Sunday, 20 May 2018


Old sot he is, drunk of drunks,
professional proper up of bars,
jars, jugs of, pints of ale, chased
down with a tot or two or three
or maybe half-full glass of warming whisky.

He smiles that inebriated smile he smiles,
guile he has, animated, bothers others,
other patrons with his drunken idle chatter,
slurring each and every word. 
They’ve heard it all before,
his inane views on world affairs,
how his wife bleeds him of each and every penny,
so skint is he, so stony-broke,
hasn’t any coins to rub together,
pours out his empty grasping heart.

They know his game and play it,
just to get rid of him,
buy him another pint, tell him “Now fuck off!” 
He laughs out loud, slaps their backs. 
“Cheers mates!”  he grins as he swills down
another dose of that lovely golden nectar.

He is not done yet,
watches eagle-eyed as others leave,
checks their glasses, downs the dregs,
smiling smugly as if he has won some clever game. 

Bar emptying, he gathers up the glasses
hoping for a freebie for his effort,
but now so unsteady, he falls,
smashes glasses as he hits the floor.  
The barman (now pockets full enough)
finally chucks him out.

He staggers out, smug and happy, singing loudly, heading home.

At home his family wait,
shivering in their frightened bodies,
quivering in their troubled minds,
fear showing in their blackened eyes…

they never win his mindless drunken games.

He always wins.

Anna :o]

Brenda (cheers Brenda) at The Sunday Whirl has us writing using the following words: Bar, check, animated, wait, loud, laugh, drunk, queen, eagles, family, win & hearts.  (I must admit to being naughty as I didn’t use ‘queen’ - as I would have had to force it in.)

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

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels.

Wednesday, 9 May 2018



I have bled out,
arid I am.

I yearn for you,
quench my thirst,
quench my thirst.  

Let me drink of your body,
drink ‘til I’m full,
fill me up; fill me up,
rush headlong,
rush blood–red,
sear through my veins.

Fill me up,
fill me up -
you are my water,
I am your cup.
I’m so empty,
empty, I’m empty
just waiting
for you.

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of Water and perhaps I have gone off on a tangent…  Cheers for the inspiration Sumana!

Image:  Courtesy of Pexals.

Wednesday, 2 May 2018

Whaddya Think?

There's life in the old dog yet!

I can’t barter my heart for it is not mine to give;
it is his, the love of my life who I stalk with a passion,
my love unrequited as no doubt you’ve guessed.

But I have needs I have wants and I’ve concluded you’ll do
to fill in the gaps gaping wide open, yawning and aching,
and this space deep inside me – I’ve reserved it for you.

I’ll trade you my body for my name on the deeds
on a home for the keeping, palatial not paltry,
and I’ll fulfil all obligations, take my place in your bed 

I’ll be your eye candy your trophy to triumph
over those doddery old fools who slither ever so slowly
in your false little circles, doddery old fools you want to impress.

Dressed to the nines, I’ll be bosom revealing and not concealing
my thighs; will wear skirts that barely cover the clean curve of my arse. 
Think, the doddery old fools, how green-eyed they’ll be with me linked to your arm! 

We can do a prenuptial – I don’t mind that at all for all I want is the house. 
Nevertheless, I will be a spouse to be proud of; will fulfil all your needs,
gratify all of your urges and indeed those of my own.

I shall still stalk him it’s true perhaps as a neat little hobby
for as young as I am I have to consider my future,
for one day you’ll be gone and a side of the bed will be empty…

but til that time comes I’ll be loyal to you until death doth us part,
I’ll be faithful and true, kindly and giving, attentive and pleasing,
I’ll be all that you want, but I can’t give you my heart. 

So whaddya think?  Have we a deal?

Anna :o]

At Poets United, Susan’s midweek motif is that of barter/trade and above is my offering.  Of course it is pure fiction, or is it… maybe I have a murky past…  :o]

Cheers for the inspiration Susan!

Image:  Courtesy of  Pexels

Monday, 30 April 2018


Walking has always been a problem for me, what with gait and balance issues.  That said, it didn’t bother me much as a child, or at least I can’t remember it doing so.  Now an old biddy, joints ache, knees give way and I fall now and again – but I get up and just carry on.  I know that in part, this is my fault for since retiring I have become sedentary and ‘use it or lose it’ kicks in and walking is tiring, not quite painful – but I ache and tire like crazy.  Only this weekend I have realised that only I can address this and I have begun to walk around the house for five minutes every two hours, but this eventually will become every hour and I will benefit from this.  I will become fitter.

But you my love, I remember walking with you.  I remember you walking me to the bus stop when we first met. I remember you walking me home after our first date and how you shook my hand at my front door and I thought I’d never see you again – but I did.  I remember how thrilled we were when our sons took their first steps and I remember walking (secretly) behind them when they wanted to walk to school alone.   I now walk (reluctantly) into your care home to visit you, for I find it hard to bear that most of the time you don’t know who I am.

Oh those little steps,
salad days then summer till
autumn befalls us…

Anna :o]

For dVerse where Bj√∂rn  asks us to write about walking.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Tomascastelazo

Thursday, 19 April 2018


Back then I wrote lists on the back of my hands,
notes to my long-to-belong little self,
lists of things to remember,
things that don’t really matter,
well to me, but not to everyone else.

I peered at my lists through wide-open eyes
then erased with a finger & spit,
for whatever I did I was not the right shape to fit
in this clique exclusively fashioned by you.

Thinking of it, why did I want to belong
when I don’t want to change who I am,
I won’t play your games to beg to belong 
to your close-knit vain little clique,
- if you don’t like that, well I don’t give a damn.

Butter each other up; scratch each others backs
whilst you almost ignore me as I won’t play your damn childish games. 
I don’t give a damn if you don’t like who I am,
and quite frankly the way that you act defines how little you are
and I don’t view myself as the same.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at dVerse, hosted by Grace, cheers Grace.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Bert Kaufmann

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

Blubell Wood

Blubell Wood, Abbeystead

I remember when…back bent against the wind; he trudged through woods ‘cross farmers’ fields, through hail and storm ‘cross rushing streams, till wet and worn and caked in mud he all but fell upon his knees, all this to bring his heart to me.

Grateful I held his heart against my chest and tired he, took him to rest in waiting bed and warmed him in my warm embrace, lay kisses on his wondrous face, and joyous thus we made love and cuddled till the morn, glorying in the light of day.

And in that summer we were wed and tilled the land and fed the earth, gave birth to fields of kale and wheat, and our sweet child who grew strong and kind, and as time ticked by became the gentlest man, so good and kind was he, and how full of pride of he were we.

But ‘cross the years the time had spread, till (my love) so thin was he, in he no pastures new no seed to grow, he wilted in the sultry summer glow, till breaths slowly ceased and dead was he and so lost was I and so alone.

Skeletal now and bent my back, I trudge through farmers’ fields and silent woods, eye the barren trees bereft of green, know this the path on which my love had been upon his journey long ago, as he trudged through mud, ‘cross rushing streams, till so tired all but fell upon his knees, all this to bring his heart to me.

I search for him through days and nights, till one morn upon the dawning light I see him there amongst the trees, and smiling he, he takes my hand as breathing slows and eyes grow dim, and released from life and happy now, I give my heart my soul my love to him.

Anna :o]

Sarah at dVerse asks us to write an ekphrastic poem inspired by the fine work of artist Fay Collins.  I chose the above artwork found at Fay’s website which can be found here:  I chose this for as soon as I saw it, it spoke volumes to me.

Cheers for the inspiration Sarah and Fay!

Tuesday, 10 April 2018

Eyes Wide Open


I lack vision its true,
live for the thrill of today,
tomorrow will sort out itself,
always has and almost certainly
always probably will…                Still

I do see the me in the mirror
and quite beautiful I am,
framed in myopia,
my eyeballs unusually long
but my eyes quite alluring,
do you see how they ask you to come? 

Come, please lie beside me…
I have so much to give…
I’m a bicycle ride…
a journey in living…
maybe mount me and
we’ll see how it goes…

Life is a sweet smoking gun,
but is passion a crime?

You may think me immodest,
that I should hide behind veils,
but I am who I am,
willing and giving,
almost selfless in sharing,
proliferating myself for the good of mankind.

And you, you think you better than me,
use that tail twixt your legs like a god-given right,
wanting and needing, all women a possible conquest,
even those with a nerve to dare utter No.
How are you better than me?

I am the spider,
you a fly in my web,
tangled in fine threads,
thrashing in passion,
In flagrante delicto
caught by design.

Anna :o]

For MLM's photo challenge and also Sumana’s prompt of Vision at Poets United.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads

Cheers to all for the inspiration and opportunity!

Sunday, 8 April 2018

I, Esurient

We are the scourge of ourselves,
sucking our world dry,
greedy for 'now',
for immediate pleasure,
the satisfaction of having,
of want without need.

Conquerors we once were,
the fear of alien nations,
we plundered their planets,
gorged on sweet bread of their flesh. 
But now we, devils of our own making,
forever forsaking our future,
feeding on the now of our wants,
we have finally conquered ourselves.

We have raped our own planet
and almost barren our world,
our suns raging in anger
melts our scales into slough
that drips off our backs.
Light fades in our vision,
shy neath a nictitate blink,
its membrane near failing to moisten
and almost blind we become. 

Fear growls in our hearts as our claws claw 
for strength from each fought after breath,
and we know we must act now,
for if not we are doomed as a planet
and doomed as ourselves.

I, Esurient, a scientist,
tasked with others of my ilk my design
to come up with an answer, and driven we are 
to save our world and our kind.
There is great need of research,
to conquer this disease that destroys us
and what better than snatching miserable lab rats
from that pit that names itself Earth.

(They are not far behind us, those humans,
seeming intent on destruction of self,
feeding on the wealth of today
and discounting the dearth of tomorrows...
the horrors to come.)

We come in the night stripping their planet of power,
switching off all lights, for what better than darkness
to feed on their fears and fill them sour with dread. 
We hungry (for life) suck them up to our ships,
in their millions their billions; we take all those
pathetic in living and the dried bones of their dead.

Testing DNA ribbons proves of nothing to aid us 
as a cure of diseases that ail us bewail us,
but we find humans nutritious and at least 
(for a while) we will feed well and thrive.  
And the planet though now hostile
to our alien life form can be altered to suit us,
give a temporary respite and keep us alive…

then we must begin again…to seek out new worlds,
to savage and plunder, seek out an answer… find
planets like us, intent of destruction,
that will feed us and home us,
will keep us alive,
well at least for a while…

Anna :o]

Inspired by Brenda’s Wordle 346,  the words being:  Stranger, drive, bread, light, on, switch, growl, devil, shy, off, stripe & snatches – although I couldn’t find a place for stranger and stripe.

Also inspired by MLM's prompt of “Alien Abduction” where she asks us to write from the viewpoint of the alien.

And shared with the good folk at Poets United too! 

Image courtesy of: Pixel's

Wednesday, 4 April 2018

Its Beginnings...

Its beginnings … well
she hoarded she did,
threw nothing away,
everything had its value,
nothing was wasted,
might be needed tomorrow…

In the kitchen it started,
but not as you might think
on dirty old worktops
littered with used plates
humming malodourous,
grease congealing the remnants
of yesterdays’ dinners cooked eons before,
nor the myriad of cups of all shapes
and all sizes solid with mould,
milk soured & congealed & firm at their base.

Nor in the sink stagnant its water,
globules of grease floating idly atop,
no it started in there,
that place in the corner,
that place in the corner
behind that grubby old door,
the door to the larder, the larder
where she flung her old foodstuffs
or anything unwanted anything definitely dead;
oozing sprouted potatoes liquefying in plastic,
chewed bones from the roast & her mouldy old bread,
anything rotten or rotting, her meds never swallowed,
Tigger the old cat, dirty broken old dentures
and stuff from the downstairs commode
(you’d rather not know).

And the sun and the heat and the air did its thing…
isn’t life beautiful?

Came the time when her worried son visited
for it was time for that talk of where she should live.
That talk of the need of a care home for her needs
far outstretching the care he could give.

Tommy came too
(her delightful young grandson)
and he baulked as she hugged him, hugged him
ever so close to her bony old chest,
and (he) wanted to vomit as her dentures
clacked as she kissed him, and squirmed
as saliva wetted his tiny horrified lips.
(And oh how he quivered, he quivered,
poor little terrified mite,)

Go now said his father
and he willingly did so,
wandered the hall to the kitchen
and opened that door. 
That door to the larder
where new life was pulsating,
and inquisitive he, he sat on the floor.

In its glutinous puddle a potato thing
eyed him with its mean green solitary eye,
its orifice bursting with her dirty old dentures,
and terrified he, he knew he should run,
but so wanted so needed to touch it
and touch it he did. 

It bit off his finger and ran up his arm,
'granny' kissed him wearing the most terrible smile,
and terrified he peed at the moment his heart stopped
(poor little mite (paying the price of an inquisitive soul!)). 
And potato thing, bloated with blood & hungry for humans,
grinned and opened its mouth and swallowed him whole.

Anna :o]

Susan’s prompt at Poets United is that of the word Beginnings and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan!

Thursday, 22 March 2018

Down's & Eugenics

If I was a rose and you had choice,
would you pick me, pluck me down from the tree?  
Would you hold me soft in the palm of your hand,
hold my blush to the rose of your cheek?

My mouth is a rosebud waiting for kisses;
my heart is in blossom pulsating for you.
Please will you choose me; please love me
don’t lose me, for my heart beats only for thee.   

Anna :o[ 

Yesterday was World Down Syndrome Day, but I must admit I would not have known had I not received a (subscribed to) email from MercatorNet. 

It is not the first email I have received re Down’s, and one email (I really can’t remember its source) alerted me to John's Crazy Socks and I became a customer.  John’s Crazy Socks is a million-dollar company run by a young man with Down’s and his father.  We all, all of us, have the potential to succeed (in life), if only others believe in us, believe that we all have value.  And we all do, although this is not the mindset of some, who believe (or are directed to believe) that those with Down’s are valueless, will have no quality of life and be unhappy.  And if a parent of such a child, so will we.

It is a sad fact that most diagnosed with Down’s (in utero) are aborted.  Iceland claims that it has almost eradicated Down’s – but this purely by termination – and the rest of the western world is not far behind.  What does this make us?

Please know that although I am pro-life, I am also not anti-abortion.  This might appear a contradiction, but it is not. If a prenatal diagnosis of incompatibly with life is made, then I agree with termination.  If a baby is born and the same diagnosis is made, and is only kept alive with intensive invasive interventions and has no quality of life, indeed suffering pain, and there is no hope of a ‘cure’ then I believe life support should end, although I do understand if a parent of such a child, I might probably fight this.

But Down’s is not comparable with the above, life has value. And we should think of what path we are taking, a path to where eugenics, the driving out of those deemed imperfect becomes acceptable, becomes the norm.

If my mum had been pregnant with me in today’s world, she could have had me aborted, no question – although I am certain she wouldn’t – but the majority of my life has been ‘normal’.  I went to school, got a job, got married and had two wonderful children and now two wonderful grandchildren.  I have value and am valued.  If I had been aborted, five new lives would not exist.

To close, another heart-lifting most beautiful video found on the Beeb whilst researching.

Shared with the good folk at dVerse.
Please visit the links.

Friday, 16 March 2018


Sometimes, when the day yawns 
and the horizon swallows up the sun,
I think of you. 

Night always had you in its grip;
as vicelike as your hands round the bottle,
as vicelike as your hands round my throat,

I warned you about sleeping,
that I would get my revenge.   

Murder was surprisingly easy.

Anna :o]

For Hedge's 55.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons   
Author:  Chad fitz

Friday, 9 March 2018

Getting it Wrong

I hug people; I’m like that, tactile. 
I don’t hug everybody,
just those (I sense) send out welcoming signals,
those who want me to take them,      now.

Sometimes I do get it wrong though
and they shrink back,
wriggle themselves free from embrace,
look at me fearful.  

Not everyone trusts a man with a scythe.

Anna :o]

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  skhakirov

Sunday, 4 March 2018

I'm Coming!

Heinrich Kuhn (1897)

Soft, defused, that light behind your eyes,
don’t kid yourself, forget the lies,
twilights a coming, day will turn to night.

Go on,  
stick your labels here and there,
remind your self of what’s and where,
write your diary, scribble notes,
write your self your memory joggers.

Hah, won’t work forever,
things’ll keep on fading,
everything a shade of grey. 
Take your time – I don’t mind waiting,
you know I’ll get you anyway.

Anna  :o]

Inspired by Kerry’s ekphrastic prompt at Real Toads, cheers Kerry

Wednesday, 21 February 2018

That Still Small Voice

The conscience. 2015. Oil on canvas

Inside, that still small voice hides
beneath the bundles of my goodest deeds,
my vain attempts at conscience salving.   
Try as I might I cannot heal the wound that I have made,
those injurious words that cut you deep,
harmed the very heart of you.

You say that’s its okay that we all say words
that we regret when anger rises rules our tongue,
your selfless kindness marks you out above myself,
the selfish self-crucifying pity-me that I am. 
Me, I wonder if I grieve for you,
the wound you bear, given as if some awful gift
or do I grieve for me, self-harmed am I in uttering words
that never needed saying.

You say that its okay, what’s done is done
and should not mar our friendship
that you have forgiven me and we should return
to how we used to be, before your trust in me was broken.  
You are repaired now or at least you say you are, but me,
I can’t quite forgive myself and I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do for (my) anguished heartfelt sorry
will never ever be enough, will not repair the harm I’ve done
to self-pitying little me.

Anna :o]

For Susan at Poets United whose prompt word is Voice.  Cheers Susan!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia
Author/artist:  Andrey Mironov

Saturday, 17 February 2018


Look-see, a dead bird prostrate on the grass,
it’s a chick; grey, pink, her skin almost translucent. 
Life didn’t last long, just fleeting, a featherless life.  
She’s gone;  cats had her teeth in her maybe. 
Possibly not – no discernible suffering… 
Maybe she just spilled out of the nest
or maybe she just didn’t belong.

Anna :o]

For Hedge's 55.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United.  Cheers for hosting Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons 
Author:  Tony Wills:   

Thursday, 8 February 2018


Shoes, orthopaedic, custom made,
casual style yet strong and sturdy, black and shiny,                                                          
Velcro strapped for ease and comfort, unworn and waiting,
pristine condition, still in the box.

He refuses to wear them.

Why walk when one press of the buzzer will bring
some ‘f*cking lazy c*nt’ to stand in waiting,
waiting for his pathetic demands as he lives out his sick role in bed.
I am so so sick.

I am too weak to walk he will bleat, refusing physio,
all interventions aimed at moving him forward – for why walk
when you have your servants to do all your bidding,
when you can’t be bothered to lift even your tiniest finger.

Malingerer, that’s what he is.  Or is he?

When he screams at you, calls you a f*cking lazy c*nt –
why does he do that.  Ask yourself, look at his past.   
Look at his notes, read up his history and then you will know.

I wouldn’t like to wear his shoes either. 
They would stay in the box.  
Anna :o]

The above is a thumbnail of someone I knew, someone I cared for (and about) in my place of work.   (I am retired now.)   Despite his readiness to verbally abuse, be buzzer crazy, demanding of attention – I liked him and would give him at least thirty minutes of my time each shift.  We would chat, had a rapport, but that did not excuse me from the lash of his tongue outside these times.

Most presenting behaviours have a backstory… I knew of his.  I would not like to be him, stand in his shoes.

For Susan at Poets United, whose prompt is Shoes.

(I don't know why 'shiny' has given itself a line and I can't seem to correct it.)

Image:   Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons 

Saturday, 3 February 2018

Euthanise Me

Circus, Budapest, 19 May 1920
Andre Kersetz

Intensive interventions required:
thread in the needle,
fix in the line,
feed me my poison,
show me you care.

Death has remarkable beauty
a wonderful exit,
though I can’t claim experience.

Show me your mercy,
feed me my poison,
kill me with kindness.

I have rights y’know,     You Don’t!
Conscientious objectors have no place in medicine.

Anna :o]

Kerry at Real Toads offered the above image as a prompt, advising:  This challenge comes with a wide angle and any filter of your choosing. 

And thus ‘I see you’ became ICU, and this article I had not long read at BioEdge threw itself in the mix, resulting in the above.  Cheers for the inspiration Kerry!

Also entered at Joy's 55 – although it would read better with 56…  Cheers Joy!

Sunday, 28 January 2018


Consent is a Yes not an absence of No.
I say Please Don’t but you take me nevertheless.
Look at me look at me, passive and still.

I’m a tiny tiny bird, wings clipped, all feathers and fear.

Indifferent you are and once taken, you zip yourself up,
then leave without word and are gone.

Anna :o[

For Joy’s 55 and also shared with the good folk at Poets United, cheers all!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, 24 January 2018

The Power of NO

I have a voice you know, although you attempt to still it,
treat my so-called illness, fill me up with little pills
potted in your little cups you hand out as if a gift.

Silent you are in your contempt of me your control of me. 
So will I take your little pills, like hell I will,
you can stuff them up your arse. 

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United  asks us to consider Weapons and writes:  Weapons are varied; in fact anything can be turned into a weapon if the user wills.  One can Find one or Be one.  Now what do you say?  

It got me to thinking of my time working in a care home, a mental health unit, and how by merely being there, residents were disempowered.

It was within the residents rights to refuse their medication, but this almost always done so as a protest against a perceived problem and the resident would be angry and would not discuss it.

I would say the usual:  Okay ‘John’ I can see you’re angry, but refusing your meds won’t hurt me, but might hurt you.  I would be told to “F*ck off.”  I would then advise I would ask once more and if refused, would keep the meds until the next round –of course making sure if the meds were accepted then, I would remove any that ‘doubled’ the next dose.

My colleagues would moan when a resident refused meds as if somehow refusal affected their power (over others) the ‘authority’ they felt was theirs.  I always totally understood the refusal for this was the only real power the residents had. 

“NO!” was their weapon.  It is sad that they felt they needed it.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons   
Author:  Peter Ziegler

Monday, 22 January 2018


Creative writing has been part of me since I can’t remember when, but definitely early childhood. I love putting my thoughts to pen then paper and marvel at the process, wonder how my thoughts turn into the ink of the written word.

I would go to work with the adventure of a poetry prompt in my head, my trusty cheap notebook and my black pen - the pen had to be black with an extra-fine point.  My notebook and pen would be left in the office and as words appeared mysteriously in my mind, I would return as soon as possible to write them down, to savour them.  Sometimes, when work would not allow me to return, I would scribble them down on scraps of paper.  Once home, I made my words poetry.

But things change, real life changes and gets in the way, and I lost my creativity or lost the inspiration the desire to pursue it.  I desperately want to recapture it, and now and again I might find it, but for the most part, it remains elusive…

Snow leaves its blank page,
nature writing in footprints:
look, see, I was here.

Anna :o]

Kim at dVerse has us writing of communication through pen, or pencil, and paper.  I desperately tried to ignore this prompt, but inspired, I could not fight it.  So thanks Kim, your prompt has perhaps began to heal the wound.

Image: Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Anneli Salo