This was a  photo of a small lake before I played with it

I am sorry I can’t come out.My distressed jacket has just arrived.
Denim,say what you like… you can beat it,distress it, rip it and some idiot will buy it
Distress it yourself.. teach it quantum  mechanics.Or let the dog sleep on it  if and only if you can  sleep by it and sing ,O for the winds of a dove
I can’t come out either.I can’t get my  jeggings off and I need to answer the call of nature.Moo mooo
What made you buy a distressed jacket?
It was half price!
Why can’t  you wear it to come out?
It might cry
Are you crazy?
How would I know?
Are you unwell?
No,I’m Dutch
Like a dyke?
Are you always boring or is it just  the heat?
I have no idea
You can take some of mine.i am full of the.
How much are they ?
How much what are they?Wool?
I mean the cost
Free to all daydreamers
I  like that!

Like the adder,I would shed my skin
Extravagant ,new painted colours bright
Then I’d live with snakes,my new true kin

In my wavey life, emotions run
Tempting only other snakes in sight
Like the adder,I would shed my skin

No arms to hug, no bosom,but much fun
Wriggling my whole body in sunlight
Feeling one with snakes,my new  true kin

Once such transformation has begun
We  cannot ride the wind like   children’s kites
Like the adder,we would shed our skin

All other  needs must for this be foregone
Change and breed, for all must hibernate
Then dwell with snakes in burrows where sun’s dim

In the frozen winter,sleep all night
Sleep all day and live without love’s rites
Like the adder,we should shed much skin
The endings of the nerves , life’s   origin

What Makes a Good Poem?

Patricia Hubbell. Black Earth, Gold Sun. Marshall Cavendish, 2001. City Kids. Marshall Cavendish, 2001.

“Prose = words in their best order; Poetry = the best words in their best order”—Coleridge said it, and I believe it. Poetry IS about words—their precision, texture, beauty (and ugliness). Prose is about words, too, but not in the same way. Prose is about the bigger picture. The canvas is bigger and so are the brushstrokes. A good poem, whether narrated by a character or by the poet her/himself, uses words wonderfully, and it uses them to capture specific moments in a fresh way, a way that makes the reader exclaim with delight, “Yes, that’s it! That’s right!”

A good poem may also ask philosophical questions. In its condensed form, poetry gives these questions an immediacy, a great power to startle and grab the imagination. Poetry is great for asking—and sometimes answering—those questions that come to you just as you’re falling asleep.

The roses by your gate
Revealed my sweet fate:
That I would love you in summertime,
That my poetry would always rhyme,
That a dream of petals falling from above
Would drench us both with sunshine’s golden love;
That we would fall into deep grassy meadows
Full of daisies,lie on our backs.Swallows
Darting across the sky would see
Our shapes intertwined with bright buttercups.
Who knows when love will erupt
And carry us on its flowing waters
To places unreachable in summer saunters?
Into the eye of love itself

Who owns the weapons of mass extinction?
The Queen has been raining since 1954 at least
Brtain  is a mock-democracy.
We sell instruments of torture to keep the Economy entranced
Across the  globe people are  locked up without trial  but has it made the world safer?
You can kill one Osama but there are others.Why not use the power
of reason?  Why not  think? Why not wonder?
It’s madmen  playing games to make their names

https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-020-02009-w?

There were three of us on this motorbike,
Father Dan with me,
And he had Jesus in his bag.
That makes the total three.

Transubstantiation, oh my Lord
I looked  at his black  bag.
Is Jesus inside there, I thought?
Should it have a tag?

It’s a secret  never told
But Father Dan gave it me to hold.
So I had Jesus in my lap,
No wonder there’s a hole, a gap.

We zoomed off up an unmade road
As fast as Dan could go.
I felt bewildered and bemused,
I loved my Daddy so.

Father Dan took back his bag,
And went inside our house.
I got my marbles out to roll,
And I ate a chocolate mouse.

So Three of had taken a ride
And after that my Dad had died.
Father Dan said Mass  today
With holy Jesus,so I cried.

B

By Mike  Flemming

Though the News is very bad and we are governed by people who see, unfit to be in their positions,I think of the people I’ve met here in  the last  8  years and their kindness, their hopes, their goodness and their humour and I feel honoured to  meet you all.Thank you to each person for being  the person you are and I hope you will   be successful not in money but in using your talents and  in your humian relationship and in enjoying this beautiful  universe with all its promise and  danger, too

Let’s hope we can make a difference by using our talents and caring for our neighnours during and after Lockdown
What we learn now will help the next generation

Come here darling, come here quick,
‘Cos your Daddy’s very sick.
Run as fast as fast, you can,
Get the priest, get Father Dan.
Run,run went my eight year old feet,
Down the lane and up the street
I ran right up to Father’s door,
[Does God live there any more?]
“Come please, Mam said Daddy’s ill”
“Oh”,said Father,”that I will.”
Revving up his motor bike
With The Sacrament beside;
He lifted me up onto the back
And roared off up the church-side track.
It was the best thrill of my life;
If only Daddy had not died. S