The Invisible Worm…

Endo warrior.

Bravely fighting for breath somewhere between bloodbath

And deep painful chasm of menstrual despair

Adenomyosis crippling.

 

She took the apple from the tree

To set her free

Unaware of the invisible worm it carried deep inside.

 

It burrowed its way inside her,

It perforated her uterus

It wormed its way deep inside her pelvis.

And came to rest 3mm from her spine.

 

Mirena

Bayer’s little game-changer.

It changed her game forever.

 

Her hair fell out, her eyes bled,

Fevers ravaged her body

Her insides turned to poison.

And Arthritis set in.

 

The invisible worm

No crimson joy

It nearly did her life destroy.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This for d’verse where we were asked to use symbolism and I wanted to use “the invisible worm”.

Endometriosis and Adenomyosis blight the lives of many women. Unfortunately, the Mirena is another one of those medical catastrophes that were intended to give hope but for some caused irreparable and devastating damage and consequences.

The image was created by sammydavisdog on Flickr.

Ode to the brogue- the ginnel of love.

When I grew up in days of old

And the sun set over yonder

Old folks spoke in northern brogue

It made me stop and ponder.

 

In the backstreets of old Rossendale

Where buxom lasses were bonny

We spoke with a local dialect

And people say we talked funny.

 

In claggy weather we had council pop

Winter woollies when feeling nesh

Mam put our mittens on a string

It made us kids look gormless

 

If we mithered we were clattered

Told to keep our cakeholes shut

They chided us umpteen times

To keep the back door shut.

 

We played hide and seek in ginnels

Cleared snow from neighbours paths

Skriked our way through family traumas

Sweated cobs when’t’sun were’t crackin flags.

 

We spoke a different language

Didn’t give tuppence for what you thought

We’d go t’foot of our stairs

If anyone sold us short.

 

Fresh air and love we lived off,

With Church socials on a Saturday night

We might have not talked proper

But we treated each other right.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

Image Eden Methodist Walking Day- C 1972

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brogue: a way of speaking Englishespecially that of Irish or Scottishspeakers:

Crunch

It was pride,

I wore my heart on my sleeve,

shared my hopes and dreams.

 

You brushed them aside

they scattered like confetti

and shattered as you trod on them.

 

One by one, I heard them break

under the crunch

of your negative footfalls.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse quadrille where we were given the word Crunch.

I had a difficult few weeks and took a bit of a battering in a very bizarre job interview. I did speak up for myself(and cried on the way home…) but I do worry that somewhere in this current climate we seem to have lost our values, our compassion and sense of humanity.

The photos are intended to be the opposite- the restoration of the spirit and soul.

Count your blessings…

Here it is- (I’m sorry- I tried)

The moment of realisation

That we didn’t make it big.

 

But on a day like today, I count my blessings,

It is good to be alive and thrive in spite

of the complexities of life.

 

Why worry? Why ruminate

On what could have been,

When we can celebrate the beauty and the bounty of all that we behold.

 

With fragile threads we weave our stories

Try to fasten our futures on to what we hold dear

We take so much for granted, and we often fear

 

The void, the loss, the loneliness, the finite ending.

We should instead let our spirits soar and hold this beautiful moment

In our memory for eternity.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

Wish you were near.

If I could turn back the clock and revisit the years

The worry and fears would feature less in our lives

I would hold your hand tightly and cherish the tears

I would be kinder, argue less, smile more and realise

That the memories and moments and having you near

Are worth more than ever as ever-swiftly time flies.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is my contribution to the birthday open link night at d’Verse. I am a November birthday. This is about my children, especially my firstborn twin, who is a long way from home and is bravely making her way in the world with no family at her side. When I look back at all the moments I wish there had been more time not less.

 

 

Ode to the town hall clock.

The town hall clock, hands of time

Counting the minutes, measuring the moments

Of our paltry lives.

 

We don’t look up enough

Sometimes we don’t see beyond our own story

Yet still the hands move round.

 

That same clock struck 11, sixteen years ago.

Same minute, same location, same season.

The leaves fell to the ground in remembrance.

 

Synchronicity in those hands

You were so small then in your red coat.

Time stood still for that one moment.

 

I captured your essence in early digital perfection.

The father, the child, the moment

Beneath the town hall clock, the hands that never stop.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse. It is my ode to the town hall clock which seems visible from just about everywhere in Lancaster. The theme and timing is appropriate as it will be Remembrance weekend. The feature image was taken after the service in 2001 where ironically my husband was in the remembrance parade before he became a veteran of war.

 

 

 

 

 

November frost.

City skyline

Frosted borders fringe the kerbstones

Mist mysteriously rising from the River Lune

Castle walls clear against the backdrop of a steely blue sky

Last umber leaves sombre against the sun’s glistening rays

Beautiful day to breathe.

Indeed we are infinite.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson.

We are infinite came from the perks of being a wallflower– one of my favourite film scenes, the tunnel. This morning was so beautiful and fresh that it reminded me of this, especially travelling across the bridge. I was driving though so couldn’t get a photo. This one I have used under creative commons. Credit below.

Image- credit:

© Copyright Paul Harrop and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.