Sienna and dark rose

Muted colours,sienna and dark rose
Lovely mauve and lilac   please my eye
Linen,silk or wool,I love my clothes

 I like to complement,I don’t oppose
The colour wheel rotates as I go by
Wearing colours,sienna and dark rose

I  like colour,all my neighbours know
The “take” on natural fibres makes me high
Linen,silk or wool,I love  their glow

If people gossip, this is not their show
If I seem conceited,  don’t make war
Wearing colours,sienna and dark rose

Now I’m in acrylic, what a blow
Wool is hard to find, the sheep cry Baaaa
I love, fabric, I love  coloured clothes

It matters not if I have burned a bra
Seems a  little  mad, but  there we are
Muted colours,umber and dark rose
Linen,silk or wool, the art of clothes



Books to read or are they?

There’s nowt so queer as foes

The  stuffed wives of Henry the Beast 
The Will of the Mass
The Mad Will
Why be a Catholic,  just to lapse?
Jesus was a wafer with no icecream,I  thought as I  bit him  tenderly
Evening  class: build your own Cross [ wood £89 ono]
By a therapist:I used to suffer badly from  loopholes  and other stories
Clean your own blood: what dialysis means to me now
Everyone else is better than me; a neurosis  lived in real time
How to make your TV smart: do not put vinegar on it yet
I see and hear things noone else does.Genius or Liar?
How to  make your own foot bawl
Sir Oliver’s  Rabble

The War of  the Poses
Mary, been and gone

The mystery of the dark

Come back to me, my sweetheart
Don’t leave me all alone.
Come back to me, my darling
I can’t believe you’ ve gone.
I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.
I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.

Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty
And my voice forever young.
Let me tempt you with my spirit
My laughter and my songs.
I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.
I’m crying ‘cos with you I still belong.

I thought maybe I’d follow,
To see where you have gone
But there’s a hand upon this tiller
That is not mine alon
 I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.
I’m crying,  I’ve been lonely for too long.

The hand upon my tiller
The mystery of the dark
The unknown one who lives in me
And sings like a skylark.
I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.
I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue

My distressed jacket


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!

In the dark

No goods nor gold can cross the Styx
The boat is small, by water crushed
The boatman’s ready with his hand
He has no use for such dry land

The woman wrapped in winter clothes
Hindered by the mist that rose
She weeps, she leaves her home and man
The dark mind  showed her where to come

Her  husband  stood beside her bones
In his loss, he softly groaned
He wept and wept and did not eat
His world  entranced by ice and sleet

Nothing’s quite as sad a sight
As old men crying  in the dark

I see a haze of hair on your head

I see a haze of hair on your head
like the softness of just opening leaf buds in spring.
The chemo is over,and you wait relieved and letting that
take you for a while before you start to face the next stage.
Will your Spring turn to a warm enchanting Summer
or has the cancer,as they say “spread.”
Just for now,you’re in that lull
so in three weeks time you will not be
arriving for another session of drugs
and days of sickness.I see the light fuzz which reminds me
of how the cat’s fur grew back after her surgery
and she,being unable to reflect or question,
leaped from the fence top onto next door’s kitchen roof;
no thought in her mind of stitches breaking.
How beautifully the patterned fur returned
and the vulnerable skin was covered again.
Oh,to look into those eyes and see you dream
about mice that live behind the shed
and how you sat watching for hours
and how you were alive till the very last moment.
Then , all of a sudden,you were gone.Pray it will not be so for ,the fragile,loving human
now waiting and living,hoping for what you took for granted…
a  “normal” life span Or maybe just three quarters of one
would be satisfactory;would be a beneficence
such as trees feel when the sap turns and begins to flow back.
bringing life out of the darkness of earth and soil.
And another Summer comes at the right time
and we find it,shall we say,satisfactory.

The skin

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




blue enclose van during sunset scenery
Photo by sungmu heo on

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.

Into the eye of love itself

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

Accelerating into madness

close up photography of cat
Photo by Amir Ghoorchiani on

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

What is R and does it matter?




woman in knit sweater holding a snake
Photo by Beatriz on

Mathematicians and public-health experts watched through their fingers in May as British Prime Minister Boris Johnson unveiled a series of charts to explain how the government would guide Britain out of coronavirus lockdown. Perhaps most prominent was a colourful dial with a needle hovering near a single digit: 1.

The dial indicated R, a now-totemic figure in the COVID-19 pandemic. The nation, said Johnson, would set a COVID-19 alert level, to be “primarily determined” by the number of coronavirus cases, and by R, the reproduction number.

To infectious-disease experts, Johnson’s focus on the reproduction number as a guiding light for policy was worryingly myopic. They worry about placing too much weight on R, the average number of people each person with a disease goes on to infect.

In this pandemic, R has leapt from the pages of academic journals into regular discussions by politicians and newspapers, framed as a number that will shape everyone’s lives. As Germany’s chancellor, Angela Merkel, explained in a widely viewed video this April, an R above one means an outbreak is growing, and below one means that it is shrinking. In many countries, it is publicly reported every week. In June, epidemiologists at the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health in Boston, Massachusetts, announced a website where anyone can look up the value for any country — and for many smaller regions — in the world.

But fascination might have turned into unhealthy political and media fixation, say disease experts. R is an imprecise estimate that rests on assumptions, says Jeremy Rossman, a virologist at the University of Kent, UK. It doesn’t capture the current status of an epidemic and can spike up and down when case numbers are low. It is also an average for a population and therefore can hide local variation. Too much attention to it could obscure the importance of other measures, such as trends in numbers of new infections, deaths and hospital admissions, and cohort surveys to see how many people in a population currently have the disease, or have already had it

click the  link to read more

Love’s victory

Turn back, live again, he  asked of me
Do not wander in this darkness anymore
One slip,one move might give death victory

We are each connected to that tree
The sunlit top, the roots hid in earth’s floor
Come back, live again, he asked of me

While we live, we’ll live with dignity
Not scrabbling for the gold in blood and gore
One more lie will give sin victory

The kindness of the golden light was clear
And left an image in my mind’s deep core
Come back, live your life, he then soothed me

Do not wonder now why you are here
We’re here to live and living shall restore
What our suffering self has found so dear

I had never seen the Light before
Only Christ the Tyger with his roar
Come back, live through pain, he asked of me
One right step will give love victory

Evolution, accident, who cares?

The Enlightment   brought  error and despair
Science can’t give  a meaning to our lives
In two World Wars we seem to make that clear

Satan looked out  puzzled from his  lair
The evil done by men was a surprise
The Enlightment   brought  error and despair

The fabric of the world  is ripped and torn
The war between the wealthy never dies
In two World Wars we seem to make that clear

Evolution, accident, who cares
With the  pill ,no woman  can deny
The Enlightment   brought  error and despair

Now we shop while wearing our nightmares
Haunted faces lifted  with no pride
In two World Wars we seem to  have that clear

Jesus in his wooden tower sighs
Almost human, he has turned away
The Enlightment   brought  error and despair
After two World Wars what else is clear?





I loved Daddy so

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.

See both sides





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

W B Yeats:the second coming

photo of lake under cloudy sky
Photo by Steven Hylands on

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The last days

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