Thursday, 1 December 2016


You leave lights on everywhere,
an unconscious graffiti scarring the night.
Yesterday pales into insignificance,
becomes the thrill of tomorrow.
The world weeps and you sit on your hands.
Where will you be when the lights go out?

Anna :o]

Isadora at Real Toads has us writing future/tense as in our uncertainty of tomorrow and above is my offering.  Cheers Isadora!

Also entered at dVerse OLN hosted by the lovely Grace.  Cheers Grace

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, 16 November 2016


“ I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in a circus sideshow, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination- indeed, everything and anything except me.” 


Invisible they are,
the have-me-not’s
the underclass squashed flat
beneath the piles of what-we-have.

Poverty is hard to find,
almost invisible
unless you care to look for it. 

Look hard behind the eyes
of that dirt smudged child
with half-empty belly and vacant stare. 
Judge easy, fear his progeny,
another stain of dumbing down,
the underclass that never try. 

If only you lived inside his belly,
felt his gnawing hunger,
brain starved of the ability to learn. 
Would you feel for him?
Would you?

Perhaps for a moment (conscience pricked)
you lay pennies in a begging hat
of that waste-of-space that apparent poor. 
Is he really poor or merely a wise
street entrepreneur speculating
on our moments need to put things right? 
You can’t trust the poor.  
Well can you?

Why don’t they get a job instead
of leeching us who earn each and every penny? 
Hard graft we do to fill our bellies
with each and every trinket, consumables.    
How long does an iPhone last
before you need another?
Not long.  Not long.

How can we understand poverty unless
we have lived through it ourselves? 
And if we do, how we long
to remain invisible, the shame of it,
hide in darkened rooms when bailiffs call,
shudder at our situation. 

Of bread, there is two slices left
after eking out a single loaf
for one never-ending week. 

How do I feed my children?

Anna :o]

The above was inspired by Susan’s prompt of Invisibility at Poets United.  Cheers Susan!

The last two stanzas are accurate to a situation my family found ourselves in many many moons ago.  Until I wrote the poem and perhaps of being now (and for a long time) relatively ‘comfortable,’ I had forgotten about it and I am ashamed of myself.

I can remember pretending not to be in when the milkman called for his money each Friday night. I can remember handing over the last money in my purse to the insurance man as I was too embarrassed to say I couldn’t afford it.  I can remember borrowing the bus fare for my son to go school from my next-door neighbour because I couldn’t even scrape that together.  I only did this once, so mortified I was.  I can remember the fear of the postman dropping debt letters through the letter box.  I can remember the bailiff calling, him finding there was nothing of value to take away to solve the debts.

I remember most the two slices of bread.  My hubs and children had had the last of cereals for their breakfast and I knew there was two slices of bread left in the breadbin, so looking forward to toast I was.  When I pulled them out of the packet, they were turning green with mould.  I had never felt such helplessness such despair such utter disappointment in my life and haven’t since.

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN.  Cheers Grace!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: For 4the children   

Sunday, 13 November 2016


I am the fallen.

Fallen, I became the earth
below this Flanders Field
where once battled raged
now a blaze
of wondrous poppies grow.

I am the fallen.

Two minutes is all I ask of you,
two minutes to remember me. 
Stay silent then,
rid your mind of cluttered thoughts,
turn off your phone,
stay silent then,
remember me.

I am the fallen,
please remember me.


War and strife continue to rage across this world of ours and soldiers and civilians continue to fall day after day after day. 

Lest we forget - many of us do, many of us have.  We seem unable to learn…

Shared with the good folk at Poets United.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, 8 November 2016


Caught in it I am,
this ever decreasing circle,
this life of ours. 

How to say Goodbye? 

The dog whines in the cellar,
the kettle whistles on the stove,
the baby mewls in its crib
and we hear naught but the silence.

Stuck we are, silently suffering
and the circle ever decreases,
sucking us in.

Love has long floundered,
hearts are all empty
and we sit here in silence,
each unknowing how 
to say the longest


Anna :o]

Walt at dVerse has us writing of the oft sorrow of parting, the oft pain of adieu and the forever goodbye, cheers for the inspiration Walt.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons.

Author: Skedonk

Tuesday, 1 November 2016

Gas Chamber

I am what I am;
I have neither a heart nor a soul,
yet I have purpose.

Come to me you scourge of the earth,
you gravid with vermin,
you mothers and children,
you sick crippled and old. 
I have use for you.

Show me your bodies naked and awful
and I will show you my worst.  

I have purpose,
I shall cleanse this world clean.

Anna :o[

Mish at dVerse has us writing on the theme of ‘If Walls Could Talk’ and the above is my offering.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author: Walter, Bernhard

Sunday, 21 August 2016

Act One, Scene One: Abandonment

(Poor Richard mourns his long lost father,
lost to that void of nothingness.)

Poor Richard, heavy hearted,
filial duty now departed,
how could he have ever loved this man,
this stranger in his father’s body. 
Hero that he was, his guide and mentor,
afore that dark place took him over,
polished off his very mind     til all about him lost.

(Poor Richard backs and backs away.)

Anna :o{

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing micro poetry following the theme of “This is not what we came to see…”

The words are of how difficult my sons find it to visit their dad.  A particular son, whose dad was his hero, is visibly shaken to the point he is robbed of speech on the  occasions he visits his dad, his grief his loss is palpable.  He is slowly backing away as this is the only way he can cope.

I understand this as when my mum was robbed of her identity by that that is dementia, I found it very difficult to love this stranger  who inhabited my mothers body and eventually didn’t…

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gert Germeraad

Thursday, 28 July 2016


The children are young again,
chuntering and chattering as they climb up the stairs.   
The door has become half glass, glass greasy and grimy,
grimy and greasy with the passage of time.
Yet I can see through it, see the young children,
chuntering and chattering as they climb up the stairs.

Their father is with them, a leash looped round his neck. 
(The eldest is tugging him pulling him as they climb up the stairs.)  
He tugs off the leash, I hear him dial a number,
hear him ask quizzically:  What’s it with the roast?

This room has rats in it, I hear them
scratching and scurrying, there’s a tail
twixt the books and the brandy, and fearful I tug it,
but tis only a shoelace and I sigh with relief. 
The fire is guarded as coals rage in their anger,
and warmth beckons me over and I sit down beside it,
sit down beside it in a fat comfy armchair   as children
chunter and chatter as they climb up the stairs.  
Their father, black hair full of rats’ tails, looks
through the half glass, mouth open and hanging,
eyes startled and staring as I beckon him in.

He is gone in an instant and the door is quite solid
as children screaming and screeching fall down the stairs. 
I sit by the fire, raging in anger
as I don’t understand it; I don’t get it at all.

The rats are scurrying and scratching
in the space neath the ceiling and children
are screeching and screaming as they fall down the stairs.  
I sit in my armchair, my mouth full of brandy,
weeping and wailing as I don’t get it at all.

Anna :o]

The above is based on a dream I recently had, a dream that remained quite vivid long after I had woken.  The dream took its location in the first floor flat we lived in, our first home after marriage.  As bits of the dream began to disappear from my memory, I wrote what I could remember down.  Brandy wasn’t part of it, the shoelace twixt books and an old gramophone, but I couldn’t get the gramophone to ‘fit’ into the poem, so brandy it became.

I love dreams, thinking them more entertaining than television, and if dreams do have a meaning, a subconscious message, I don’t understand mine at all.

Freud believed that our dreams are a window into our subconscious and reveal our unconscious desires, thoughts and motivations.  He believed they are a way for us to satisfy our urges and desires that are unacceptable to society.

Some of the dreams I have are quite startling and if Freud is right, I think I need sectioning…

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

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Source and credit: Welcome Images

Friday, 15 July 2016


 Kathe Kollwits: Frau mit totem Kind (1903)

I have no need of you;
your stillness brings soft comfort.   
Your presence smacked of
words of wrath of yesterdays,
words best (but not) forgotten.

She loves me she loves me not,
my stifling suffocating 
misbegotten mother. 
And here am I,
her fucking screwed up progeny,
did you love me did you love me not.

Quite frankly, I don’t care.

Anna :o]

Mama Zen at Real Toads has us writing our thoughts (in sixty words or less) using amongst others, the above image as a prompt.  Cheers Mama Zen!

Sunday, 19 June 2016

Night Cometh

Night and Her Children, Sleep and Death 1794

Ah, she comes for you, be not afraid. 
Bathe in her body, ride on her stars. 
Let the night take you;
swallow you up in the warmth of her chill. 

Anna :o] 

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing micro poetry under the theme of Death and Night.  Cheers Kerry!

I really should be in bed right now having worked through the night, but words kept whizzing around my head and became more important than sleep.  And above they are.   But I shall go to bed soon after visiting (a few) others – but will visit all across the next few days.  Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Artist: Asmus Jacob Carstens (1754 – 1798)

Thursday, 9 June 2016


He, a grey blur on an even greyer landscape
dissolves into insignificance;
black dog is with him
tugging at the leash. 

She, spirit floundering feigns normality,
gouges out potato eyes strips away the skin.

Their progeny, his legacy, sense the change,
vying her attention, wail and whimper,
tugging at her skirts.

He has done this before,
in nearest every coldest season,
wandered from his narrow path,
seeking solace in high and lowlands,
‘bove barren frozen pastures,
neath lone skeletal trees. 
(There is strange comfort in his solitude.)

This time, depression to deep to lift,
he cuts diagonal as on silvered blade
sun glints a frantic Morse Code.   
Life pulsates out and once exsanguine
he is freer than a bird.

Black dog howls in jubilation,
his mark blood red on glistening snow.

Back home she (unknowing) waits for him,
waits to offer crying shoulder,
ease his gnawing ache, soothe his sadness
(as infants wail and whimper
forever tugging at her skirts).

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of commitment and what better commitment is there of that of true love and loyalty in whatever life throws up.

For those of you who might not know, The Black Dog is a metaphor for depression.  

Also entered at dVerse OLN.  Cheers folks.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons 
Author: Vmarkousis

Thursday, 19 May 2016


(the fool
amongst us)
with pathetic
smile and pleading eyes
ducks low and cries as first
punch is thrown and we three, we
mighty three adrenalin rushed
lace in with fist that follows fist.  And
how proud we are and whoop with glee as blood
splatters from his battered nose.  We untie him
then and watch him slink from chair to ground
and leave him there as we now ten
feet tall  give high fives and leap
into the air.  The truth is
I don’t care for this
and a  troubled
mind troubles
thus I
weep for him
and weep for me. 
Truth is it is a
survival thing –bully
or be bullied   The me, the
coward (in) me longs to belong
so I sell my soul for welcome peace. 
And my excuse my paltry excuse tis
mother’s words:  Tis far better to give than
to receive.  So I give my soul to
he that would bully me, give fists
and feet the all of me. 
Yet I know, deep down
I know that I
the bully is

Anna :o]

Susan at Poets United has us writing of bullying and Victoria at dVerse has us writing an Etheree and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan and Victoria!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author: Andrew Mason (London, UK)

Thursday, 7 April 2016

Sevenling: (Tricoteuse)

This is his final hour,
heart pulsing out the minutes
in elasticity of time.

She stretches out her pleasure,
a tricoteuse,
knit one purl one,

a Mother of the Nation.

Anna :o] 

De at dVerse has us writing sevenlings, new to me and great fun to do.  Cheers De! 

 Image:  Courtesy of   Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Crédit Photo Aude d'Argentré

Thursday, 10 March 2016

The Want of Need

Tis need the want of him begs her to stay
and she (coquette) upon tree bench she sits,
a spinster of the parish she, life’s play
a failing empty game of wiles and wits
to trick a chap into a life she fits. 
Her vain efforts naught but a comedy
as from majestic to absurd she flits.
Hapless, her quest brings naught but tragedy
(tis so no man of worth will meet her eye)
for she three decades long could not outsmart
his want his need for younger flesh.   A cry
a wail (for she now met with broken heart),
her tortured soul emits an awful moan,
and lost she casts her heart in coldest stone.

Anna :o]

Gayle at dVerse has us writing bouts-rimés and the words offered are: stay, sits, play, wits, fits, comedy, flits, tragedy, eye, smart, cry, heart, moan, stone.    Cheers Gayle.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Artist:  William de Leftwich Dodge (1867-1935)

Friday, 11 December 2015


There is a loss of self in peace,
a curious emptiness, a void to fill. 

Wounds too deep to lick crave blood to spill;
congeal on wounds to deep to heal,
a sorry comfort to an empty soul.  

A warrior ever roused,
he seeks solace in barbarity
striking terror to the moment,
the inglorious glorious moment.
And his bloodied hands slake his sordid soul
satiate his lust for blood,
bring completeness to that moment,
that inglorious glorious moment.

Anna :o[

Björn’s Tuesday prompt at dVerse is that of: War for peace – or just hard work?   He requested we use any form or trick to make us long for peace and not just hate war.  Although it is true I yearn for this world of ours to exist in a permanent state of peace, I cannot see it happening, ever, as mankind is as he is, is a predator, his prey being power and possessions.  There are some of us that walk softly on this Earth leaving our gentle footprints and oh so many others who churn up this Earth in unimaginable savagery and greed.

War is the hallmark of our history since the very beginning, the very beginning when we dragged ourselves from the primordial soup, and so it continues.  Look around our world today, the barbarity that exists within it and how we seek (to some degree) to ignore it; let it be some others problem as we hang on to the tiny space we have defined as ours.   Please read this article on War and Peace in which it notes that there have been some 250 major wars since the end of WW2.  

On the same Tuesday night I viewed Meet the Psychopaths, part of which detailed the work of American psychiatrist  Hervey M. Cleckley in which he noted that some WW1 veterans had mental health problems that would not respond to treatment, and further checking showed these soldiers carried a history of poor conduct, that of antisocial behaviour.   Later work in a general hospital setting, he came across individuals who showed the same personality traits, the same disturbed behaviour he had seen in the soldiers earlier.     From his observations he came up with 21 traits that to him, defined the label of psychopath and in 1941 his book The Mask of Sanity was published which brought the term psychopath into popular use. 

Estimate prevalence of psychopathy is that of 1 in 100-150 of us and we are what we are.  Of course not all psychopaths are of the axe-wielding variety, but look around our world today and you will recognise those who probably are, recognise them by their absolute barbarity and the pleasure and power they achieve from it.   

And so it is that evolution has little lifted us little from our primitive mindset and we will continue to battle until we wipe ourselves out.  Sad, but I think true.

I think it important to state that despite the misery above, I am a very happy optimistic soul, this state being due to the ability to dampen and maybe hide the realist in me.  Peace!

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN                 

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Kabir Bakie

Friday, 6 November 2015

Terminal Agitation

There is a whisper in each soft staccato
breath bringing awful ambience to the dying room
(she is crying now for death
of him will be the death of her
(she has a longing for the life of him.)) 

How odd it is til two weeks past he was
the man of her, all fit and strong, a belonging
of togetherness and then a stumbled
foot, a fall from grace meant
the end of all of it.

He is dying now and she is she
thinks, grateful for the rush of time, that
pain is not a part of it.  She sits
and thinks of this sucking
in each soft staccato breath. 

There is a certain peace to this (she thinks) til
suddenly (as if full of angst) he rises
from the bed and restless now he paces floor. 
This weakens her equilibrium and she thinks
him an antagonist of acceptance.
(She is sick of herself for this.)

And then he dies. 
(Her fall is in the death of him.)

Anna :o]

Today at dVerse De Jackson asks us to become enamoured with enjambment.  Cheers De Jackson!  Above is my take – which may be enjambment or not!

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons
Author: Exploti

Monday, 12 October 2015

Remember me...?

George Tooker, self portrait

You look at me and think you know me,
but you know me not at all. 
I am your epiphany, a drawing of last breath.    
In death you will seek me out,
the half-remembered face as if clinging onto life..    
But I would say to you, think on this,
the scythe it swings for all
and I will have no memory of you.

Anna :o]

Inspired by The Mag and Real Toads and also entered at Poets United.   Many thanks to you all!

Thursday, 1 October 2015


Frog jumps a solitary jump,
he pauses then
as if planning move from A to B,
then aimlessly he jumps again. 

Neath him lays a fall of autumn leaves,
all crisp and dry a brittleness.   In some, 
decay leaves naught but a skeleton of arid veins,
a remnant of a long lost summer.  

She sees all this and dwells on it,
dwells on death decay and indecision. 

(Then) black dog of night gives way to  mist of morn,
a hovering of almost calm,
and she decision made,
makes incisions cross her wrists
and bathes herself in blood red warmth,
she a remnant of a long lost summer.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, today hosted by the most excellent Björn - cheers Björn!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Randi Hausken