Saturday, 20 January 2018

Day's Eye

Imprecise: my calculations,
my measuring of your love of me. 
Do you love me do you love me not
depends upon the daisy plucked,
the petals pulled in earnest hoping. 

Vascular: let me run easy through your veins,
love me need me take me, feed on me until our waking,
meeting dawn with daisy eyes.


Happily written for Joy’s Friday 55 at Verse Escape – cheers Joy!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons 
Author: Ntgr

Wednesday, 17 January 2018

Do Elephants Have Souls?

There is mystery behind that masked gray visage, an ancient life force, delicate and mighty, awesome and enchanted, commanding the silence ordinarily reserved for mountain peaks, great fires, and the sea.
—Peter Matthiessen, The Tree Where Man Was Born

I am not humankind, my grey bulk
and all that makes me me betrays that. 
You say that I have lesser worth,
a soulless entity with mere instinct to survive. 
How do you know that? 
What arrogance you have.

Do you not think I feel hurt feel pain when you beat me?
(You know I do, for why else would you do that?)   
Do you think I have not the ability the capacity
to think, to love, to care, to fear, to grieve?  
Do you think I know not boredom, loneliness and frustration?    
How do you know that? 
What arrogance you have.

What arrogance you have to think this Earth exists merely as your plaything,
where we who are not you have no value. 
How arrogant are you who despoil this Earth,
you with this innate greed this want that dwells deep inside you.  
If your behaviour defines who you are, I would not want to be you.                           
Understand me now,
I am life,
I am sentient,
I am elephant,
My value is so so much more than tusk. 

Anna :o]

Susan at Poets United  has us writing our words of Psche/Soul and above is my offering.  Whilst searching for ideas on the innermost workings of the soul, I came across this article "Do Elephants Have Souls?" in The New Atlantis.  It is a captivating and oft moving read and I would strongly urge you to read it as it will open your mind.  You will need time though as it is a very long article, and at the time of writing, I am less than a third through.  As said, it is a very worthy read, so please do.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Confidential

Sunday, 14 January 2018


Fear crept up on you,
do you feel it now,
how it tingles in your chest?    

Best take a tablet mother,
otherwise it’ll do you harm. 
Calm down, rest a while,
I’ll not bother you again...
then again,   I might... 
Night holds its fascinations,
temptations of the sordid kind. 

Mind if I visit you again?

Anna :o]

Marian at Real Toads  has us writing Chained Rhyme, that is where the last syllable or word of each line if followed by a rhyme on the first word or syllable of the next line.  Cheers for the inspiration Marian!

Also entered for Verse escape 55 where we can write on any theme using only 55 words.  Cheers Hedgewitch!

And shared with the good folk at Poets United hosted by the lovely Mary, so another cheers!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:   Gert Germeraad

Wednesday, 10 January 2018

Time passes...

Mind alert, she views her body,
wondering if she’ll see tomorrow
as clock ticks and marches time upon the mantel.

She is ancient, skin dry and wrinkly,
bones old and spindly,
loose flesh clinging as if an afterthought.

Her legs and arms are spindle thin,
thinly layered in parchment skin that 
cracks and sheds, slowly mapping her decline. 
But her legs serve her well.

Although bladder weakened, she unaware
of stale odours scenting, rising from the cushioned chair
on which she sits, hunched and almost day imprisoned. 
She still has time (she thinks) to totter, hand between her legs,
to the commode she hides beneath the stairs. 
Relieved, another battle won! 
(Just a little leak (she thinks), she’ll change her panties later,
delay the effort in the changing.)

She looks at her hands, fingers gnarled, bent,
bowing to disease that wreaks havoc on her tiny body 
(I have shrunk y’know, she’ll say),
these fingers that once knit hats and tiny jumpers
for her little men, her loving lovely little boys. 
Her boys, men now (God love’m) treat her well,
love her like there is no tomorrow,
knowing her tomorrow might never break in morning glory.

She will leave them one day, she knows that,
it forever playing on her mind,
wondering if she’ll see tomorrow
as clock ticks and marches time upon the mantel,
ticking out her slow decline.

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United has us writing about the Body and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Sumana!

Please know, despite being ancient, the words are not of me.  Well, maybe some of them are…

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  DanielPenfield

Thursday, 4 January 2018


Still dozy with lack of sleep, she looks out through the French doors, and although winter, the garden looks neat and clean, almost fresh, the night’s rain cleansing the detritus that had littered the path, washing it into the gravelled gully and the finality of the drain.

She wishes her soul could be cleansed like that, her sins washed away, for she finds them hard to bear.  She had loved him for sure, oh how she had loved him, still loves him.  He had become that beautiful heart beating away inside her, giving her completeness, giving her joy. 

Then he had left her and despite her pleading would not return.  Broken and bitter she had taken awful revenge, and in destroying him she had damned herself forever, her heart heavy with guilt, hers a conscience that could never be salved. 

Dark days are ending,
spring offers promise of hope,
weeds litter the path.

Anna :o]

Susan has us Poets United has us writing of door(s) – cheers Susan!

Despite reading the prompt yesterday, nothing came to mind, and it was not until this morning, when I looked out of the French doors, that inspiration came.  Please note that the words are pure fiction as I haven’t destroyed anyone – yet! :o]

I did take a pic of said doors and garden, but unfortunately can’t locate the up/download thingy, so the image echoes the haiku.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Ernst Schütte

Sunday, 31 December 2017


Satan Sowing Tares

I stitch rumours in the seams of your doubts, lest you forget the slivers of truth in their meaning, the truth in their aching.

You ask their significance but I say there is nothing to tell, you yourself must seek out the difference of the dark from the light.

You ask:  The Almighty? And I say:  Maybe, maybe that’s so.  But strip the vines from your heart that tighten and strangle, and with this freedom untangled let your truths break out in their boldness and let your light shimmer through.

But is my truth your truth? you ask and I say I don’t know.  You and I, we are souls lost in the middle of unknowing and knowing, and I don’t have a definitive answer, I can only offer my feelings, things I feel that I know.

Just look all around you, I say (with a nod and a smile).

There is a doubling of doubt, a ditching of hope as you look all around you, see the fires of hell burning at the behest of mankind, and you boil in your anger finding darkness the answer and you scream in your knowing as you switch out the misery of all of the lights.

Anna :o[

Brenda’s Wordle 332 asks us to use the following words in our words (!):  Boil, ditch, light, lost, middle, mighty, nothing, rumours, seams, sliver, tell & vine.  Above is my offering and rather grim don’t you think?

So on a happier note, hope you have a most wonderful New Year (and don’t worry about breaking your resolutions, most of us, all of us (?) do…I do…)

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary - cheers Mary, and New Year wishes to all at PU too!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, 21 December 2017


Kissing right, do I kiss right? 
I dunno, but I do know that I love you, right? 
I’m new to this, this kissing thing, this boyfriend thing,
this thing that makes me feel so good inside.
I love you, right? 
OMG, I love you so much I do I do I do. 

You make me feel so good inside,
didn’t know I'd an empty space inside,
just waiting for this love of you. 
I love you, right? 
Yes I do I do I do!  I DO!

But do I kiss right?

Anna :o]

Karin at Real Toads asks us to pick a letter at random, attach a word to it and let our minds take us where they will.  Cheers for the inspiration Karin!

I stole my letter from Karin’s name, which in turn became ‘kissing’ and my mind became flooded with that first romance and all the insecurities that came with it. Did I kiss right?  I dunno…

Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to all of you!  Have a good’n!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Takuma Kimura

Friday, 15 December 2017


Scoliosed, hips misaligned,
I tend to bend towards the right. 
Each step an art, the art of balance
jumbled with the art of falling. 
Each kerb itself a precipice -
a long way down if I should tumble -
a worry then,
a constant need of (re)calculation.

Anna :o]

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

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

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

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to one and all!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Nigel Mykura

Tuesday, 12 December 2017


The first flurry brought with it the purest of snow,
and the wind fell and there was comfort
in the stillness of silence.   And we breathed.
(Oh how we breathed and loved that first breath.)

Then fall after fall swirled round our loose feet
‘til our imprints lay hidden as we blackened the earth.
 (There is treachery underfoot, it deep and firm-rooted.)

The bantams stay in their coop, rarely venture their run.
Outside it is too cold for comfort and huddle they do,
claws clasped round their roost.  The feeder is full
and the nest box lays empty as eggs lie unlaid and future is lost.

You are cold; there is ice in your veins. 
I effort a warm glow but can’t undo what is done.

You whisper in echoes and shout in your warnings
as we gorge in our feeders ‘til the feeders lay empty
and then lost and defeated, you are gone you are gone 
you are gone.

And there is nothing left bar this strange comfort of cold
as it numbs up our veins and freezes our dull minds…
and we are gone we are gone we are gone

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folks at Real Toads – cheers for hosting Rommy!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gpmg

Thursday, 7 December 2017


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

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

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

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

Anna :o]

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

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

Image:  Courtesy of Pixabay.

Saturday, 2 December 2017

I Like My Ladies Thin

Reginald Southey Lewis Carroll (1857) Fair Use

I like my ladies thin, very thin,
skeletal one might say. 
(One’s chuckling at one’s humour here,
what a *card one is and some might even dare a cad!)

I like my ladies thin, very thin. 
One’s want of flesh is not between the sheets
rather that of between the teeth, all rip and tear,
blood dribbling down my yearning chin   as one bites
through the tenderist of the most purest fairest skin,
ravishes the thrill of gore of blood and flesh and gristle,
spilling lovingly from my lovely wanting maiden.

(I daresay you might think one odd,
but mine is an all consuming passion!)

And now she naught but bones,
refashioned she is in skeletal form, born again she is,
she mine all mine for I like, no I love my ladies thin.

Anna :o]

*Card:  (old-fashioned informal) a funny or strange person.

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing an ekphrastic poem inspired by the photograph above.  Brilliant challenge Kerry – loved it!

Sunday, 26 November 2017

He Cometh

I don’t recall when I first began to think about death, my death, but I do know it wasn’t that long ago.  Until that time (whenever it was) although realising I was not immortal, I probably considered I was, for death was not a thing ever imagined, not an option, only life was. 

My death thoughts probably were given to me by protagonists of other stories, stories that weren’t mine, stories based on the fear of tomorrow, stories of worries that a tomorrow wasn’t possible.  These stories, these worries are now mine, an unwanted gift, unwrapped and laid bare, scarring my soul.

He slies in the night
salt and peppering my hair,
seasoning the fall. 

Anna :o]

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

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Incry

Tuesday, 21 November 2017

Hedgehog: Thoughts as hibernation ends.

Air warms,
I stir,
awaken from my torpor. 

I hunger,
crave slugs crave sex. 

“Watch out!” I cry
as I emerge into the night.

Anna :o]

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

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

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:    T137

Sunday, 19 November 2017

It's in the Walls...

Gone are they that dwelt before,
no warning click of closing door,
no drunkard’s feet to pound the floor,
they’re gone they’re gone they’re gone.   

Gone is she enslaved to sink,
in fear of him his knowing wink,
for wild is he consumed with drink
(they’re gone they’re gone they’re gone).

No more she flung upon the bed,
a feast of lust before him spread,
abused and used and left for dead. 
She’s gone she’s gone she’s gone.

And there stood he of death accused,
found guilty then and life to lose
he felt sharp tug of hangman’s noose.  
He’s gone he’s gone he’s gone

And here evil dwells as did before,
it soaks the walls it soaks the floors. 
I beg you please ne’er cross this door. 
Be gone be gone be gone.

Anna :o]

Brendan at Real Toads challenges us to write words which involve Doors and above is my offering.  Cheers Brendan!

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United.

Brrr!  I’m cold!  The central heating’s dead and closed doors make little difference.  (Hopefully it will be fixed tomorrow.)

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, 15 November 2017


Refugee Drawing Title : Yesterday.

The ocean our cosmos,
cast adrift we were
neath a myriad of stars.

Sun beats at our bodies,
salt sucks at our tongues,
wind chills to the marrow,
sea calls us and calls us,
bids us beneath it
and dampened our spirits
we wretched,

Cast adrift we were
neath a myriad of stars,
the ocean our cosmos
and our hearts full of hope.

Lost we are. 
Lost we are. 
A showering of lost souls,
flooding the sea.

Anna :o[

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

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

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

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Polviak

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Hell Cannot Be As Bad As This

Hell cannot be as bad as this.

I dwell amongst; exist amidst
a stinking mound of fallen men
who lie dead-eyed
in bubbling broth of shit and piss.
Earth moves as worms writhe
and feast on human flesh,
rats gnaw deep exposing bones
and in this mess a wounded soldier 
groans and screams in unremitting pain
and longs for sweet release of death,
long lost his dream of going home.

Half-mad, I suck (the breath) in deep,
let it cling to chest lest it be the last I draw. 
Sometimes when morning breaks like this,
illuminates lights up the carnage spread before
or in the black of night
when imagination plays its cruellest tricks,
I think death much more preferable to this.

What price this place in human life is made? 
How many soldiers’ hearts must spill their blood,
lay still upon its soil its stinking mud
until its final cost is paid?


The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand the catalyst for what was to become The First World War, the first mindless, global war brought about by the insanity of the treaty alliance system, the war to end all wars…

The Battle of Verdun was the longest and one of the major battles fought on the Western Front and according to modern estimations the casualty count is in the region of 976,000.

The poem is composed of eye-witness accounts of life in the trenches found here and at other sites dedicated to The Battle of Verdun.

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration, also linked to the good folk at dVerse~Poets PubOpen Link Night.

(Apart from minor editing, the words are of the original post.  The image differs as upon searching, I found the original copyrighted.)

I first posted these words on 14/11/12, and have reposted today as they remain relevant to all who have sacrificed their lives in the terrible arena of that that is war.

War does not only touch our soldiers who battle conscripted or not, but also civilians, and the death toll, the carnage, defies imagination.

Of course I am anti-war, but realistic enough to realise that conflict is sometimes neccessary to uphold to defend that that is good, that that is right.   Unfortunately the conflict of war is more often decided on the greed of humankind, whether it be for territory or the control of hearts and minds or any other pitiful excuse.

We will never learn for like it or not, we are tribal.

(I wear a red poppy although my heart tells me white.)

(Shared with the good folk at Poets United.)

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Baldridge, Cryus Leroy (1889-1977

Thursday, 9 November 2017


She wears attire that fails to flatter,
fancy up her bag of bones. 
But no matter,   for her allure lies within for him
and those who rush to follow,
with their grubby hands and grubby minds,
for she is nothing more than nothing.

Once done they finger trace the lines
the needle tracks to crook of arm,
the foul evidence of ignoble gain,
their power play of bodies.

And here lies she drugged-up half-dead
mouthing silent hate through lips til soon
forever silenced.

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of silence and above is my offering.  Cheers Sumana!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons  

Author:  Worldwide Documentaries

Thursday, 2 November 2017


Skin translucent
almost transparent,
I see inside her.   

Cachexic, body eats itself,
leaves naught but bony barren mountains;
blood slows in stagnant purple rivers.   

head turns then body arches
as pain plays out its awful cruel game.

And here sit I,
a useless helpless heartless mamma
wishing she would fade away.

Oh how I have called out His Name,
begged Him to take her love her take her,
gave her up in sweet surrender,

yet He seems to want her not.

How I would love to lie beside her,
cradle her in loving arms,
whisper that I will always always love her

while wishing she would  gently




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

3.11.17 (19:30)
In view of the kind concerned comments from Glenn and Frank (of which I thank them deeply for) I thought it right that I should add this note.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace dear little Jessica.


Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Artist:  Edvard Munch  (1863–1944)  

Tuesday, 31 October 2017


The moon a waxing gibbous she,
illuminates this hallowed ground   neath
silhouettes’ of swaying trees,
and in this graveyard here stand I
and drool as little kids pass by
and know this night I will not gorge upon the dead,
but indecent feasts of kids instead.

Anna :o]

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

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

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


Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Source:   Le Père Peinard, in Le Péril anarchiste

Wednesday, 25 October 2017


In the darkness of my soul hides my ugliness, waiting.  I despise the vacuous, the parasites who lust the vanity of my friendship and once trapped, I pull them screaming into the darkness. 
                                              (An incipit for the eventual anthology of my kills!)

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

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

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

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

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

My God I’m here you lucky lucky thing!

Anna :o[

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

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

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

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

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons 
Author:  Gert Germeraad

Monday, 16 October 2017


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

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

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

Sky full of sadness,
rains a cascade of teardrops,
a sorrowful parting.

Anna :o]

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

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:    Pridatko Oleksandr

Sunday, 15 October 2017


“You can’t explain what it’s like to mourn someone who’s still alive unless you’ve experienced it first hand.”
Jessica Seay-Soto

I can’t remember most of their names, those who were important to me, those I cared for across the years, those who lived when I left, left to enjoy the autumn of my life.

I have no doubt that my memory is failing, I know the signs.  I know them all too well.  I fear them.  I fear for my future.  I fear I will wake up one morning not realising that the essential me, the me I am happy with, the me that I am happy being, will have disappeared whilst I slept.

I will awake a lost soul.  And I can’t bear the thought of that.

Winter is nearing
leaving distant my selfhood,
memories fading.

Anna :o]

Please know this is not about me, but thoughts based on memories of my mum who I have been thinking of often of late.

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

Image courtesy of:  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  geralt

Saturday, 30 September 2017


if searching for a (possible) familial adverse reaction
it would have been an incidental find – a saving find.

But why, as
*“When you hear hoof beats, think of horses not zebras.” 
So horses it is as the zebra runs wild.

(The mind still has it…)

(Somewhere a butterfly flutters – an advent of the storm.)

(There is madness here: 
Please inscribe on my gravestone
I told you so; I really did tell you so!)

Zebra grazes fat on the grass.

(I tell Eddy what the food tastes like as he tells me what it looks like.)

Eddy is dead now, yet I still live (unaware of the chaos to come.)

(The mind still has it…)

Anna :o]

Bjorn at Real Toads has us writing of order in chaos and above is my offering.  It is a true story.

 *"When you hear hoof beats, think of horses not zebras."

Also shared with the good folks at Poets United - cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Nevit Dilmen (talk)

(Please note that image is not correct to the diagnosis and is not about me, rather someone I love.)

Monday, 4 September 2017

To Michael

Late summer brings with it industry, for, for far too long my home has been neglected, but by necessity.  Working full time and caring for my lovely hubs Michael (for sixteen years) left little time for anything else.  But as seasons change, so does life.  Michael has lived in a wonderful care home for two years and I retired from work last November.

Initially, after retirement, I dwelt in that wonderful place of my time, where the only person I owed was me.  Happy in my apathy, I ignored the ingress of rain as it cascaded through the extension roof, preferring to place buckets rather than deal with it.  But as summer came and the grass grew and I knew I wasn’t physically fit enough to mow it, I had the garden landscaped and the roof repaired.

I then knew that I must concentrate on my home, for it is my home and not just a house.  I knew I must arrange for the house to be rewired, for the wiring is as old as the house, nearly fifty years.  I gave myself three weeks before the start date, thinking it enough to lift carpets and clear cupboards and wardrobes.  Little did I realise memories lost in the clutter.  (The British Red Cross needed a van to take the clutter away to their shop – the memories remain here.)

Autumn will come soon
echoing sweet  memories,
you are my summer.

Anna :o]

Toni at dVerse has us writing of the space between season and above is my offering.  Cheers Toni!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Tony Webster

Tuesday, 22 August 2017


I don’t suffer fools gladly
and I think that’s why I don’t like me anymore.

I search for you in the margins
and find your footprints in the sand;
embedded, resolute,
defying the soft wash of the tide
as it lazies itself to the shore. 
There is permanence in your absence.

I have toothache in my heart,
it is throbbing away and I can’t stand the pain. 
I miss you.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at Real Toads - Cheers for hosting, Marian!

Image:  Courtesy of  Flickr
Author:  WiSch/Foto

Saturday, 19 August 2017

It's All About Love

Uncomplicated: life in the slow lane.

Skin wrinkles; bones tire.

She breaks fast as the day dawns,
sips tea as the sun shines,
loves him for all time. 

Summer is fading as the light in their eyes. 

Content with the season,
love undiminished,
life lived as a passion,

they welcome the fall.

Anna :o]

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing of “Uncomplicated Things” as micro poetry (ten lines or less) and above is my offering.  Cheers Kerry!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons (and the poems title stolen from there as it seemed so apt).

Author:   Candida Performa

Monday, 14 August 2017


Fresh we were,
fresh with the hope and the dreams
that are the spirit of youth,

we would reshape the world,
fashion war into peace
with naught but flowers in our hair
and love in our hearts.

Older now, we have nothing but hope…

Anna :o]

De at dVerse has us writing a quadrille, which is a verse of exactly forty-four words.  Today we must include some form of the word Dream.  Cheers De!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Department of Defense

Wednesday, 19 July 2017


Off shoulder: it now hangs loose,
the bands of blue lopsided hoops,
bra one size down (and counting). 

This t-shirt measures her,
a testimony of inner strength
as she fights the fat that binds the wounds
that scar her heart that beats her awful misery.

She will smile for them, those who laugh and jeer,
shout ugly names with carefree ease in an effort to deride her. 
She will smile as if she doesn’t care, whilst deep deep down
(their ugliness) racks up the pain inside her.

She has learnt to wear this face to hide her hurt
from even those well-meaning, those kith and kin
who even they, fail to see to feel her pain within
and offer platitudes,   as if some alternative to caring.

She takes pride in her few pounds lost,
accepts the praise but knows this pleasure will be fleeting,
for Black Dog he will come again, tear up her heart cloud up her mind
and her only comfort will be in eating.

Anna :o]

Susan at Poets United has us writing of masks and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan!

(Black Dog = Depression)

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ramesh NG