Rejection

Were I not ensanguined I would bleed pity into your callous heart.

*

Blunt rejection implodes ego, hate blurs self-perceived kindheartedness

*

Excised heart lies cold upon the butchers slab, revenge keeps it beating.

*

Revenge best eaten cold, hell no; pray hard, there’s fire in my belly.

*

Belly full of you, I spill memories until I run on empty.

*

Empty, I am yesterday; tomorrow has no need for warm embrace.

Anna :o]

Gay at dVerse has us writing American Sentences, these an American haiku invented by Allen Ginsburg.  Each line/sentence consists of seventeen syllables and should tell a complete story.

Not certain if the above is what Ginsburg  or Gay had in mind…

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Fragile_Emotion.jpg: Don from Murfreesboro, TN

To Those Who Would Dishonour the Dead

 Apologia Pro Poemate Meo

I, too, saw God through mud– 

The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there–
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

I, too, have dropped off fear–
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear,
Past the entanglement where hopes lie strewn;

And witnessed exhultation–
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour, though they were foul.

I have made fellowships–
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long.

By joy, whose ribbon slips,–
But wound with war’s hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but a trembling of a flare
And heaven but a highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment. 

Wilfred Owen

To Those Whow Would Dishonour the Dead

One single shot shattered fragile peace

and your country needs you,

needs you now,

needs you to spill your blood and guts on foreign soil.

There are empty places at the table,

lineage as broken as the beating hearts he left behind,

no progeny to bear his nose his chin his eyes. 

Do you remember him or does he lie forgotten?

There are those amongst us

who would have us turn our backs

against those sacrificial lambs that,

ripe for slaughter

fell to earth for king and country.

To you who wear proud

your badge of smug self-righteousness

I ask:

When they first come for the socialists, 
will you speak out?

Lest we forget;

know of those whose fallen bones

lie lost beneath the sod of foreign fields,

where poppies bleed in awful grief

and give gentle nod of reverence.

I will remember.

Anna

FIRST THEY CAME--

First they came for the communists,

and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the socialists,

and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,

and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then the came for me,

and there was no one left to speak for me.

Martin Niemöller

Remembrance Day is a memorial day to remember members of the armed forces who died in the line of duty.  It is not a glorification of war; it is a day to honour the dead.

Please don’t politicise it.

Also remembered, all civilian causalities and all those who through the death of civilians and armed forces personal were never born.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Tijl Vercaemer from Gent, Flanders #Belgium)

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

With Rapier Wit

With rapier wit- his words his sword,

a cut deep into her heart he scored

and twisted thus (with daggers thrust)

and she (poor thing) her longings crushed,

wailed, as from her eyes her tears poured.

And he (the fool) knew that she he adored

and knew his words himself had gored,

and knew deep inside that he was cussed

with rapier wit.

He genuflect, forgiveness he implored,

his heartfelt wish; her love be restored.

And she (good thing) her worries hushed,

a kiss upon his cheek she brushed.

And he: lust crude confessed lost her once more

with rapier wit.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us write a Rondeau for today’s Form for All, thanks Tony.

I subscribe to Wikimedia Commons Picture of the Day and as today's was so perfect I had to use it and gained my inspiration from there.  (Author attribution: Marie-Lan Nguyen)

Angst

You never quite forget the hell of it,

the smell of it:

charred flesh and cordite;

and the never ending mortar fire

and sometimes you go mad with it.

I body-rock:

rhythmic   repetitive 
like a ticking clock,

tick-tick-tick, to-and-fro

not side-to-side like a stick insect

and he asks:

how do you feel about this;

and I say I don’t know,

not being arboreal 
I've never lived in trees.

My feelings for you are inchoate

although I’ve known you

longer than a piece of string

and I can’t help wondering

if that time we smoked all night long

and I got paranoid

whether you just might’ve set fire to the bed

as you rocked to-and-fro in candle light

grinning like a Cheshire cat.

My heart

has the monotony of a metronome

and my mind

is bored with its click-click-click-click

and I think I am bored with you

but as said feelings inchoate.

The garden is overrun by weeds

and ivy strangleholds the trees

and sometimes I think you are strangling me

and I wonder if I should cut and run.

I think my mind is running out of time

and I don’t quite know who or what I am. 

And I wonder if this coldness in my breath

is death whispering holding out its hand,

and whether it is or not,

either way do I give a damn.

Anna :o]

Gay at dVerse has us writing beat poems and she writes: Beat poems have no set form. They are free verse influenced by blues, jazz, post-war angst, the feeling of being beat down by society  (therefore a little rebellious) inspired by hallucinogenics (surreal) also influenced by meditation, Zen Buddhism, Native American and other ethnic tribal lore and folk stories.  The challenge for this article is to take some of these elements and create your own beat poem.

Not quite sure the above is one, but I chose to write about post-war angst and the effects of hallucinogenics.  The image sourced at Wiki is itself sourced from the 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Research Fact Sheet' authored by The National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH).

Interestingly (or worryingly?), the fact sheet advocates cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and I wonder about this having personally seen the damage that can be done in taking this 'talking' path, where the patient becomes stuck on the merry-go-round of constantly reliving a traumatic event or events.

Of course the skills of the counsellor are paramount here but sometimes I wonder if all this ‘talking’ is to meet the needs of the counsellor…

One of my great mentors (on this subject and via reading his blog) is The Cockroach Catcher and you may be interested in reading his posts on PTSD here.  He writes:

What was most surprising was how the group that had counselling generally faired worse, much worse than those without any counselling. The group that did best were the ones that drank, and drank a fair amount.

Please visit his blog and read more.

Witness

As mean as any howling cur, that’s him

an’ I seen what he done to her,

that one we thought the sweetest thing

who refused his plea to be his wife,

an’ he as mad as hell, he slapped her hard

an’ screaming to the floor she fell. 

An’ he with keenest butchers eye

took hand his favoured sharpest knife

an’ plunged it deep in t'cavity

where we thought her beating heart would be.  

An’ to our horror ‘twas just a stone

laying cold an’ hard twixt flesh an’ bone

an’ she with the wildest eyes I’ve ever known

let out this god-awful ear piercing moan,

grabbed at his knife and stabbed at him,

stabbed at him ‘til she could stab no more,

then curled back her lips an’ ate him raw. 

Me master gone then she turned on me,

you’re next she screeched an’ tried to cut me up

an’ I bit her hard an’ she lost her grip

an’ I took a chance and fled as fast can be. 

An’ courage now almost drained from me

I hide quivering whimpering like some discarded pup,

hoping life be bled from me an’ I be long dead and gone

‘fore she finds my scent ‘fore she hounds me out 
'fore she curls back her lips and eats me up.

Anna :o]

This gruesome tale (which still requires a bit of tinkering) was inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag.  Also entered at The Poetry Pantry at Poets United, kindly hosted by Mary; thanks Tess and Mary!    

Chalked daffodils

That lad: you’ve never met

but you know he’s there,

a lad – not now perhaps,

or still perhaps

(hiding behind that greying hair) –

that lad with an obvious flair

of giving reason to the rhyme,

the rhythms’, the reasoning of life.

He thinks of things,

well thinks out things,

that man, that lad, that David King,

he gives off the air of innocence

as he writes (abstract)

of brutish bears and angel wings

in such a way that anything is possible.

He says his life began

when his good lady became his wife

and how good is that how good that man,

that man, that lad who  could who can

(still) inspire that fire within the heart of us

to write of things,

of brutish bears and angels wings

and that anything is possible.

He taught me so much by the wisdom,

innocence of his words and my sorrow

is that I did not let him know

or perhaps I did (I hope I did)

in comments in which I bestowed acknowledged 

the greatness beauty simplicity innocence

of his words in which he understood

the complexities of this world

in a way I never will or never could/can.

“CHILDART

Chalked daffodils on pavement stone
cut vapour trails where planes have flown.”

The genius in that, the beautiful simplicity,

the electricity it stirred in me,

Dave you will always be the teacher,

the lad, the man, who realised in me

the impossible is not impossible

for if you try you can.

Anna.

The above is a tribute to the great Dave King who sadly died this week.  He was and still is a great inspiration to me.  He had a wonderful innocence but still a great understanding of this world in which we exist and wrote of it in his wonderful unique way.  I will miss him greatly and wish I had taken the time to know him better.  Friendship is not a thing we should wait for others to initiate – but oft we do.  I first emailed Dave not that long ago – not long before he let us know of his illness.  I held my handout too late and that I regret.  I shall endeavor to do better from now on.  Miss you already Dave and keep writing wherever you might be.

Written in tribute with his fellow friends at dVerse.

Waiting

Image by crilleb50

He sits pondering,

well wondering really,

wondering whether

she’ll be late or early,

late probably, she always is.  

This time thing gets to him;

he hates the way

she keeps him waiting.

He ruminates:

is time but a mere linear continuum?

Not so (he thinks) for she

always late

has it flexible, stretched out, elastic.

The minute hand never sweeps

as he sits anticipating her arrival. 

Anticipating?  Nah! 

Not that plastic smile

or those heaving boobs

she thinks he finds fantastic. 

If the truth be known, she to him –

a mere residuum

of a whim at computer dating –

has had her time!

The ennui of his continuous waiting

has been (to him)

somewhat ego deflating

and his heart has sought another!

Oh yes, in his mind his secret lover,

his flesh so ripe just for her taking;

the heaving boobs are worth forsaking

for the clever beauty in accounting.

Perchance to dream! 

For him the problems mounting

for how does one so weak in nature

(a failure would be his nomenclature

in this thing, this thing called love,

well no, character strength,

of which he is sadly lacking)

say Sorry kiddo, it’s all over?

He hesitates, should he end it today?  

His resolve dissolving by the minute 
and much to his sorrow

he procrastinates,

he will wait, kiss her, pretend to love (?) her

and ending it? 

Well he will make another date 
and ending it will perhaps be

tomorrow…

Anna :o}

Inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag and (some of) the words provided at The Sunday Whirl.  Thanks Tess and Brenda.

Some of the words: (Per)chance,  hand, sweeps=swept, flesh, ripe, secret and clever.

Unbidden

photo by Mark Haley

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]

Inspired by the image provided by Tess at The Mag and (some of) the words provided by Brenda at The Sunday Whirl.  Thanks Tess and Brenda.

George: Schizophrenia, Cognitive Decline & Antipsychotics

11.11.08	George admitted on a Section 117.  George is sixty-three with a long history of schizophrenia having being diagnosed in 1969 (24yr old).  Revolving door patient although mainly inpatient.  Usual stuff (in some cases) believing he was well (if discharged) and stopped meds resulting in re-admittance.  Intractable auditory hallucinations which seem to govern his thought process.  Well educated and apparently his life fell apart after university and his first employment being his last.  Physically well (statins and senna).   No known NOK.   Stayed in his room, appears distracted, unresponsive to communication.
12.11.08.	George has remained in his room again this AM.  Does not initiate conversation but appears to welcome it, smiling and holding out his hand for you to take it.  He is a very pleasant man with a seemingly gentle disposition.  Distracted this PM, quite haunted appearance.  Will not communicate or make eye contact. OK by teatime.
18.11.08	George appears well settled.  Stays in his room most of the time but will venture into the lounge occasionally. Other residents appear to have accepted him into the fold and include him in conversation to which he enters – although still does not initiate same.   Often distracted by auditory hallucinations to which he does respond, often angrily.  Other residents seem to tolerate this, some amused by it, others ignore it and the rest by nature of experience, understand it.
09.12.08	George very well settled.   He has been designated his own chair by his circle of friends!  Goes out each morning for his newspaper accompanied by staff.  Remains fully compliant with meds.   Does not initiate conversation but readily responds.  Auditory hallucinations continue.
18.03.09	Section 117 terminated – George now free to leave the building without supervision.
21.01.11	George returned to the home (by the police) for the third time in succession after apparently getting lost.  No evidence of cognitive decline when in the home – but perhaps too subtle?  Monitor.  George now to be accompanied by staff whenever he leaves the home.
26.08.11	Cognitive decline continues.  Defecates and urinates inappropriately.  Manually evacuates bowel smearing contents in room.  Very hostile during interventions, always verbally, often physically.   After re-referral to psychiatry, depot discontinued and ‘given’ as oral meds.  Donepezil initiated.
23.02.12	Further decline evident.  Needs assistance in all aspects of daily living.  No longer able to feed himself.  No longer mobilises.   No longer speaks bar that of responding to his voices, but this being of a bark.  His psychiatrist continues to decrease and reduce (the amount of) his antipsychotics.  We don’t understand why!  Donepezil stopped.
17.10.12	Apart from a rare moment when he smiles that smile and offers his hand for the taking, George appears to exist in a permanent state of torment (hell!), he appears distracted to the point of being haunted most of the time, haunted by his voices that he no longer understands.  Every intervention becomes a battle – how horrific his life must be for him.  We have requested his GP refer him (urgently) to psychiatry; he is on the lowest dose of one med only; how can this be right?
14.11.12	Accompanied George to see his new psychiatrist  - always seem to be temporarily filling a post before they move on elsewhere  - who despite explanations refused point blank to visit him in the home.  I suppose one benefit of him not doing so allowed him to see George at his most agitated.  But benefit it wasn’t.  He (the psychiatrist) was adamant that George’s problems/behaviours’ lay with his ‘dementia’.  He has ordered that George’s remaining antipsychotic be reduced across the next fortnight then stopped.  I am horrified and dare question his judgement.  His response: We both know of the dangers associated with antipsychotics and dementia, don’t we?  WHAT ABOUT HIS SCHIZOPHRENIA?
14.11.12 -present	George’s existence must be pure hell.  Psychiatry will not have a re-think – so this is George’s lot until the day he dies.  The rare smile continues, lost as it is amidst his continuous torment as he barks in response to his voices and lashes out at all those who go near him. He has ‘dementia’ but his voices haven’t. Perhaps his psychiatrist is following the ‘wisdom’ here, but perhaps he should visit here where it is concluded that most elderly patients remain symptomatic and impaired. Perhaps I don’t know what the hell I am talking about as I am not a psychiatrist – but what I do know, what is so horribly evident to me, is that George is tormented by his voices and psychiatric services will do naught to alleviate his obvious distress.   How can this be right?

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gert Germeraad