Blue moon
Too soon
Particles turn
Heart churns
We disagree
You and me.
Life in sand,
Understand.
I draw a line
Love is mined
For healing pain,
My love remains.
I glance at you.
Poignant view.
Eyes shine with hope
Will love cope?

  I’ve had zero page clicks today,
So I am hoping to keep it that way.
I’ll have to write something dull,
About our last trip to Hull.

We crossed on the old Humber Ferry.
The boatman was eager and merry.
Grimsby was covered in fog

Don’t put that bit in the blog

When we got over on the Hull side
The boatman was on the wrong bit of the tide.
So we had to go back to the South.
Across the Humber’s wide mouth.

The second time was alright.
The estuary was a fine sight.
I like being out on the sea.
The salt air is so good for me.

Now we have the  mind shattering construction .
A bridge carries out the Ferry’s function
But I loved the old Boat, with  cars all afloat,
Off to Hull in my thick winter coat.

.

FAULTY IMAGINATION

I think the idea here is about a simple truth.But it is something very hard to put into practice,for me anyway!

Original Sin Is A Silly Idea

Why do we project sin into babies?

Mr Fox

We have many foxes near us but they rarely come near the house.Sometimes we see footprints.
But this fox had an appeal in its gaze.

I remembered today when reading about Morecambe Bay how terrified I was as a child by the images of bogs,sinking sand and other natural dangers.But at some point this fear must have left me
                             We went on holiday quite a lot to that area of Cumbria whey I was a child.I remember reading accounts of travellers taking a shortcut across the bay[to avoid a long journey around the edge of it.Sometimes an entire coach and horses would be swallowed up.But we were not likely to do that journey.Yet those images often  were in my mind,Also how to save yourself my lying flat on the sand to spread your weight.And how struggling would make the situation worse.A horrible way to die.
                   Is being swallowed up emotionally something children fear?Adults do seem large and powerful.I don’t think about it now on the whole

Those dragonflies
Your blue eyes
Lawns with daisies
Poetic phrases
Sparrows cheeps
No mobile bleeps .
Foxes eyes
Scrutinize.
Let me be.
Don’t squash me
BBC
Poetry
Earl grey tea.
Rabbits run.
Let’s have fun,
Knitted hats.
Tabby cats
Hot  fires.
Quagmires
Lambs and sheep,
Lover’s leap.
Windermere
Glass of beer.
Sun on hills
Watermills

My doctor gives out bags of beets.
To stop us from sucking boiled sweets
He said all that sugar
Is a bacteria hugger,
Besides causing very large seats.

I once had a doctor called Laws
Who held  a raw eggs in his jaws
He was unable to speak,
For then it would break
And make indelible marks on his clothes

BBC News – A real Good Samaritan: “- Sent using Google Toolbar”

A great story showing the goodness in the world

Love in the day time

Some feelings about love of different kinds

SONNETS R US click and read

I want to write sonnets just for structural reasons.i.e. to tidy up my head

LYRA’S ATTEMPT AT SONNETS please click this link to read

I  NEVER WROTE A SONNET  BEFORE

AND I AIN’T QUITE MANAGED  NOW!

BUT IF YOU COME TO MY FRONT DOOR

I’LL MAKE YOU ONE SOMEHOW.

Lyra ‘s got a new  psycho analyst,
She’s got her best pants in a twist.
He interprets all she says
In  slick post Freudian ways.

So  now poor Lyra’s gone   dumb
She has regressed to sucking herthumb.
She has gained  new insights
Into envy,jealousy and spite.
But  no joy,love and delight?
Talking about these virtues  might
Bring Lyra’s voice back,
Create a space for her  Mac
She might write poetry about her  life.
The analyst says she should be a wife.
But Lyra loveswith an Emperor
So no earthly man can tempt her
Away from Mark Antony’s desire
For her to reign with him over his Empire.
Well marrying an MP or a plumber
Does not have quite the same cachet.
So she is married in her dreams at night
When real men are well out of sight,
And Mark Anthony  is by her side
 While  their  sweet ship gently  glides.
What a shock Lyra feels at seven,
When the alarm  breaks up her heaven.
She goes to her  artist’s atelier,
Plays some great  Paul Tortelier,
And she paints her pictures, and dreams.
She devises more complex themes.
Till she sees her analyst at six,
To get her next unconscious fix