

lay him on the whitest purest sheet.

First stage (Clinical),

turn him and he groans

as last air expels from lungs

and watch horrified

as blood spills in rivers from 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 the family.

My best friend wants me to lay her out

I say as we both drained,                                                                      

clutch at warming coffee cup.

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]

The above is the result of Tess's  prompt of the naked man and is also shared at the Poetry Pantry – hope you like it!

Primitive

He lays me on his couch,

its okay he says and he

soothes me with his velvet voice

and then somehow

I’m swinging through the trees,

huu-hooing, huu-hooing...

I feel history in my bones,

equilibrium rent so so long ago

as new world punctuates

that of the old, the old the primitive.   

DNA revolutionised,

not now content 
with mere existence, evolutionised,
I am inquisitive. 

We have him now, colobus,
crashing screaming to the ground
and I, Alpha, take first pick,
tear him limb from limb,
sink teeth deep into his flesh... 

He brings me out of it.

my past that is,

but the memory does not fade,

is not forgotten. 

Well, I didn’t expect that he says

(with a grin I recognise as fear). 

Maybe your ancestors are the missing link

he wonders out aloud. 

No doc I reply, look out there;

look at the primitives who roam

the streets arms hanging limp,

as if some roaming hunting ape,

savage, strutting,

uttering guttural sounds 
to intimidate those who (attempt 
to) rise above dark ancestry, become civilised.  
We are all the missing link I say.

He is afraid, still, and I see

red pools on shirt and floor,

he grimaces as he holds bleeding wrist

and terrified, I taste blood upon my lips.  

I am primitive.  
I am madder than I think.

Anna :o]

The excellent Brian Miller is hosting tonight at dVerse and the theme is puzzles, crosswords, jigsaws, anything we find puzzling.  The 'missing link' sprang to mind…

Oh and as the prompt is puzzles, here is a puzzle for you:  If it took a psychiatrist 19 minutes to INTERVIEW me, 16 of those minutes to DIAGNOSE my problem, how long did it take him to have me *SECTIONED?

*  Sectioned (detaining or sectioning) = involuntary commitment.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons   

Author: Christopher Walsh, Harvard Medical School.

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.