Did they not notice?
No,we shot the staff!
I don’t believe it!Where did you say you went?
Iraq! Why not go yourself?
I’m unwilling to commit crimes I am moral
So,you just let your Government do it for you?
Touche
Surely only a wizard could have conjured this place – or so I thought, aged six, when we, the Ashford family first made pilgrimage to Portmeirion on the North Wales coast.
“Cherish the past. Adorn the present. Construct for the future.” This was the life-long credo of Clough Williams-Ellis, the man who dared to build an Italianesque village on a beautiful Welsh headland.
*
It was like stepping into a living picture book or melting through the mirror into Looking Glass Land. The houses were the rich, powdery, pastel shades of Loveheart sweets (does this strange confection still exist?). There were mythic frescoes in places were a child might least expect them, and best of all, a shell grotto that was just like the Little Mermaid’s deep-sea garden.
It was enchanting from the moment we stepped through the gatehouse entrance. How could there be so much colour, so many decorative…
View original post 801 more words
He never kissed my throat once.Neither did he cut it.
He was a middle man,one might say.
Still two rooks made a good broth
And a rolling bone added some marrow.
Shall we hiss and break up?
Sometimes it’s cool to be kind.
As I was a roaming one night with my sling…
I saw an old vulture asleep on its wing.
Aren’t birds silly sometimes.Why does a vulture not have a nest?
That worries me when I wake up at 3 am with two men in my bed..
Can males not buy their own beds?It’s not love they want,it’s clean sheets!
That’s my tale anyway
A tale of two kitties is an historical novel by Charlotte What-the-Dickens.This is a heart warming story about how two stray cats survived the French Resolution and were married in Brussels.
Warm and Erudite CWTD has excelled herself here.She also purrsuaded a world famous photographer to illustrate the book anonymously.The author’s writing flows from her pen like water bubbling over the Viagara Falls.It beats Fifty Shades of Hay into a cocked hat.Order it now and enjoy a fun night tomorrow morning.
.
A tale of two Kitties by Charlotte.Watt-the Dickens…. -[Humor]
Bores whom the Belle told off….. Ermie Emingway {Irony,humor and wrath for women]
I’m getting buried in the morning…Anne Viking [Biography and black humor]
God’s Frozen People:photographs of the people of the Far North …..edited by Peter Woolf and his wolf [Photography]
Far From the Maddening Town….Thomasina Hardy [Biography and psychoanalysis stitched together in silk ]
Bitter Flames by Sylvia Wrath [Torments of adolescence in the USA in the post war era]
Dissuasion by Jane Ostentatious. [Beautifully wrought novel on a small scale]
The Folding Notebook by Horace Moorings [ Novel that set off the new political agenda for masculinity today’]
The Thrill of the Boss by Georgina Sell- A -Lot :[Romance and Sadism at work]
Poetry written behind by Anne Ass [Wit and humor for the receptive]
Keep levitating by U.R.Guru [Yogic Humor]
Empathy for Beginners by J.Christ [ Spiritual]
The Troy of Sex by Achilles Heel [Humorous look at the trouble between the sexes in this day and rage]
Harassment and how to recognize it….. A Feminist [ Spoof guide book]
Textual Harassment… A.N.Other-Feminist – [post modernist guide to life for academics]
The Womendarins…. a recently found womanuscript by Simone de Wovewore [Existential angst amongst women]
I was sadder than a wet hen which is how I often feel when ill or if I split infinities by accident
it was my utter nadir.The skin of my teeth peeled off and the nerves screamed like music written by a post modern composer.Still,it was free.
I make money by selling souls to wolves who listen at the door
Please nail my hat on if we get a blizzard.I can’t bare to lose heat
My main wish is for more police on Earth
I make a brake for my brain but my mind runs ahead
Can you make a long story tauter?
Take a mountain out of a mole hill and you will be in a hole!
Make an ass out of felt… it will feel good
Can one make ends meet or is it not logical?
Fake like you are a tree with leaves then shiver your timbers
I place no overtones in my verses.I like plainsong
It’s Mike or Jake for the Party
Why make out you found bliss in my tarts?
Do I make the grade as a wordsmiter?
I make tracks for wild animals, which adore me… the Beasts!
Can we make up and kiss our own throats?
Why make waves when it’s already windy on the lake?
Make your love permanent.Freeze it!
The sky looks like a Turner painting.
At the high point it’s brighter,even golden cream
Like the top of a bottle of Jersey milk;
then it dims down to a bluey gray
with a slight threat in it
like a blacker gray…It’s
Too warm today for snow.
I swept brown dried leaves from the step..
Had to move my bike.
Then I hid them under the hedge
So they can keep some insects warm in the winter.
But mainly I don’t want to bend down to collect them,,
I’m tired or lazy after the weekend.
I still have a dress here I was ironing just a week or two ago.
Now it will be put away till next summer.
Here’s a denim jacket with flowers all over…
I did wear it but it won’t look right now.
I washed my hair.It feels soft and pleasant.
I like that feeling.I am wondering what you are doing.
Are you listening to music or resting?
Or sitting looking down the road at wet fields?
I think I’ll make some tea.
I need a focus for the day which also has a feeling
Like those late watercolors
Everything merging
Until one thing dissolves into an other.
Some people like it but today
I need some edge,some definition.
I need someone to give me boundaries.
Time 4 pm
Kettle boils and a neighbor’s cat peers by the locked cat flap…
Wondering why she can’t get in.
I turn away.
Now the sky is without any gold
It’s sixty shades of gray.
It’s clouded dark and soft
Like your hair might have been
But I could never have touched it…
You were always too far away and moving.
This book is now famous and perhaps as widely read as the Bible
I saw it before it was famous for I often rest in an armchair in Waterstone’s bookshop.Whilst there I pick up some novels from the new books section and take a look at them.I took this along and read about five pages.I felt the prose was possibly worse than average.And it was boring.I never reached the part where the sado-masochdomesticism comes in though I have looked since.At the time there was nothing at the beginning at all sexual.I see that later on He tells Her that he is going to force her to have oral sex with him.But it’s expressed more briefly.What is puzzling me is why so many people read it.I am sure one can find much more tittilating tales.Or more tales about tits,even.I believe whips come into it too.I thought the title was referring to all the different types of dust one finds in the home,on one’s head or on the cat.I was hoping it was about domestic affairs with a duster not a rope and whip!I find cleaning keeps me fit and my sex life is private.Whereas in this book they never do any housework.Who cleans t he whips and buys the French letters?Who pays the bills,writes the wills and washes sills ?Not this lady
I recommend Vladimir Nabokov because he write so beautifully.
Government Testing Base
Why clean when you could
Chase dandelion clocks round the garden
Tame some ants.
Photograph cobwebs.
Watch clouds go by.
Kiss you other.
Chase bugs out of your bed.
Save a spider from going down the plug hole.
Dust your hair.
Watch rain drops run down the window
Slip off the patio and break your collarbone
Drink cheap tea in A & E.
Fall off your bike.
Lose yourself in your thoughts
Go into a brown study
Read my lips.
Paint your face.
Look into a mirror
Sniff hot salt water up your nose
Any of the above?
All of the above?
Explain your choice in a short essay.
Or get stuffed.It’s a free country
What a joke!
What! A joke.
W.Hat,A Joke Esq.
What’s your game?
I use photos I take myself and I use various Art software programs such as Artweaver and Paint.net.I love color and shape so trees play a large part in my collection of images
I’m sitting under the coffee table.By rights I should be given some cafe au lait in a traditional French style wide cup with a silver brim plus a matching saucer.I am shocked that Stan has never asked me to partake.I need a coffee break..it’s hard work spying all day!
I heard Anne talking on her mobile while Stan was looking for the graph paper.She must be talking to another woman…. she said she’s just bought some Revlon primer lotion to put under her light beige mousse foundation.Ye Gods,it sounds as if she’s painting the wall.She was moaning she can’t afford Lancome any more.Mousse foundation..that sounds tasty! She wants some heather coloured lipstick but she couldn’t find any.She’s put a new one on anyway and Stan came in to give his opinion:
Congratulations,Anne.You have found lipstick that’s exactly the same colour as your own lip .She was mortified.I could see tears in her eyes but luckily she had her waterproof mascara and purpleeyeshadow on.
Well,it makes me glad to be a cat…we have no need for skin products
and we have no lips as such.Why do humans have lips?Is it mainly for kissing?
And perfume………we like the natural odors but I’ve never seen Stan go up and sniff Anne’s netherregions…though I admit I took a sniff and she smells very intriguing… probably some musk she’s bought.
I envy Stan in a way.Because I’d like to kiss Anne but my lips are too small….I could lick hers with my little raspy tongue!
Maybe if she falls asleep i’ll have a go.i love that woman so..
A cat may look at a king,but can he lick a lady’s lips?
Well,must go and take a walk around my territory and sniff out who’s about….face primer.What next.Paint stripper? What a waste of time and money.I could be chasing dandelion clocks round the garden
I run my fingers tentatively
down your cheek,
asking you a question
with my eyes.
looking at each other,
you touch me too.
This is my skin
my boundary.
Yours is thicker,
like rubber.
I run my fingers down your chin.
what is this little bone?
I like it.
I like your skin
I like your bones.
I like you.
you please me.
you are tasty.
I like your taste,
your skin,your eyelids.
I like your eye here,
and your other eye too.
Nice one!
I like this hair on your head.
May I touch your hair?
do you like hair?
hair makes me laugh.
I have a fondness for laughing.
I love to laugh.
I enjoy laughter
I love your laughter.
If not, smiling is good also.
Or a gleam in the eyes,
showing the inside smile,
the smiling heart.
I like your inside,
Outside
and possibly
your backside.
your upside and downside.
your side sides.
I snuggle you all around with soft wool.
I knit you into my scarf.
I’ll have to wear you round my neck now!
How unusual
How flexible.
How charming.
How alarming
How creative
How interesting.
What an idea!
what a notion
but you are too big for me to knit
So I’ll just touch your hand
with my fingers.
and you touch my hand
with your fingers.
What good hands we have
with such fingers.
fingers are for touch.
fingers are keen to touch.
I like touch.
what would we do
without fingers?
I like your skin.
skin is good
We love skin
We love.
We.
I want skin to be ours
and yours
is mine
and mine
is yours
where is the edge of the world?
skin has no end
it’s infinity
au naturel.
what order!
what design!
What wonder.
what awe.
where is the world’s skin?
tenderly we touch the world
as the world embraces us.
It’s called love.
Love
Have you drowned in deep,cold rivers,
And been lost in shadowed caves?
Have you lived with too much fusion,
Till you drowned in ghostly waves?
The waves run down the sea shore,
Then up they come once more.
The tide turns and life alters..
Deep on that ocean floor
.
You were so beautiful and silent,
Like a sword without its sheath.
I should have let you take me,
The way you took away my breath
I heard it in the bakers
while queuing for a loaf
I asked
is it north or south
but no-one knows
is it east or west?
but who started it?
shall we make love
and spread more rumors
till the rumors
make a big happy cloud
over our heads
white cloud
with pink edges
for pink is the color of love
like roses
yet real.
Make the rumors true
and tomorrow
someone
a cat
and you won’t need
to smoke grass
just get out of your head
and into someone’s arms
then love will not be
just a rumor
but a certainty
just leap
and you won’t fall
into the abyss
but into joy
and pain
to be alive
just to hear
these beautiful
rumors
everywhere
I’ve sung my wild singing in time gone before
But I don’t want to sing now
Oh,never no more.
And it’s no nay ,never
No,nay,never no more
Shall I use my voice here…
Nor out will it pour.
My name is Allanah,or Eileen. perhaps
And I came here from Ireland
with outdated maps
And it’s,Why,why ever,
Why ever and more
Did the Brits give no votes to
The poor Catholics?
My sister and brothers
All died from T.B.
And an early dark grave
is here waiting for me.
But I bore six children
And I cared for my man
As he came home so filthy
From the auld coal diggin’
We had no free doctor
And no kind midwife.
So though my son’s born,
Strain is takin’ my life.
Always and ever
The rich will maintain
That without them this country
Will go down the drain.
But why don’t you try it
As a memorial to me.
Let the rats all depart
And what shall we see?
No,nay,never,nay never no more
Shall I bear my man children
No nay never
Not ever again.
I looked down from heaven
Where God has put me
What did I find
When out did I see?
I saw that the world
Turns round once every day
The beggars and homeless
Kneel down and they pray
Oh,no no never,
dear God help the rich.
Your son tried to l’arn them
But they weren’t bewitched.
They have their accountants
And they have all their laws
They find their amusement
In troubles and wars.
They think that they own you
But,dear God,you’re not theirs
We saw your son Jesus
And he said you are ours
So when will you come down
To make that judgment?
My pen it has broken
My life force is spent.
So it’s no,nay never
Not ever again
Will I sing my old songs
Nor shall I love my own man
We once had a doctor called Powell,
Who spoke to patients mainly in vowels.
When he called I O U,
I asked for A and E too,
As I had so much pain in my bowels.
Then we had a doctor called Keith
Who liked eating chips and roast beef.
He got so obese
We feared for his very demise.
But he was spectacularly thin underneath.
We still have a doctor called Satan,
Who is very proficient at mating.
His children are numerous,
Don’t mention the incubus,
And a true hell on earth they’re creating,
b
Dear David Cameron
I am a very intelligent ,brilliant and creative woman. Yet I often wonder why your face has no expression on it;I must confess since the vote on Syria you have looked a bit bothered now and then,But blankness seems your favourite look.Watch out or an artist may paint a sign on you
Danger:Please stalk on the grass
Danger:Trespassers will be persecuted.
I am writing to complain.There are many magpies,wood pigeons and other such creatures all living for free in the garden here.And think of the ones in the woods.None of them are taxed,yet they get free board and lodging,And moreover we have hundreds of worms here which could surely be made to work.I know it’s hard to tell them apart but all those civil servants who read Modern Greats at Woxford must have a few ideas.
I think if worms don’t work we should mince them and make meat pies out of them… and wood pigeons… that makes me salivate.
Those who won’t work shall be turned into food.The Chinese eat dogs… you catch my drift.Hard solutions for hard times, to warm an old cliche.
I do feel that all living creatures should pay rent.Birds who live in a garden with more than one tree must be made to see how unfair this is.I am unsure what language they speak… maybe Hebrew as they were in Eden once.Oh,those lazy days,eating fruit and sunbathing.And sinning without guilt.did you know Adam and Eve were unmarried,by the way!
Well,it’s bad for us to be happy so I’m counting on you to pulverize nature in all manifestations.
Why,surely,worms are a total waste of time.Get rid of them.Send them back where they came from.Even as I write worms may be tunnelling under the British Channel from France.We can’t let them dwell in our soil.And in the Spring you must stop birds migrating here.Why some come from the Congo.Surely that’s not morally justifiable
Hoping my ideas will be balm to
your ears.And try to get more of an expression on your face.You are like an enpty canvas
Yours truly
Dumbina Dodd [ M.A.Oxen]
P.S.What about cats? They sleep 20 hours a day.It’s wicked!
Stan woke up with a sore throat.
He had to write his wife a note.
He could not speak without much pain.
Oh,dear,he’s got a bug again!
Mary made him lemon tea.
He listened to the BBC.
He read the paper front to back;
Did Su doku,called the quack!
This is Dr Browne right here,
but only gurgles could he hear!
He drove straight round to visit Stan,
He felt concern for this old man!
Stan was lying in the hall.
Dr.Browne asked,Did you fall?
No,said Stan,I hate my bed.
I thought I’d lie down here instead.
It may be draughty,never mind.
Dr Browne is very kind.
What about this long settee?
It looks quite like a bed to me.
I hope you are not feeling gay!
Oh,my my!.What did you say?
I mean it seems a trifle odd
I wonder if you love me, Stan?
Stan said,Doctor you’re a man!
I only love the sweeter sex!
Dr Browne looked very vexed.
You are gay.,Oh,zut alors!
Yes,but I am very chaste.
I never go below the waist
So you just hold hands and kiss?
Yes,my man,it’s utter bliss.
But were do you meet your lovers gay?
I find them mainly on E-bay!
I place small adverts in the Times.
I joined a club for tasting wines.
Some I meet by chance alone.
Can’t you settle on just one?
But you are unfaithful to your wife?
You do not lead a saintly life!
Oh,Mary is not keen on sex,
She sits in bed and sends out texts.
Once our Lyra had been born,
She treated me with utter scorn!
He gave Stan‘s arm a little nudge.
Don’t you want a tiny hug?
It really may scare off that bug
So Stan and Dr Browne embraced.
I assure you it was completely chaste.
Stan went off to make hot drinks
While Dr Browne admired his Quinks.
Do you use a fountain pen?
I use my Shaeffer now and then.
I got it when I went to college.
Through that pen has passed much knowledge.
But now my mind has gone quite blank.
I’d like to be completely frank.
Was all my learning utter waste?
Not at all,it kept you chaste.
While you had your head in books,
It kept attention from your looks.
But now you’re empty,Je t’adore.
With that he made for Stan’s front door.
Stan was gobsmacked by this visit.
He called to Emile:Oh,what is it?
Even though I’m 93
All I meet want to love me!
The English are mainly very queer.
Oh,said Emile,Oh,dear,dear!
Cats don’t have much time for hugs
They chase the frogs and sleep on rugs
I once had a neighbor called Lumb
Who had double joints in his thumb.
They looked rather weird.
As did his beard.
Especially when filled with crumbs.
Lumb wrote lyrical poems
which left the young ladies all glowing.
He married a Rose
And as everyone knows
Her love is so deep it’s overflowing.
She has so many lovers as well
I am unsure whether I should tell.
I am not one for spying
On women who are lying
In the arms of the men they have felled
onnet
Not love nor money should we seek to steal;
Nor for self praise and esteem be in need
For these things cannot ever truly heal.
And onto a wrong path must often lead.
Not to vice nor virtue must our wills be tied;
Yet by some grace we gently may be led
Our will directs attention which denied
May let our pride control our thoughtless head.
Not good nor bad can track the vane of God
Far from our sightless eyes are his affairs.
Yet Faith and Hope can be a dowsing rod
With Love the force to trace the Spirit bare.
Oh,come down,Spirit,take me as your wife
Fill me with holy grace and with new lif
I wish I were an apple
and you were eating me
I’d like to make you happy
As you sat by this tree.
I wish I were a blackbird
So I could sing for you.
I’d like to make you cheerful
And stop you feeling blue.
I wish I were the sun
So I cold warm your frozen heart.
And then your heart would melt for me
And you would be less tart.
I wish I were the moon
so I could protect you all night long.
But being only me may I
Present you with this song?
I take pleasure seeing leaves turn red.
On trees from whose rich fruit we’re fed.
My apples dropped to mossy lawn,
My plums purpled from sun late born.
Stand still, then listen in the woods.
Hear the sounds of dreaming doves.
Shelter, quiet,by oak and elm,
And find your self in woodland’s realm.
Gaze at clouds through branches high.
See red leaves light up pale sky.
The sun is angled now so low,
The trees their longer shadows show.
In what,at first,seemed silence clear
The chirps of birds, who know no fear
Are gathered to our open ears.
I’d like to live as do wild flowers.
Though life may last but one hour.
An hour of complete submission to
The bliss of love and sun and you.
A moment can be a life time too.
In joy, our love of life’s renewed.
Time stretches out in sweet embrace,
For us who live in earth’s dear space.
Some days love speaks to me.
Some days I feel so free.
I love my craft.
Life is a patterned weave.
Love helps us when we grieve.
Love is a raft.
See how the sun comes back.
See how light fills the gaps..
Some days we laugh.
Weep now and I’ll weep with you.
I have known sorrow too.
Yet sorrow will pass.
Joy is not far away.
Joy will return one day….
L With life’s arts and crafts
Who has never felt grief
When a small gesture would have helped
but it has, unknowingly, been with held?
How many people have the imagination
to guess what’s in your mind,
And to embrace you rather than push you away?
No-one, No-one.No-one knows.
No-one knows these numbers.
No-one knows these names.
No-one knows how many feel diffident,
Nor how many feel shame.
Being alive is joyful!
Being alive is pain!
Being alive is all we have,
We’ll never be alive again.
I look into your eyes today
I sense your pain and woe.
I look into your eyes just now
And tell you that I know,
Being alive is lonely.
Being alive is good.
Being alive is pain indeed
For flesh is not like wood
You play on a clarinet;
I play on my old cello.
Your music is so poignant;
My music is mellow.
I can’t play from your music;
You cannot play from mine.
Our music must be transposed,
But will never sound the same.
I have longer fingers.
You have bigger hands.
You play some from memories
which I don’t understand.
I play from my own history,
You compose your own.
You have frightening feelings,
which I have never known.
Would you play my music?
Then it must be transposed;
but we can’t transpose our feelings,
Unless we are shown
how to draw out symbols
From the dark Unknown.
I love the music that you play
and I know you do love mine.
But can we play together
In some meaningful design?
Transposing keys and feelings
Is a difficult,dangerous task;
Much easier to play pretend
and never,never ask.
I cannot share your lifetime hurts
and you cannot share mine.
Is it easier to share happiness
and love of the Divine?
Oh,play your poignant music for me
with your meditativee art.
I shall listen with my ears
and listen with my heart.
And then I shall respond to you.
My instrument is here.
I am playing quite new music.
I feel you drawing near.
Suddenly we are moved to play
A completely new design.
I seem to feel your feelings
And I can hear that you feel mine.
Together we seem to make a work:
Torment and release.
This music is so tragic,
Yet its design has brought me peace.
Play on,play on,for now I know
I begin to understand,
without more words or gestures
except those from your curved ha
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©Excellent site
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
– Extract from Digging, by Seamus Heaney, from Death of a Naturalist (Faber and Faber, 1966)
The leaves on our damson trees are turning yellow; many have fallen already. White butterflies, like wind-blown petals trying to re-attach themselves to the desiccated whiteness of our…
View original post 1,376 more words
Did you ever have a lover
with long red hair?
For long red hair
I long to care.
Did you ever have a lover,
and then another lover?
For there’s added gain
if you feel no pain.
Did you ever have a lover
who loved your eyes
and never ever lied,
and let you cry?
Whatever was the trouble.
You’ll never have a lover.
if you have no time for others
for love needs care,
As well as hair!
Here and there are many lovely people
who live with their lives with scruples;
if you’re scruple free,
then let it be.
Oh, let it be is fine,
Except for the divine.
I want to be involved
For I can’t please all the folk,
Who touch me with their talk.
My heart has melted down…
and now I’ve grown a world
completely on my own.
Were you ever quite alone
Like a toad under a stone?
Did you ever hear a groan
as you wrote your own poem?
For you’ll never write a poem
that makes me laugh..
Because my feet are in the shower
but my body’s in the bath.
My head is on the shelf…
and I’ve lost all of my stealth…
Yet you will love me
Evermore.
Evermore and evermore
You’ll be standing on the shore;
Watching the horizon,
wondering how the world’s gone.
Oh, you’ll never be a poet,
Unless you make notes..
They take you to the limit…..
Love, whatever is it?
Evermore, evermore…
The words seem like a roar…
I love your heart’s deep core..
Let me write you more
And more,
And more.
Did you ever have a lover?
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How my heart sings 
I am very happy that you enjoyed it,Harry.Thank you.Katherine
Thanks so much,Carol.
Thank you.I’m glad you enjoyed reading it. Alll the best,Kathryn
Thank you,Keith.I was halfway through another poem when this arrived!All good wishes,Kate
Thank you very much,Richard
Thank you,Steven
You are welcome to read and comments some of mine poem. We have not a warm summer yet, it is raining and windy….cold…I live the west coast and we have not so good sommer – always windy.
Thanks,Anne Lise.I just joined this morning.hope you are enjoying midsummer up there in Norway Kate
Your comment is odd for a poet.. hope you are not feeling very down today,Kate
Do you want me to put more information into the poem ? Whether anyone is able to care about anything is a combination of mood and life experiences. Thank you for being my first commenter since I joined this morning