Monday, 20 March 2017


We would all pile into dads recent acquisition, his first ever motorised wheels, a light blue Morris Minor Traveller, we being mum and dad, sis Chris and me and little brother John.    This little blue beauty had opened up new horizons for us, no longer hampered were we by the limitations of bus routes.  The countryside was ours.

Mum would pack a little hamper of food, this wonderful and simple feast bringing the fondest of memories of the oft happiness of childhood.  My favourite of this delightful fayre being the cheese and tomato sandwiches, which we would unwrap from the little greaseproof paper packages mum lovingly made.  Salt was not regarded as a problem then and when making, mum would liberally coat the innards of the sandwiches with it, facilitating osmosis drawing the tomato juice until it ran into the bread and softened the cheese.  My first memory of food is the heaven of soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches (and I am salivating now thinking of this delight) washed down with what was then a treat of dilute orange juice.

I only have vague memories of our trips out, the enjoyment of our green and pleasant land.  But I do so remember the wonderful the delicious soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches!  It is a lasting and pure love!

Buds fit to bursting
feasting on sunshine, alas
no crumbs for the ducks

Anna :o]

Toni at dVerse has us writing of Yum!!! for Haibun Monday, that is ‘The Best Meal You Ever Ate.’

The above is mine and will always be so.  It must be said that this meal also consisted of a packet of Smiths crisps with its little blue salt bag and a two finger Kit-Kat and mums homemade currant buns.

Maybe this first love is why I continue to enjoy buffet lunches, most wonderful things!

Image:  courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Reinhard Kirchner

Sunday, 19 March 2017


There are people in my home,
shuffling in the roof space,
banging on the windows
and banging on the doors.  

‘Please leave me, please
leave me alone’ I plead
as I turn off all the lights…

Old bones snap on the tricks of tired eyes,
tumble I do to the shock of terra firma…
as they shuffle in the roof space…
turning off the lights…

Mind is tired, forgets to remember…
father’s in my bed, telling me he loves me…
sharing (with me) awful secrets of the night…
’Please leave me alone,’    I scream (inside me)
as I fumble and stumble, trying to turn off the lights…

Pain in my leg and I don’t understand it,
wonder if you’ve hit me
as they  shuffle in the roof space…
banging on the windows
banging on the doors…

I lie in my bed here, screaming deep inside me,
hoping and praying they don’t turn off the lights…

Anna :o]

Brendan at Toads has us writing of our interpretation of what Home is.  To me, home is not merely bricks and mortar, rather a sense of belonging, a feeling of safety, a knowing of unconditional acceptance, indeed, a place where the heart lies, a place of comfort and love.

Home is not necessarily just the house in which you live, it maybe your place of work which gives you that same sense of belonging, or your town or your country, whatever defines the place of where you want to be, are happy in.

My words tell of ‘Violet’ who lived in the care home in which I once worked.  She was a very confused lady and regarded and saw  the home as hers, her fellow residents and staff being intruders.  This belief made her very agitated and physically aggressive as she would forever attempt to remove us, and how deep her frustration when she could not.  She was also at great risk of falls, and if she did so, sustaining a fracture, she was adamant these strangers in her house had pushed her.

Violet was a lady who feared the night and her light was always left on.  Despite this she would become very scared and tearful, a timid shadow of her daytime self, and staff sat with her until she fell asleep.  It was a couple or so of years before something she said made us realise why she feared the night, her childhood home never offering itself in how we perceive home, rather a place of abuse…

How sad that her memories and indeed lack of memory, made the care home, to her, a place of fear too.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Gelonida

Thursday, 9 March 2017


She cradles his soft innocence as he suckles at her breast, nurturing him.  All she feels is a deep unconditional love, an overwhelming love she never knew existed.  He is her world, the total sum of her.

As he grows he will be nurtured by his culture and he will turn against her.  She will become what she was and perhaps always will be, the nothingness of that that is woman.

You ask her of this and she softly replies:  It is my culture, it is who I am, it is all that I know.    Confronted, she returns the imaginary veil to her face blinding her vision, a veil that will mask her, mask who she is who she dreams to be, thus forever binding herself to her own fate.

But she will feel safe.

Anna :o[

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of (yesterdays) International Women’s Day whose campaign theme is:  Be Bold for Change.  Above is my offering of which I am uncertain as to whether it is poetry or prose or prose poetry.  I have difficulties with the concept of prose poetry…please see previous post.

In my lifetime I cannot recall any occasion I felt second class as in gender inequality.  But perhaps I am blind to the subtleties’ of it, perhaps I was gently and not deliberately conditioned into accepting a specific role, a role passed down in generations…I don’t know.  That said I do know that gender inequality exists.

In some cultures for a woman to express boldness for change would be tantamount to signing her own death warrant.  It is not right but that is the way it is, in these cultures women live in fear (of men).

Will International Women’s Day change a thing – probably not?  Things will carry on as they are.  From an IWD  page:

Some regions should expect to see their gender gaps narrow faster than the global rate of change. Among these are South Asia, with a projected closing of the gender gap in 46 years, Western Europe in 61 years, Latin America in 72 years and Sub-Saharan Africa, due to achieve parity in 79 years. Projections for other world regions suggest closing their gaps will take longer than 100 years, namely 129 years in the Middle East and North Africa, 146 years in East Asia and the Pacific, and 149 years in Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Given the slow progress over the last decade, the gender gap in North America is expected to close in 158 years. None of these forecasts are foregone conclusions. Instead they reflect the current state of progress and serve as a call to action to policymakers and other stakeholders to accelerate gender equality.

 On a more cheerful note, please watch the video below, a video by the excellent Harry Enfield & Co.  Things have moved on for some of us, maybe not enough but one day that day might come…

Photo header image:  Courtesy of:  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  John Thomson (1837–1921) 

Thursday, 2 March 2017


I’m struggling you know, struggling with being me, timid little mouse that I am, forever nibbling at my nails until the blood runs and the pain soothes and the heart aches.

All I want is to be liked.

Anna :o]

Frank at dVerse has us writing prose poetry and above is my contribution.  I wasn’t going to enter as I am not quite sure  what I think of prose poetry… however, when I was just about to move away from beloved PC,  the word ‘struggling’ jumped out at me from some TV programme serving as a background noise, and well, my head became full of other words and so joining in I am!

Please know the words are not about me.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Vinc3PaulS

Monday, 27 February 2017

An Awakening

Constrained by prim and proper Englishness
she giggles (nervously) as slowly he unzips her dress
and unclips her conforming comfort bra. 

In love with this, his heady scent his luscious kiss,
she wonders how far to let him go,
throwing caution to the wind.

Anna :o]

De at  dVerse has us writing a quadrille (44 words) containing the world Giggle and above is my offering. 

It is a true story based on a holiday I shared with my mother and aunt when I was sixteen or seventeen, I can’t quite remember which.   We holidayed at St Goarshausen, a delightful town located on the left shore of the Rhine.

It was here I had my first holiday romance, in fact my first ever ‘boyfriend’ and learnt of that that is love.  And love him I did.    Peter was about 6’6” and very muscular, sporting a shock of blond hair.  Jeez, the heady scent of his aftershave was pure bliss, sending me to seventh heaven - I probably loved this heady aroma as much as I loved him.

Did I throw caution to the wind?    In the end No – the bra was re clipped and the dress rezipped.  He appeared to accept this and we continued our dates and how thrilled I was when he asked for my address before mum aunt and me left for England.

Of course he never wrote, and I cried myself to sleep for weeks as dreams of marriage and a shock of blond kinder dissipated with each day that past.    So it was that I had made the right decision on that wonderful night we walked along the banks of the Rhine.  (I still remember his face – I guess you do with your first love…)

Image:  courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Dirk Schmidt (Celsius auf Wikivoyage) - erstellt mit Autostitch

Thursday, 23 February 2017


I cross o’er the tracks
where once the trains
click-clacked along the lines,
until the coal ran out. 

And opposite where once
farmers loved the land and
miners toiled in earth below
now stands row on row of grand abodes
in a habitat forever spoiled.

And here live I behind these gates
that keep me in and others out,
and round the door and up the walls
the ivy creeps encircling windows while we sleep. 
And on these painted walls within, spiders spin their webs 
ensnare moth and fly who dare enter in, 
invade this place we call our own.

Outside in neatly tended beds  
flowers bob their brightly coloured heads
and on lush-green lawns manicured
so grass is just so-high, the weeds fight through
refuse to die and flower and seed and multiply,
bobbing yellow heads in a grand defiance of our fight.
And upon the once smart block-paved drive
Horsetail breaks through and forever thrives
nature forever fighting back. 

And here live I, surrendering,
giving my garden back to nature
from whence it came and still belongs
in this place we call suburbia.

Anna :o]

The above was inspired by d'Verse's Tuesday prompt in which Oloriel challenged us to write Suburban poetry.   Although visiting prompts here there and everywhere nothing nudged creative juices within the past two months, until now – so thanks Oloriel!  Nevertheless, I waited until thoughts jumped into my head, so Tuesday has now become Thursday, so I will enter here on OLN, today.  (I am not quite happy with my words so will probably continue tinkering with them)

My words are loosely based on where I live.  I live in an I-shaped street in which three points of the ‘I ‘are dead ends.  The name of the estate tells of its history of once farm land.  One end of the head of the‘I’ I live on is the entrance to the street, the other end being adjacent to a hilly meadow, a beautiful return of nature on spoil heaps echoing past mining history.

When we first moved here, nearly a quarter of a century ago, the front gardens were open plan, but across the years things have changed, walls have been built or fences erected, and we gate ourselves in, creating our own little castles.

Horsetail is indeed running rampant in my block-paved drive despite a long-waged war with it.  I realise I shall never win…  In my back garden – given over to nature, blackberry bushes thrive – they certainly weren’t here when we arrived, their existence courtesy of bird-droppings.   There is also a tree fifteen foot high that wasn’t there when we arrived here too, arriving in the seed of some wind.  I should have dealt with it earlier – but didn’t.     It is not fifteen foot from the house so must be felled.  A tree surgeon will be contacted and he must do his deed lest the foundations of the house be undermined.  I love nature but can’t give it my home.

Prior to moving to this coastal town, we lived in the concrete jungle of streets that surrounded a city centre – certainly not suburbia.   Sometimes I miss the vibrancy of these streets where life was lived with hearts outside, thumping the beats of reality, life lived in the open.  But that said. I enjoy my little life in the suburbs, enclosed in my little castle… I have a certain sense of peace here…

(Of my previous post in which I invited discussion – I apologise for not giving personal responses (which I intended to do) but sometimes real life gets in the way.  Apologies.)

PS  Of the trains that ran along the tracks near the head of my estate – they still do.  Mining is long dead here, so of the twenty or so wagons pulled – I don’t know what they carry or from whence they came.  Googling tells me the line is closed…strange…

Image:  Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Zorba the Geek

Friday, 30 December 2016

Glass Cliff

No hygge for me as I click in the meter key
before the lights’ go out.   

Alt-right is not alright, it’s not me,
just needing  change does not make me a demon,
does it?

Voting for change is the only power that I have. 
Have you woke up yet?

Anna :o[

 Mama Zen at Real Toads has us writing (in seventy words or less) our thoughts using words from the Oxford Dictionaries words of the year and above is my offering.

Hygge - A quality of cosiness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being, regarded as a defining characteristic of Danish culture

Alt-right - An ideological grouping associated with extreme conservative or reactionary viewpoints, characterized by a rejection of mainstream politics and by the use of online media to disseminate deliberately controversial content

Glass cliff - Used with reference to a situation in which a woman or member of a minority group ascends to a leadership position in challenging circumstances where the risk of failure is high

Woke - Originally in African-American usage meaning alert to injustice in society, especially racism

Jeez, I worry about ‘Alt-right’ and the assumption that those who reject mainstream politics are by definition – right wing.  (How easily we have accepted/swallowed this word - differentiating us from them.)  Our corporate masters – those who govern us, our politicians - continue to rule (by defamation in words) those who seek change, seek to be a heard voice, seek the right to exist in ‘hygge’.   It appears that the have-nots, the disillusioned (including the intelligentsia) have no right to a voice and if they should utter – they are demonised.  Those who rule have power over the ordinary folk (us) and it is up to us whether we bend with them or stand upright and be counted.

I live on the other side of the pond and do not pretend to understand the razzmatazz of American politics – it is completely alien to me.  The elections were well televised over here and Trump came across as an ego-driven nutter whilst Clinton came across as a self-opinionated warmonger who was completely out of touch with (perhaps) 50% of the electorate, her people, Her pointy-finger, snarling at the ‘deplorables’ almost certainly pushed the vote towards Trump.   Her arrogance (egocentric) was the agent of her failure – her failure to understand the needs of her people.  Her arrogance pushed her people into a corner, a corner of which they have come out fighting , many fighting blinded, that is blinded by the  ‘truth’ of Trump.

And now there is the shit, the total right-wing shit where those who are indeed deplorable have been given a voice a right to exist by Trump – and (possibly) soon, all hell will break loose.   I fear for this world of ours.   I fear the manipulators’ who play on the fears of the electorate, the electorate governed – and to much part ignored –by the business that is politics.

On this side of the pond is the Brexiteer   (A person who is in favour of the UK withdrawing from the European Union) and (for the first time ever in Blogland) I will admit to being one.  I voted exit for totally valid reasons – but those remoaners would have me a half-wit, a racist, a bigot and would have me a totally ignorant swine.   But I am none of these nor are the ordinary folk and the intelligentsia that voted with me.  Label someone and they come out fighting – but I didn’t – I never ever believed the shit of Farage.  I didn’t vote for Farage – I voted for exit.  And (politics) would suggest that in time the UK will be the first of many.  Europe is fed up of being a business where real people don’t count.  We do – woke up politicians, don’t at your peril.

 Woke up world, see the seen injustice.  The little man – whether he knows it or not will win, win as the loser (he seems to be), maybe by those who do harm by manipulating the fears of those who have no voice, a voice in the wilderness waiting to be heard.   Politicians listen to your people, all of your people – woke up !

Off my soapbox now – but I seriously worry about this world of ours.  Discuss? 

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

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 (If Walls Could Talk)

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