My wife has left me for an adverb.
I don’t know which one it is!
Is it slowly,quickly, nearly?
Life should not be like a quiz.

She told me that she “nearly” loved me,
When “dearly” was what I had hoped.
Life is full of lost illusions…
How do deserted people cope?

I think I should have kept it secret,
For now I sit and sadly grieve.
Do you think my wife is cruel?
What a strange excuse to leave!

Would she leave me for a pronoun?
Would she leave for a full stop?
Would I leave you for a quote mark?
Would I fall into a dot?

Come back,darling for I love you.
I have learned I must take care.
I will go for grammar lessons.
I am sure I can learn flair!

We can write a poem together,
You can choose the topic,dear.
I will hold my pen and write for
They say true love drives out fear.

Did I fear her? Did I love her?
Was she worthy of my heart?
Did she dislike my hairy nostrils?
Was that why we had to part?

Come back Mary,come back Mavis.
Come back Sunny, come back Sue
Without my wife I feel quite lonely.
What is a poor man to do?

I admit I was unfaithful.
God made men to procreate.
Yet I loved my wife the best…
And how I loved her homemade cake

No need to search in foreign parts

Find foreign places in the heart

By grief we’re thrown  off usual roads

Do not desert us from your hold

We have no maps, we fear our friends

Into the suffering we descend.

Our children once sat at our knee

Now the parent they must be.

Some groan and rage for their own loss

Through wild places all must cross

Some may fall and be helped up

As we share the bitter cup

We must drink it to the dregs

As we walk on ancient legs.

Do not shun us when we grieve.

Our maps are ripped yet we must leave

We face again the unknown heart

Of which we only know a part

No package holiday, no deal

We’re on our own how raw we feel.

Though every single human heart

With grief and pain will surely smart

Would you wish to be a stone?

If you have love then you will moan

Evoking the beauty og stars far away,

I like to watch geese at the end of the day. Patterns and poems disclose other worlds.

Feel the hand of a baby with the fingers all curled See the trust and the smile when the mother is home,

To create entire worlds for the one she has borne.

For chaos and panic are not far away

Even in adults who don’t care to say.

The little hands touch me so deeply, so well;

⁰ How come the world is diving to hell?

How can we kill little wains by the score

Was it for this that I opened your door?

Was it for this that love electrified us,

And we were lost in each other, in the holy white dove.

Was it for war that we gave love our wombs.

Making more soldiers and filling more tombs

The bombs are a-loading they’re having parades. It’s not North Korea, it’s Washington, dude.

Let the tanks roll on Corrie and the Bedouin tribes

Let the allies laugh blindly as the Lord Jesus dies.

O take me, dear mother.Please take me away

I can’t see the point in saying my prayers.

The leaders’ religions are making God frown.

The desert is empty, the tents all dragged down. The centuries of living so free , so mobile;

The holy land blessing as they pause for while.

The little black tents like wombs of the night

Are all gone to shredders as we sing, Silent Night.

In the desert grey I walked alone

I was great with child, my heart a stone.

Betrayed by love, who can we trust again?

0 God protect us from the wiles of Man

The pains of birth are easy to detect.

The grief and  sorrow made my womb contract

Here there is a doctor dressed in black

He has no face, no courtesy no tact

My baby dies, the father is a lack

The doctor throws my baby on a pile

Babies, children killed without a trial.

Hitler’s still around disguised, I’m cold.

Evil runs the world, so mad so bold

I know I too will die unless I leave

Postpartum grief so rarely will deceive

But when I gaze upon his holy face

My baby smiles and waits for my embrace.

Even here in hell there is some good

In the muck and dust of human blood

I do not know where I can walk from here

I walk into the darkness with him near.

Sad and lonely, yet I must go on

I must not fail until my life is done

Avocado stare with prophecy and police caution
Melon and brain salad. Fresh brains daily
Carrot and Squeak soup. Sorry we have no screams today
Battered beans all aching on fresh moans
Casserole of jam with funny broken bones .
Salmon and duck eggs in steam chamber

Cheese sauce on white mice and immigrant children. (None black yet.)
Fishcakes and celery hearts with bullet holes. Very Pretti
Vegetarian man just shot with pearl barley and foreign spices
Hot spiced police with pasta laws
Chilli thief and barmaid
Seven pear trees with roasted root canals
Icecream and sausage jelly on custard pond. Bloody Sunday

Shoulder,breast very Renee Good and sweet lamb toast with bloody butter

Crazed marauders with ginger cat, well bred. Recently shot with stolen handgun

And why not have a drink of a special coffee

Mau mau brew with apartheid screams

No torture is allowed in the coffee shop please go outside first.

short-eared durham owl
meditating over the dale’s edge,
shadows the fields and folds
in elegant diurnal flight.
on wind-side,careful sight,
may swoop to prey
and away.

your yellow broad-eyed look,
at once both sharp and distant,
holds me.
oh,silence,
oh,wind on green,
oh,earth,
sky.

immense your held vision,
sphere without center,
pied geometer of flight,
oh, swift descent and ascent.
trees bunched by dry stone wall
call heart home

 

Whirling in the winter wind, dead leaves
Dry and brown and broken ever more
Send their substance to the souls bereaved

People pray and yet do not believe
Christ was born and angels him adored
On the winter wind float dying leaves

By our spirits may we be deceived,
Even in the heart’s quiet hidden core,
Sharing presence with all us bereaved?

Look into the sun and fire perceive
Power destroys the lives of all its whores
On the wind float lingering, burned out leaves

For men of power think God  can be deceived
Yet even kings will die despite their force
To lie in marble graves, of love bereaved

Wrapped in cloths of linen, cream and coarse
With no coffin, Jesus high is borne
With the wind, with ashes , with dead leaves,
The photons of his love light hearts bereaved

In my dreams I travel deep and low
Into the loving world of long ago
The jacket on the chair ,it smelled of smoke……
The funny tales, he sang, he laughed, he spoke

So faint the memory, strong are its remains
Security and love in our domain
The brushes and the stipplers all stood by
For no-one told his tools that he would die.

On his shoulders, like a queen I rode
So safe and happy on the path he trod.
His voice was clear and he could whistle too
In those days men were used to do

 

And  love shone from him on my mother dear
She smiled and made us cakes for Sunday tea
What  tragedy to leave  his children five
But in that distant space ,he is alive

The fire as red as any glowing rose
We were dressed so well in  home made clothes
Too happy, needing no words to relate
Our sense of being in this  generous space

I can’t get back to them, I cannot swim
The passages too wet , the light so dim
Yet I feel it in my body faint and clear
Death is not the end of those so dear.

Deep inside our minds, ancestors live
And   to out hearts a depth and breadth they give
Yet missing him,I hover near the place
Where I might dive into his dear embrace

The  table where we  banged our little heads
The chairs so close together like a bed
The teapot  always full, the sugar bowl
The fire, the kettle , pussy cat and coal

The fireplace had its oven  nice and warm
Looking at hot coals made me feel calm
The children seem to play in that   far space
And all around  is love  and on  and on I gaze

https://www.ecoticias.com/en/psychology-suggests-that-the-loneliest-people-in-life-are-not-usually-the-outcasts-but-rather-those-kind-competent-and-always-available-individuals-whom-everyone-values-but-whom-almost-no-one-call/30813/

 in summer times when sun do shine

I’m happy on my own

I gaze up through red maple leaves

All transparent in the sun.

But when winter comes I’m lonely

Sitting here beside my fire.

So I want a  winter lover

To keep my spirits higher.

Oh,my winter love come to me

And I’ll gaze deep into your eyes

The light that shines in there

Is so much warmer than my fire.

We’ll go through wintry woodlands,

Where elegance lies bare.

The branches struck by sun

Now feel the frosty grasp of air.

I’ll love you all the winter time.

I’ll love you  in the dark.

I’d like to rest within your arms,

And have a peaceful talk

When summer comes I’ll disappear

To roam across the dales

I’ll sleep on heather moorlands

And send you loving mail.

I can’t be tied in summertime

I must be roaming free.

But ,if you accept this  need of mine,

To you I’ll faithful be.

• Tagged
• freedom
• humor
• light verse

I’m thinking of moving to the cloud.

Is that why you want assisted dying?

I can die without any assistance

Are you thinking about suicide?

No it’s just my Google account is overflowing

I don’t understand how they can put all your emails onto a cloud in the sky and then charge you so much a month.

Well it’s not a real cloud they put your information onto.

In that case why do they call it a cloud?

It must be a euphemism

Is that like a euphonium?

No, one is a musical instrument and the other is using a word that sounds less unpleasant than the one you really want to say.

Can you give me an example?

Yes when you drop a brick on your foot and shout

Drat.

What is the real word that you want to say?

Well nobody knows actually but we didn’t like to admit it before.

What is f*** hiding,?

Damn!

That’s a bit rude. I was only asking a question.

No, I mean that’s what they mean when they say fuck

I think  I prefer damn actually.

Why do you keep saying actually at the end of every sentence.

I had better not tell you what I really want to say.

Fuck!

Damn

Stop showing off

I’m not showing anything.

Ignorance may be bliss sometimes but not when you’re being interviewed for an Oxford scholarship

What are you talking about I’ve never even been to Oxford.

That’s why you want the scholarship isn’t it?

You mean if I get the scholarship I have got actually to go to Oxford and live there!

Yes they don’t do Zoom.

What sort of out of date institution is that? I want to go to somewhere new and up-to-date.

What about the university of the West of England?

It sounds interesting but I think they’re trying to hide something by not specifically naming the town or city where it is because the West of  England is a very big place

That’s definitely a thought.

Maybe Battersea college of technology?

Yes that sounds more up to date. They will have the latest computers and everything you can imagine.

Well I hope it’s not quite everything I can imagine.

Are you having those nightmares again?

In a very real sense, I am

The whole point of nightmares is they are not real

But they feel really when you’re having them. How do you know that you’ll always waken up?

Well I can’t answer that question because there’s no way of proving it.

So far in my life I have always wakened up from my nightmares. If I don’t it will be very unpleasant.

Rumination is very bad for you.

And yet they said the best things in life are free.

They  are just pulling your leg.

So that’s what’s causing the arthritis

How do you tell when somebody is being ironic?

It’s an instinct.

Are we born then knowing what irony is?

No but you’re born knowing how to do the ironing  if you are woman.

See you’re ironic already

Could it be sarcasm,?

Similarities but sarcasm is more malevolent than irony which is perhaps on the humorous spectrum

I really think you should go to Oxford you are so intelligent and you can talk so well.

Do I have the right accent?

Well if you are successful they will all imitate your accent

And if you are not successful you will have to imitate theirs

Or what about idiom?  I think I’ve had enough for one night.

It sounds like a sleeping tablet.

Does that have a screen ?

No only inside your head

Well at least it’s free.

Everything has its price

And so say all of us

Posted on May 17, 2019
Should we write in form to make a shape
Or let our minds run free, associate?
Such tangled webs within the mind are draped

Oh, to run as free as antelopes
But from sharp tigers noone will escape
Can we control , disarm within a shape?

Love’s enacted falsely , making rape
Inside our hearts shall we recover hope?
Such tangled webs the curtained mind creates

Round the marbled minds we half dazed traipse
Wherever we go hunting, we’re too late
Can we control our fear within a shape?

Collapsing faith cracks , can we concentrate
Or from the deal , do we dissociate?
Such tangled webs of mind make ripe our hate

Now sex compels but will can’t procreate
Can kindness smile and friendship instigate?
Should we write in form when we love shape?
Our mingled maps of mind might alter fate

Mary sat in her dining room listening to Sir Michael Atiyah on the Today programme where he was talking about very advanced Group Theory .Many years ago she had known this great man, though he had scarcely noticed her despite her big blue eyes and skinny legs displayed beneath her home made mini-dress.That was very fortunate as she was there as a tutor not as a tart.

Why her mother had supplied her with such mini dresses, she had often wondered, Going online, she saw a sale on at Welvi, the store for larger ladies.There was an orange culotte jumpsuit made of polyester for £10

Look at this, she called to her friend Annie.A real bargain in my view.

Well, said Annie, suppose you were in the country climbing a hill and you needed to have a wee. I never thought of that, Mary said shyly. Moreover polyester is too clammy for summer and not warm enough for winter, besides it looks transparent.I don’t think Stan would like it.

Well, he’s not here now, said Mary sadly.And transparent plastic trousers are in fashion.Do you wear plastic knickers underneath? No, you’d have to wear a jewelled thong, said Annie.I bet that would make men look at you.

Well, not your face… I’ve never worn a thong.Do they hurt, asked Mary politely.

Yes, I’ve got one on now, said Annie nervously.It’s really hurting me.I’d better ring 999 and ask Dave the paramedic to advise me.

Hi called Dave as he got out of the ambulance, what is wrong today? Annie is in pain from a thong, Mary cried .

Where is it , Dave asked gently Where do you think, Annie shouted?

She lifted up her chambray skirt and showed him her pink lace knicker substitute. Can you take it off, he asked tenderly?

I have run out of clean knickers, she informed him scientifically.

Well in the past women wore cotton petticoats but no knickers.It was more healthy.But with short thin skirts if you fell over all the world would see your mound of Venus

That’s an exaggeration, Annie said.All the world is not looking at me

Ah, but someone could have a video camera and you might be on the News.You’d better go to Marks and buy some more proper knickers. Now, shall I make you a cup of tea?The NHS is here to care for you. Lovely, cried Mary.

Annie go upstairs and take a pair my knickers then put that thong in the laundry basket.I will wash it for you and you can hang it in your bathroom to give an impression of your taste to visitors.

On the other hand, men would be disappointed to see you really wore cotton high waisted pants and not a sort of mini star spangled banner. 

All right, said Annie but Stan would have liked them. 

I like them, mewed Emile.I love you, Annie.I wish I were a man, I would go to bed with you right now.I have got a French letter from Soraya.She’s been in Paris and wrote to me on real paper.

Wow, a cat using the subjunctive and reading French letters said Mary.That is a surprise. 

I don’téven know what  a subjunctive is, screamed Annie rudely And so say all of us.

Before we go to bed we vegetate
No need for teacher but a compost heap.
And as we vegetate, we drift to sleep
While in our dreams our little mind debates

But mostly we’re unknowing in this dark
Where God himself may manifest at will.
His dazzling darkness makes our souls be still
And wait for strikes by living ,glowing spark.

But in the morning ,we come back to strife
Take up our work and suffer every stroke.
From sapling to the oldest,strongest oak
Each must choose again its proper life

Every look we cast at others strikes
Reflects and shows us what we have become
And when there is no movement, we are done
Our mind and heart have chosen what they like.

So in our end we vegetate again
And no more rise to labour in the day
We fertilise the fields passed on our way
We show the end of woman and of man.

A daily round becomes our life and death.
We live because we’re breathed by sacredness.

When he in whom you trusted turns malign
Yet does not tell you why this might be so
Just sends you hate mail, crosses boundary lines
This is both a trauma and a blow

Shall I lose myself in thoughtless sin
Devote myself to flesh and lovers wild?
I shall not run to where revenge may win
Nor burn my throat with boiling, putrid bile

Humanity turns backwards does not rush
Returns the evil with a strong, good wish
When God reveals himself, a burning bush
The flames will purify, the heat will kiss

Retaliation may feel very sweet
But hate rebounds and eats us, as is meet

Let me paint my house with color soft.

Still as snowflakes lying in a drift

Let me paint my house in colours mute

That lovers die I cannot now dispute.

As stark as ghosts are in an empty lift.

The end of life is startling, it is swift.

Death came here and touched his unkissed lips

I am lonely as the lights go out.

I am frightened I won’t know the route

Now my heart is bleeding it is ripped

Lie beside me lover in the moss

Paint my face with colours still and soft

I see you in the mist and I am lost.

What we pay is more than any cost.

The sadness of the television world

Where actors have no character to shar

Where all is flat and perfect but unreal

Where God’s in Hell, and yet it is concealed

The sadness of a toddler with a phone

Eyes near focussed like she is alone

Where she can see a Zoo in Montreal

Or hear hyenas as they make their calls

The sadness as we toss out ancient book

And never teach our children how to cook

The imaged food is perfect in young eyes

But when we live on images, we die The sadness as the screen blinds children’s eyes The sadness as our culture slowly dies

I promise you that when I am the prime minister I will deport two million asylum seekers in the first month.

And after that it will go up exponentially so I will deport 4 million in the second month eight million then the third month in 16 million in the fourth month

If I continue in the same way how long will it take to completely empty the country?.

After that I will start with the illegal immigrants such as all those descended from the Normans .

Keep Britain empty especially from deserving asylum receivers.

Don’t waste your vote

When I die I am going to Heaven
To sit by Mr Aneurin Bevan
We will eat buttered Welsh cakes
Float in hot blue lakes
Oh final thought, how about Devon?

I wonder if I am perverted
For writing my poems with  ten verses
They say we’re post modern
And swearing’s forbidden
So are magic,religion and cursing.

I wonder if I  can be fluid
A man or a woman or druid?
I can be other
Since I have no mother
But what about rats in the sewage?

To economists we are just” Labour ”
We’re units when  once we were neighbours
Gender’s  quite useless
True  love is a nuisance
Capital  makes Money our Saviour

Why not  buy a new winter coat
Decorated with  the fur off a stoat
Weasels are  cheaper
Cats  purr and pierce you
As you sail ‘cross the Styx   in  a  boat

I thought I’d not marry again
I’m a feminist along with the men
But a m\n tried to hug me
And tickled my kidneys
He says I’m charming the snakes  into sin

But I think I am past getting wed
I just want to go straight to bed
Not just for the pleasure
Of getting his measure
No, it’s  just that  my organ’s half dead

I’d gaze into his eyes and feel good
As at last I’d feel  well understood
We don’t need to  chatter
About any matter
Nor scratch like the cat and draw blood.

I think my bed is too small
The headboard is stuck to the wall
The mattress collapses
As do my synapses
Who do you think  should call?

I’ve been untidy  ever since I was born
I lost mother’s breast  and her warmth
I’ve been looking forever
I got rather clever
Now I’ve lost my old man in the corn

He cored his own stone.

Klimt:Tree of life

Many a fickle lover’s tickled me like noone ever did galore.
He never blames except the whores.
As one bore flits another scarpers.
How many aisles to babble in ?
She loved him in her ungrown ways.
It’s a good way to tickle Mary.She’s my tart,so there!
Fool Britannia.
Here’s my number,Jack.I’m called Kay.
Twas the last blows of plumbers that ruined my pipes.
And for the final hymn,Full in the ranting arms of Joan.

Follwed by coffee in the church’s balls

Now we live in cubicles voluminous
We cannot kiss a friend to say goodbye
Though some may see or hear the numinous
While we live as separate as our perfume is
God is unaffected by walls numerous
Can visit prisoners without need for lies
Divert lonely people being humorous
As we ‘re locked so separate can you live with us?
We cannot kiss the cat to say goodbye

From the miles of flatness and the fens

Comes the hill where this Cathedral stands

Everyone can see this floodlit site

When the moon is out and there is night.

I saw it through the window as I turned

It’l struck me down with beauty never earned.

As I lay surprised upon the stair

I absorbed the beauty I saw there.

Should we worship beauty such as this?

It strikes us with a hammer not a kiss

“One thinks of Isaiah — ”Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling” — and of Psalm 137: ”By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat, sat and wept as we thought of Zion.” The great poems remind us that grief cannot be avoided, nor forgotten, but can be incorporated into a deeper understanding of the human condition, as in Emily Dickinson’s ”After great pain, a formal feeling comes”:

This is the Hour of Lead —

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —

First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

It is that union of experience, insight and the simple beauty of language that helps us to give our own grief a name, that gives us a kind of company, that extends a wise hand. Many experiencing intense, even unbearable personal loss have found redemptive meaning in the famous poem Ben Jonson wrote in 1603 at the death of his son, the one in which he declares, ”My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.” There is no full consolation for a parent who loses a child, and indeed Jonson does not offer consolation. But he at least gives a form to what most of us only dimly understand: that the source of grief is the intensity of the hopes that have been lost, and that without the possibility of grief there would have been no joy.”

I

Oh holy light that held me in your gaze

That spoke to me in words without a sound

A holy light, a person hidden away

I did not seek and yet I have been found.

When I was trapped alone with my  numbed heart

When nobody could touch me with their hand

When in bleak despair I sat apart

By your holy light I have been found.

Although you did not speak I heard your words

I heard them all and yet there was no noise

How did you convey them so I heard?

The senses were conjoined, became one voice

I thought I was near death and yet I lived

Despair is long yet graceful are its gifts.