Daphne

The squiggly presentation was the hallmark of Daphne’s chirography, unmistakable to him; his heart skipped a beat and then thumped on his chest wall as if begging him to read the beauty and wisdom of her words now!   Of course he did.

She was a difficult one and getting her to put pen to paper was more than a little velitation, more so full battle requiring he and his lab assistants to goad her relentlessly (he was surprised at his ready ability to be cruel) and once enraged the words would eruct from her like some volcano simmering below the surface, suddenly spewing forth its matter in a violent torrent.

Her work was a strange masterpiece indeed for not only was she the subject of his research, clever little thing that she was, she was actually writing his research paper too.   He could visualise it being poured over, scrutinised by his peers and then the acclaim, the acclaim, the acclaim!

He felt a smug smile crease his face, he sniggered; he had taken literally the challenge of the idiom "that a half-dozen monkeys provided with typewriters would, in a few eternities, produce all the books in the British Museum."   It was not that he expected her to scribe a full library, rather a single tome of exquisite beauty, bursting at the seams with infinite wisdom.

Only difference was, he had given her a cheap biro and no other monkeys or eternities needed thank you very much – just regular shocks from a cattle prod, until painfully defeated, she came up (screeching) with the goods.

Anna :o]

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

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  New York Zoological Society

Fog

Prognathism: mandiblular: his chin juts out –

like Beachy Head (he thinks) or barracuda;

juts out defiant neath tight upper lip.

He hates this.  He hates his tiny tiny little mouth,

wishes God had given     more thought to his creation.   

He has weighed up the odds,

the odds the risks of complications;

surgery – nervous (as he is of it),

he will sit it out, indefinite. 

Despite his sore self-seen affliction –

he has it all (he thinks) –

he has the sea and she and Lucky Lady. 

She?  He has this notion she is leaving. 

Is she leaving him?  

He feels her withdraw,

a moody ebbing ocean leaving,

leaving in its wake a lonely barren shore.

She: distressed, stress manifests cutaneous,

her silvery scales remind her of the fish;

that fish (bass she thinks) that flapped and flailed,

hooked as it was to certain death,

its tiny tiny little mouth gasping gaping drowning.

It simmered on the galley stove,

simmered in its briny waters. 

He herbed and lemoned it,

seasoned it, hot alive with peppercorn. 

He savoured it, the smell of it. 

Succulent, it melted in her mouth just as his kisses did. 

His kisses did, and then it came, came horizontal,

(as she had always lain before him (always always wanting him)),

came horizontal rolling fogging up her mind;

lost in it    she found herself    almost invisible. 

Distracted then (by it) she slowly drifted into it;

no, it took her hooked her reeled her in (flapping, flailing).

He is losing her;

lost she is to some lonely barren shore,

where darkness offers itself     the infinite,

ebbing as she is,    towards it,

gasping gaping slowly drowning.

Anna :o]

Happy New Year to all and many thanks Magaly for first hosting on Poets and Storytellers United  new site – the start of many new adventures for me.

I haven’t posted for nigh on a year, initially through writers block then I guess I just got out of the habit of testing and using my imagination.

So upon your lead, I will start this New Year afresh too, although not quite…  As, as I really haven’t got my poetry mojo back yet, I have pulled an old post from 2014 to share and will endeavour to respond with new stuff on further prompts.

Looking forward to writing again!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gillfoto

(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

Frail

The ivy doesn’t look too well and I wonder if I have watered it too much or too little?   Its leaves are soft fading and curling.   It looked healthy before as did you. I wonder if my efforts to nurture have been in vain and that somehow I have missed the point, the point of survival.  Is survival to merely exist or to live life to the full or to just survive whatever the cost?  What worth is our history if we just die, the memory of us diminishing across generations, words on a headstone, nothing more.

You are frail now my love, yet I don’t understand how a sixteen stone man can be described as frail – it just doesn’t correlate.   Frail to me is a stick-thin person teetering on the edge of life and death.   Rest is rust they say as if somehow these words of wisdom will raise you like Lazarus from your bed, strengthen your atrophied muscles, reactivate your mind.

I feed you thickened fluids from your sip cup and you drink with a want.  I wonder if you thirst too much or there is just never enough.  Is this your way of hanging onto life or do fluids bring comfort?  You smile at me and grab at the cup sipping on blackcurrant goo.  I love you so much you know – I will quench your thirst forever.

How the wind rages,

precipitating the storm,

winter is coming.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by the lovely Mary - cheers Mary!

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads, hosted by Vivian.  Cheers coming to you too Vivian!

Owl

“And yesterday the bird of night did sit

Even at noon-day upon the marketplace,

Hooting and shrieking.  When these prodigies

Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,

“These are their reasons.  They are natural.”

For I believe they are portentous things

Unto the climate that they point upon.”

(Julius Caesar, Shakespeare.)

I’m not one prone to superstition, I’m not.  I defiantly walk under ladders, step on cracks in the pavement and chatter whilst walking under a *monkey puzzle.  If I break a mirror and cut myself clearing the fragments, that is carelessness.  I do not fear the next seven years. 

But this is different.  He (owl) has stood sentry outside my window for nigh on two days now, staring at me, unblinking.  He appears to need neither nourishment nor sleep, his only need seeming that of me.

Winter is here and I find myself fading as if day into night.  And he watches.  He watches.  He watches…

Night yawns at sunrise and I welcome this new day –

I  live!   I  live! 

Snow falls gently from the heavens,

casting itself at my window,

blankets the earth in its white finery,

offers me strange comfort.

Still, there is a sense of foreboding, a hollowness,

and owl, he watches, he watches. 

I fear his vigilance and wonder if I shall live to see the thaw…

Oh that he would leave me alone…

Anna :o]  

*During my early childhood I learnt of the superstition of talking whilst walking beneath the branches of a monkey puzzle tree - it was believed that bad luck would occur or we might lose something and in some cases grow a monkey's tail!

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of The Owl and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Sumana!

  

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Richard Fisher

It's Nowt To Do With Me!

Mother and father know best, they always have don’t you know,

feathering their nests with unneeded appliances

they only use once or never take out of the box, so what,

at least they have the power of ‘have’ and keep up with the Jones’s,

although ideally they would be winning that race.

Wealth is relative to your wants and your needs,

but if you have it why not flaunt it, buy this and buy that

whether you need it or not, for when you tire of it,

you can find it a new home at any old landfill. 

(Give it away to those less fortunate than you –

are you kidding - I will not furnish the needs of those

who don’t even bother to try. 

(I’d rather die first, don't you know - freebies won't come easy from me))

My brats are the same with their Game Boy’s and smart phones

which of course need to be replaced at the very least yearly,

and then there’s their clothes that must be designer, must be designer

for the kudos and the power's in the brand don’t you know,

and when they tire of a thing, off to the jolly old landfill it goes.

Today is so wonderfully pleasant for a stressed mum like me

what with disposable nappies that I dress junior in, for I must confess

I feel a little bit queasy at the thought of dropping his shit down the *netty

from one of those awful terry towelling squares.    

And those disposable ones,

I don’t have to wash them when their purpose is done, just drop them in

the unrecyclable bin and off to the landfill they go. 

Isn’t life so wonderfully easy?

You ask if I’m worried that our planet is in meltdown,

well of course I am for whom in their right mind wouldn’t be?

But I can state categorically indeed quite emphatically

that this pollution is not down to me.  I do as I’m asked

when meeting the task of sorting my rubbish into this or that bin,

tossing whatever in into its designated (right colour) receptacle – 

so see I follow all of the rules.

What happens to them when I’ve done what is asked is beyond my control

for, for my part I’ve just followed them damned written rules

And that plastic polluting the seas, well again it’s not just down to me,

for I rarely visit the coast don’t you know. 

So get off your high horse you who think you’re so so earth friendly,

for of course you haven’t seen me watching you arrive home

in your posh four wheel drive with particulates puffing outa its exhaust. 

Ha!

Anna :o]

*Netty – a toilet, Northumberland dialect., also ‘nowt’ a Northern English word for nothing.

Sherry at Real Toads has us writing of Earth’s grief as we watch it empty down the plughole, we pulling out the plug ourselves and above is my take on it.

Of disposable nappies/diapers, do you know that apart from the few biodegradable nappies in the marketplace, the following happens?

"Decomposing disposable nappies emit noxious methane gas. It will take 200 to 500 years for a disposable nappy to decompose, leaving a legacy to your children's grandchildren.

"The production of disposables uses 3.5 times more energy, 8.3 times more non-renewable resources, and 90 times more renewable resources than real nappies.

"They produce 2.3 times more waste water and 60 times more solid waste than real nappies."

WEN goes on to say: "Tributyl tin (TBT), a chemical compound which is known to disrupt sex hormones, has been found in disposable nappies on sale in the UK.

Please see source of this information here.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Author:  Thue

Life Hurries On

Life hurries on and at this moment,

at this very moment

she is touched by the touch of his hands,

one slipped twixt her breasts,

the other feeling its way to her pants

Old she may be, all wrinkles and rickety limbs,

but she is grateful to him for the attention he gives,

for she lives and she breathes and she wants and she needs

and she is beautiful both inside and out.

He is as ancient as she is, memory fading and pissing of pants,

fears of tomorrows’ and the forbidding ‘no dad, you can’t(s).’  

It’s not right dad.  You’re too old dad.  Seriously,

I think it’s a teeny bit grubby.  No dad, forget it, you just can’t. 

You can’t fall in love again – you just can’t.

But he loves her and the drive is still there,

keeps him alive and in this moment of passion he lives how he loves,

gives all that he is to this woman he holds in his hands. 

He is beautiful.

He is all over her and she loves it,

loves the love of it, the intimacy of it,

maybe   even the lust of it, but it’s a want and a need,

and she loves the feelings that come with it,

that powerful needing and wanting, the soon to be ecstasy

as he fumbles his way  to her heart.

Anna :o]

As an ancient one, this article  'How to have great sex in later life' in Patient interested me greatly as it touches on the sexuality of the more mature individual, the older and wiser person, as I am.  :o]

There is a certain societal taboo with regards to us older folk having sex as it somehow feels ‘dirty’ to those younger than us, for as we all know sex is that wonderful drug that is only the property of the young…  I do remember as a spotty teenager hoping beyond hope that my parents had only had sex three times resulting in me and my brother and sis, for it didn’t bear thinking about that they actually would do that for the sheer enjoyment of it, as they were far far to old, and it just wouldn’t be right.  I also remember my eldest son (teenage then) asking if his dad and I still had sex for he never heard us…  None of your business son!

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by the lovely Mary.  Cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels.

Mox Nix

Mox nix my friend, it matters not a jot

that now there is to be three of us,

you need to leave to find your stupid sorry self.

Oh there you are, you pathetic little stupid scrote,

crawling back beneath that rock from whence you came.  

Shame on you for running scared, but what the heck,

at least I really know you now.  So sod off, go forth and multiply,

spread you wimpish genes make other little baby boys who cry like you,

little wimps like you who run scared when the going gets a little tough.

I shall bear the child the boy and call him George

and raise him good and kind and strong,

he will become a man finessed with fairplay & fortitude,

something your parents never did with you.

So mox nix my friend, sod off and ne’er come back

for I’ll be glad to see the back of you.

Anna :o] 

Shay at Real Toads asks us to write using (one of five) foreign words/phrases that have become an accepted part of the English language.  One of these is Mox Nix which is a bastardiasation of the German “Es macht nichts” used by American GI’s in WWII Europe to mean “It doesn’t matter” or “It makes no difference” and some of them brought the phrase home with them.

Cheers Shay.

Video courtesy of YouTube 

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

Come Back

What if I stared, really stared, willed you

and you opened up your eyes and said:

Hey don’t you cry its okay its okay,

I’m not dead, I’m just sleeping.

What if I held onto you, held you tight

and begged you please to come back

and you breathed again, took hold of me,

gently loved me and kissed me, saying:

Hey, don’t worry; my heart is yours for the forever of keeping.

What if I said I’m sorry, I never ever meant to hurt you. 

What if I said my words were cruel idle threats

and that I would never ever leave you? 

Would you come back?

What if I said I can’t live without you,

would you doubt me?   Please don’t doubt me. 

You’re all I am or ever was and I need you, need you back. 

I can’t imagine living this life without you.

What if I stared, really stared

and you opened up your eyes and said:

Hey don’t you cry its okay its okay,

I’m not dead, I’m just sleeping.

Please please open your eyes,

please come back to me for

I can’t imagine my life without you...
Please please please just open your eyes.

Anna :o]

For Susan’s 'What If' prompt at Poets United – cheers for the inspiration Susan.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Adam Jones

Idyllic

Buck yourself up you say granddad, the worlds a wonderful place if you just look for it.  I’d love to be as delusional as you are granddad, still as innocent as the day you were born, aren’t ya. 

Okay, okay, yes where we are right now, this very spot, takes my breath away, fills me up, it is truly beautiful, I love being here.  (And I do love you.)

This meadow where we sit, look at it look at it, look how beautiful it is.  The flowers!  The flowers! Oh so beautifully lovely! But what you don’t see granddad is the battle beneath, the never ending battle between predator and prey.  Little tiny life forms forever at war.  Insect eats insect.  Bird eats insect, small mammals eat insect.  Birds of prey eat small birds and small mammals, big mammals eat little mammals; it just goes on and on.

Look over there granddad, the lambs – well sheep really – nibbling at the grass on yonder hill, how idyllic a scene.  But you must realise they are not there to make the world look pretty.  They will end up on your plate granddad, we are their predator, they are our prey.  Yes I know you’ve never killed one – we leave that to someone else, someone else in some distant abattoir.  The workers there must become immune to death or relish it, killing as cruelly as they can.  I wouldn’t like to be them.

You think I’m a pessimist granddad – well I guess I am, maybe a realist?  Do I think this world a wonderful place?  Overall, no.  But now and again wonderful things do happen here and I do love life.  There are some beautiful things here granddad, including you, beauty breathes from you, straight from that wonderful mind of yours.  So right now, this very minute, the world is indeed beautiful, a wonderful place to be. 

Thanks granddad.

Anna :o]

Sumana’s prompt today (at Poets United) is that of The World Is A Beautiful Place, this being the first line and title of a wonderful poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  

Above is my response to same, this written as prose.

Cheers Sumana!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Jonathan Billinger

Flag

There is no flag fluttering overhead, no patriotic symbol ‘neath which we, hand on heart, pledge allegiance.  We are just us. Nevertheless our flag marks out who we are, from whence we came or if new citizens, where we now reside.

Red white & blue the Union Flag (or Jack), a flag to signify the union of England and Scotland in 1606.  (Sadly, in this divided world of ours, ?some ?many in Scotland now wish independence.)  The Union flag bears many a stain of the blood of others, has fluttered over horrors I cannot even imagine.  I would suggest that the flags of many (most?) nations share similar shameful histories, these histories being written even now.

Am I proud to be British, English – I think I am.  If not quite proud, seeing the strife that scars the world today – I am glad I am.  I feel safe here, mostly safe, relatively safe, fearful sometimes perhaps. I think (perhaps viewing through rose-tinted glasses) that the silent majority of us Brits are okay as people.  Am I proud to be British, English – probably.  Am I proud to be human – definitely not.

Flags flutter madly,

earth signals in semaphore –

winter is coming

Anna :o]

Written for Susan’s prompt at Poets United  where she asks us to write of National Flag(s).  My response a bit of doom and gloom perhaps, but sadly, this is how I view this world of ours at present. 

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Original flag by Acts of Union 1800 SVG recreation by User:Zscout370

Summertime

When between the ages of five and eleven, my family lived in Bognor Regis in West Sussex, Bognor being a coastal town, a seaside town.  My memory tells me it was almost always sweltering hot each summer and I have vivid memories of my clothes sticking to my back, so hot it was.  At weekends and during the school summer holidays, as a family we would often spend a day at the beach, taking with us my favourite thing – a picnic.  Mum would make up her wonderful fare, cheese and tomato sandwiches which would be deliciously soggy by the time we ate them (I still love these even now) and boiled eggs mashed up and mixed with Heinz Sandwich Spread, both these wrapped up in greaseproof paper parcels.  There would be her homemade currant buns, so deliciously soft and sweet and then the big treat of Smiths plain crisps with the little blue salt bag   I loved sprinkling on the salt and then would crush the crisps into tiny pieces, for in my child’s mind – it meant I had more.

We children would tread gingerly over the pebble beaches and make our way to the sand, which showed itself at low tide, and then swim in the sea.  Dad would join us in the water – but never in trunks, instead rolling up his trouser legs and going for a paddle.  The day was always a wonderful adventure and it was rounded off by the treat of soft whipped ice-cream, my favourite being this in an oyster shell cornet, the last delicious bits being sweetened by the marshmallow and coconut which provided the hinge.  Sometimes dad would buy a stick of rock, and once home, mum would smash it (with a rolling pin) into little tiny pieces which we three children shared.  I loved the sweet smooth outer shell and then the strange feeling of air sucked through the sucked porous middle.  Yum!

Oh memories are made of this!

Bare feet and warm sea, 

the sweet laughter of children, 

gulls squawk overhead.

Anna :o]

The above image is of Butlin’s indoor heated swimming pool where we children went for school swimming lessons, and I just had to include it for it evokes so many memories too.  I remember it so much, its magical appearance, its smell and the echoing expanse of it all.  I also remember us children desperately trying to hide the brief yellow stain that appeared as we peed ourselves, not wanting to leave this wonderful place for even one minute of the wonderful hour we spent there!

These words inspired by Kim at Real Toads – cheers Kim for this wonderful trip down memory lane.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United - hosted by Mary.  Cheers Mary!

Images courtesy of Pinterest.

Eggs

The bantams are broody,

not a single egg laid

for at least the last month.

They hide in the hen house,

fretting and moody,

still in their silence

bar an occasional half-hearted,

a softest cluck-cluck. 

They long for the crow of a cock,

the warmth of the nest,

the gentle tap of the beak,

the cracking of shell,

the chirp of the chicks

as they welcome this world.

And she?

She is broody, her belly ballooning,

but this a mere phantom,

pregnant only with yearning, the want

the need of a tiny babe suckling,

grasping deep comfort in the warmth of her breasts. 

Oh how she longs for a life growing inside her,

if only, if only, if only.

This morning she rubs at her tummy,

fondles it strokes at it,

and yet knows it is naught but a dream,

for she has only ever been oh so desperately lonely,

she never having been kissed, never ever been loved

and never ever been laid

(Oh how she dreams of being laid,

safe in the arms of a man, she sure such a good man,

(she imagines the feel and the smell of him). 

Oh how she aches to be taken. 

Oh how she wants to be wanted.)

She hears the kettle click-off,

makes up a cup of  instant black coffee,

sees the bacon near-ready, (mmmm (licks her lips))

cracks an egg on the pan side,

lets it drop in

and watches it solidify in the sizzling hot fat.

Anna :o]

Inspired by the bantams – the bantams are broody.  They are not my little clucking friends, rather that of my son and daughter-in-law.

Just finished a few days stint of looking after my wonderful grandsons – loved it, but I’m now worn out!

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary – cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Jon Sullivan

Summer

1)

Starling squawks,

woodpigeon

cur-coo-coos,

sparrow cheeps,

song thrush sings

bee buzzes,

plane drones ‘cross

cloudless sky,

summer’s here! 

2)

Cloudless skies,

sweet mown grass,

sprinkler swish.

Lie with you,

cuddle in,

steal a kiss!  

Innocence,

happiness -

salad days!

3)

Barbeque:

steaks, chicken

sizzle spit,

odours waft,

fill the air.

Magic taste,

charcoal grilled,

tummy filled

Yum!  Yum!  Yum!

Anna :o]

Marion at Real Toads has us writing Tricube’s.  Each Tricube should have three syllables per line, three lines per stanza and three stanzas’ per poem.

So above is a little trio of them.          

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels

Running

World sleeps, almost silent now

but for the steady hum of city lights,

the echoing of footfalls of the running man

as he races through the city streets,

adrenaline pumped,

he rushes, he rushes.

He has ghosts here

that shadow him through each and every day

through each and every night, haunt his very being,

spark adrenaline flight,

heart pounding as he flees his awful fears,

and in terror as he runs away;

he rushes, he rushes.

He wishes she hadn’t been like that,

hadn’t made him want her oh so very much,

hadn’t sucked him in then spat him out

‘til there was nothing left but miserable.

He had never known he could think like that

be like that plan like that act like that,

revenge had been oh so bittersweet,

the thrill of when the knife went in

countered with ache the deep regret

of robbing life of one he once loved so dear,

the rue of watching blood spill out,

pooling neath her lifeless body.

He had left her there, litter in a city street,

she decomposing neath unseeing eyes,

back alley dead, a discarded ready meal for gnawing rats,

a bounty there for fox for dog for feral cats,

for gulls and multitudia of insecta.

The city has devoured her,

she has now become the city,

has him in her grip, his every thought is full of her,

she resides in him, 

hides ‘neath his paper-thin fragility,

pouncing out at will.

He wonders whether he should confess,

whether this would rid the guilt,

whether a certain kind of peace would come.

‘Til then, ‘til decision made,

fear guilt adrenaline sparked,

he rushes, he rushes,

he rushes to escape himself.

Anna :o]

Sumana’s prompt (cheers Sumana) at Poets United, of City, reminded me of a long forgotten draft of city rough sleepers who exist in our cities.  But a trawl through documents found nothing, so I guess I must have deleted it when the PC told me You Are Running Out Of Space!  So I decided to pull on (my own) memory, but my words morphed into something else.  Where it came from, I do not know.  

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Altoona Police Department/Medical Examiner