Month: January 2014

Deceit using percentages

Doctor,doctor.Fifty percent of the patients have gone crazy.

So how many is that?

One.

You should have said,fifty percent of the patients has gone crazy.

That sounds ungrammarly

So did that!

The sea within you

The sea within you

Love shines from your eyes
and makes your face
so beautiful.
Your smile has a rare beauty
Like a foreign flower
transported into a bare garden.
Though it's winter now,
it's summer in my heart
as I lose myself
in the colour
of the sea within you

No space for kindness?

I am continuing my thinking about poetic forms,The limerick is popular with most people even those who are afraid of poetry in general apart from it n,The Ancient Mariner etc
Now I do not pre-think a poem.I don’t know much about what will emerge.Sometimes a phrase like,The Museum of my heart,comes into my mind and I am stimulated to write around that.My first poem on my first blog was free verse.I had been outside in snow and the streetlights gave a strange orange glow on the whiteness..also the air smelled different as I looked at the dark sky and the snowflakes

CHRISTMAS SNOW

Too old for cold,I stand, now ,against the hedge,
Watching the snowflakes in the glare of neon street lights.
Darkness has come early,and I think of country uplands and huddled sheep.
On Salisbury Plain,shepherds watched their flocks
Just as in Bethlehem two thousand years before,
And then,exactly when?
“Between the wars”,it stopped. Now we know there is no “Between the wars”.
And who decided
To cull the sheep and shepherds and the space for kindness ?
Now that same Plain still exists,but banned
And closed to human-kind,
For bombs ,not wombs
Nor for birth of lamb ,nor gypsy child ,nor Saviour
Where would He go today

I had no form in my mind when I was writing nor did I know it was going to be about whether in the world we have created there is any space for true creativity….
So I did not try to make into a sonnet or any other type of poem

Maybe it found its own form? It evokes for me the whole scene I saw
____________________________________________

The algebra of messaging and commenting

 

xxxx = I like/love you/it

yyyyy=I can’t understand it.

zzzzz= I feel sleepy after I read your writing.

uuuuu= You are self absorbed,narcissistic or an egoist.

vvvvv= I want to view more

wwwww= I want to wee urgently but postponed till I read this.

xyxyxy= Love it but it’s incomprehensible.

xzxzxzxz-= Love it and feel drowsy and relaxed

yzyzyzy== too tired but trying to comprehend

List of ward rules

 

Please do not view smartphones whilst walking about.

Please do not fall over after rising from the bed.

Kindly do not tell the doctor he is stupid.He knows.

The doctor is only a pest sometimes.So act accordingly

Kindly pretend to listen to the Consultant on his round.He is human,we presume

Kindly do not eat cream buns  or meringues in front  of the Consultant.He is on a diet.

Kindly avoid catching any bugs belonging to or emantaing from this hospital.

Kindly do not sleepwalk whilst here.

Please do not swallow your Kindle before lights out.

Keep yourself clean.Take a bed by the open window during a storm.

Kindly avoid dying when we are busy.Wait for some space.

I

 

The top deck of the bus

 

The bus is late and I’m
Thinking of what you said,
trying to understand, but
I’ve never met you,so
I have nothing but written words
Which,however beautiful,may not give
enough for me to truly imagine
the depths of your heart.

My legs hurt and I have a cane
But I don’t like it.I can’t accept
my own infirmity,my troubles,
my pains,my disagreements,my mistakes.
Rain falls over me and drips down the lens
in my spectacles,as if the world is weeping
the tears I can’t shed.

If I cried now,standing at the bus stop,
for all the years of pain
noone would know,they’d
think it was just
raindrops running down my cheeks.

The bus comes,but it’s half term…
The shops are too crowded,I can’t
Stand in queues…imagine how most of you
say it’s boring.Well,I’d love to do it
but I’ve decided the pain is greater
then the rewards.

The bus driver stops at a place where
the pavement has been lowered to allow
the owner of this house to drive
their car into the front garden
so they won’t need to buy
a resident’s parking permit.
It makes it a harder task to descend
from the bus and I hope he won’t
start while I’m still getting down.

In the coffee bar are exhibits from
a local museum,and I think,one day
my cane and my watch from Argos,
my shopping bag with a picture of Monet-
such vulgarity…..
they may be in a museum too…
along with my door keys
my bike lock and my spectacles
and will somebody try to conjure me up
in their imagination.
Someone who used to like Topology
Knitting,writing and holding hands with lovers
on the top deck of the bus
crossing central London without noticing
anything except their reflections in the eyes
of the other.
Light bounces to and fro.

My mind shuts down, the words
packed away in boxes,till there’s only
you and me and a few elementary particles
trying to recreate the world
with the big bang
that will end it all.

Can limericks be dark?

I am studying poetic forms.

http://www.criticalreading.com/poetry.htm

In general  the limerick is a humorous form.That is,both historically and by the shape and brevity.Yet I am trying to write some miserable limericks.I am finding it harder than I expected.The first one certainly has come out with more than a hint of fun

AS BROAD AS IT’S WIDE

I once had therapeutic depression

The counsellor wept through my session

So I gave my advice

As broad as it’s wise.

Depression sure beats going fishin’

ANXIOUS

I feel very anxious today

Would I do better to worry or to pray?

I’ll trust in the dark

Tn the bush by the park.

Till a man comes along feeling gay.

I see the very nature of the form almost makes it compulsory to be funny.It’s lines 4 and 5 I think

 

 

NEW FRIEND

I hate my new  man friend already

I thought he would make me more steady

But I feel giddy and sick

When he gives me a lick.

Such a  dog’s not ideal for a lady.

 

Her music’s torment even to her love

  • (I wrote this to prove a sonnet might not be about love……but it was hard)
  • No noise had ever irked him like her thrums.
    His head ached and he even shed some tears
    Thank the Lord,she’d chucked out all their drums.
  • No music was so painful to his ears

 

  • No sound was sharper than her speaking voice.
  • No lullabies would cross her cold drawn lips.
  • He’d like to fly away to hotels  choice
    To escape the barrage of her clever quips.
  • No guitar man made would emote in her hands.
    No tutor could impart the tragic gift.
    She’d cause commotion in some lurid band;
    Or soon be sent to sea and set adrift
  • .For if a woman’s born tone deaf and dumb
    From her hands no joyous note shall come.
  • She can’t be mended by arabic gum.
  • She’ll rile the neighbours with your kettle drum

Related posts

What is mentalising? The Mind

 

Face with color 3

http://www.mentalising.com/what-is-mentalising.html

I don’t like the word but I find it an intriguing topic….We assume others understand the world like we do.But many  unfortunate people did not have the security of learning that we all have minds,thoughts etc and others do.Some of us can’t tell a thought in our minds from reality.Whether or not you can do this,it helps one to know some others cannot do it,So if they think something they believe it is real…I find the early development of the mind is fascinating just as is the early beginning of human cultural development,language skills and so on.I feel they are linked

My heart is apart

Love blinkered my eyes until my ears rang

A dove made off with with an ear ring I was wearing one night.Was it getting wed?

I love to crumple all the bees stings for tea
I can not meet your eye until it meets mine.
More than words can express, I love  your coffee coloured face
My head is winning for my heart is a bum….Blaze away,Pascal
My art  is baked daily
My heart clangs near you like a dungeon door shutting
My heart cries out Not you!
my heart is a lonely punter
My heart is a flame and you are the wood
My heart is a haughty book noone has read
My heart is drowning  tomorrow.Save me!
My heart is  on an island and I am on the shore.If you do not love me they are split for ever more
My heart is on the  fire as coal is too dear to me to burn.I
My heart is weary  of  numbers and letters.Am I cazy?
My heart laid bare your lies and then you read the riot with tact
She longs for your underpants to be washed and ironed,say nothing please
My hand reached out and stole a kissing couple’s  picnic
My heart sings to your i tunes
My heart waits for your passing daily.Please worry now.
My heart will always be in my shoes,I fear no evil,just the booze
My heart will never be a free payer
My heart dithered like a leaf in the storm and all for losing his arms
My lonely tart needs cream to annoint it
 Oh,where is my one shoed love?
my open soul shut down
My soul is a shadow in a passage in your book
My soul is a lone spirit looking for a bottle to enter… like those ships
My soul is on the high wire dancing madly but it’s too late
My soul was degraded to flare up and die but I defy!
My soul reached out with its own hands and touched him where no bee e’er stang
My soul took a  flight to California
My stomach is writhing in knots and loopd
My tears fell like trains colliding in a tunnel in the Alps
my wandering soul got lost in the mist
my weary soul is dying of sorrow
no man is an island and neither is a woman

I’ll love you when I be

‘Twas but a reptile passing by.
It flew across the deep blue sky
Why do reptiles fly so high?
I’ll love you till I die.

“Twas but a cat under the moon.
Did you have a silver spoon?
Why can’t cats all waul in tune?
I’ll love you very soon

‘Twas but a wooden legged man,

Carrying a large brass saucepan.
Why can’t men do what women can?
I’ll love you better than.

Why are adverbs?
What are nouns?
why do circuses have clowns?
I’ll love you lying down.

Where do dreams go in the day?
What game can we adults play?
Can you or can you not say?
I’ll love you,in my way.

‘Twas but a verse that seemed so free.
It floated over my oak tree.
I have eyes but cannot see.
I’ll love you when I be

Windows are the why of the house

 

windows large

The phrase “the window of opportunity” seems not wholly satisfactory
Admittedly you can see through a window unless you have thick net curtains but how many of us would be able to leap out of the window and seize the opportunity by the throat,if you see what I mean? And if you were in the attic you’d be dead before you got there…so what we need are “doors of opportunity”

The problem with that is you can’s see through a door unless it’s either got a window or is a glass door..So if you want success try living outside in a transparent tent where nothing will get in your way if anything passes by and your will get free publicity
I expect the phrase was made up by someone who writes speeches for politicians.
If you want a to succeed you must grasp the windows of opportunity as they go by and squeeze every last drop of rum out of them [try the tygers of wrath too]
She was only a little window but she was the window for me
Do not ask what your windows can do for you but what you can do for your windows.
Look through the windows and seize the day.Unless it’s a dark night in which case visit a brothel if they have windows
And one day all our children will be able to choose their own windows..red,yellow ,……………..mix your own…..free windows ..
Windows are the eyes of the house
Don’t be shy if opportunity peeks into your window.Peek right back at it…
Ich bin ein Window! Moi aussi.Ma femme!
Where is she now, the rich widow of my opportunity?
To look or not to look.Out of a selection
Never close the door in case someone wealthy passes by on the other side.and merely glances at your window.
Now is the Window of our discontent made gloriously plumper with our sunny walk
One good window deserves another.
I’ll be your window, if you open your door
Windows,they ought to be taxed I say.
Windows.. they give you an illusion of being in the sun but did you know we can see in…and we saw you and the mirror on your ceiling…anything to say in your pretence?

No wisdom

Few men were as gifted as was he;
His talents were both various and strong.
He could not doubt his worthy destiny
Though evil was to show him only wrongs.

No man had more foresight and virtue true.
He mused on his vocation and desires.
Yet history did not tell him what to do.
Nor aid him as he struggled in deep mire.

No man could better see the coming wars
Nor take action to seek a safer home.
Yet even he saw not the frightful pyres.
And the blasting out of ancient,holy homes

No wisdom,openness nor sense nor tact,
Prevents our culture’s suicidal sacks

Your story

 

6422289_64198f440b_s1

 

Children are conceived in between men’s cruel cycles.

Children are conceived when a woman becomes  deceptive.

Children are conceived because men keep taking their hands out of their trouser pockets.

Children save money when ladies don’t menstruate for nine months.After that they take milk and honey on a tea spoon

Children are conceived in the muddle of the moon’s  teeth and icicles.

Children are conceived but not perceived till later on.

Children need to be born so they wait for a good moment when two lovers are full of desire then they enter unseen in a moment of bliss.

Remember when those two particles fell in love?There’s this egg and all the sperm swim by and she says,no,no,no,Oh,Yes.I’t ll take this one.The rest is your story,Go well

I interviewed myself today

 

Pendle_Hill_above_mist_235-0004from wikipedia.Pendle Hill

Q.What made you start writing poetry?

K.I loved poetry but never believed I could write it.But then I found some old poetry I’d written and put aside.Also I was envying a young relative who was doing English Literature at college and also creative writing.That gave me an incentive to escape from envy into activity.

Q.Is it difficult to begin writing when you are older?

K.Not at all,in my case.I found it easier perhaps because one has less to lose in terms of the judgment of others.And secondly an awareness of the finiteness of life urges me to develop and enjoy my talents.And thirdly I have some visual problems which impelled me to take Art classes.I found that much,much harder than writing.

Q.Why did you find Art harder?

K.I was brought up in a working class home where the main interest outside work was music.I played two instruments and sang but we had little knowledge of Art beyond the dour portraits of local dignitaries in the Town Hall or paintings of Jesus and his Mother and other religious subjects.These did not touch me deeply.

Q,So what did move you?

A.I bought a print of a painting by Monet in of all places a small department store.I was about 20.The painting was of tulip fields.This was very different in style from the other paintings I’ve mentioned.From there I developed an interest in Impressionism and later I learned to enjoy Picasso.I had real difficulty with my first viewings of Paul Klee but he is now someone I love very much.I think Picasso affected me the most strongly.I once fell down before one of his drawings… my knees gave way.No-one else’s work has done that.Drawing,the line,seems to affect me most intensely.
The artist I like best is Cezanne.I am unsure why.

Q.Why were you in difficulty in the classes?

K.~I was the only totally ignorant person there.I knew no techniques at all.There is something difficult even for a writer to mark the blank page.For an aspiring artist it’s more,much more,problematical.

Q.So did you make progress?

K.A little.I have a strong feeling for colour.That helped.But before I got much skill I had to stop attending class and now have been exploring digital art.This has taught me what I like.I like to draw two pe ople or two objects in relation to each other.

Q.Did you realise how much poetry was in you?

K.No.I thought I’d write 6 or 7 but when I got there I was hooked on the process.I realise some if the poems were not very good but I was surprised to find a few that were and so I have kept on writing.

Q.Why writing rather than Art?

K.I believe it may be the musical quality of poetry that draws me in.

Q.which poets do you like?

K.Far too many to put here,but here are a few modern ones

Simon Armitage
Wendy Cope.
Philip Larkin.
eecummings.less
Sylvia Plath for her great technique and moulding her material,less so for her topics!
Ted Hughes.
Carol Ann Duffy

Slightly further back

Auden
McNiece
Spender
Yeats
Hopkins
Wordsworth.

Earlier

I love the metaphysical poets

I love Shakespeare’s sonnets but I am pretty ignorant of early English writing.

Q.Do you emulate any poet?

K. No,I cannot write that way.

Q.Any further points?

K.Yes,writing is a tremendous pleasure and gives me at best a link to someone or

something far beyond my self as I am usually aware of it.And also I can amuse

myself writing nonsense which saves me buying funny books.And annoys a few of my

family and friends too.C’est la vie

Q.Thank you very much.

K My pleasure…but enough now.I’ll  just mention that the internet has it’s bad side.I was once called a tart on a public forum on  poetry website… so if you write on such a place check their policy on porn,obscenity etc.If it is allowed by default then keep clear.

IMG_0290

The dog’s grave needs weeding

I have to iron my husband tonight.
I have to feed the bugs now
Sorry,i am washing the cat’s hair.
Sorry,I have to faint later.
I have to press my husband weekly
The television needs watering.
The dog’s grave needs weeding
I have gone blind so cannot read your email.My humble apologies.
I am dead so don’t write again.
You don’t believe I’m dead… it was you who cut me!
I told you,I’m dead.
Why will they never believe what they read?
I rue the day I set eyes on your face.I should have used aspic jelly

Writing as therapy? Is writing or talking always good?

We hear now of more and more ways of living healthy lives.But I think it’s important to live a life of worth.What does it mean,to be of worth ? We must live first of all in a way that suits our nature and since we are part of a whole we must also live in ways that do not harm others and hopefully helps some of them.One problem is increasing in the affluent West and the USA and similar countries.This is the well known fact that more and more of us suffer from stress,worry and depression.Maybe the more serious psychic disturbances are also increasing.This can lead to violence

I have heard my friends say that writing poetry or keeping a journal is therapeutic.But is it not true that some forms of talking or conversing are therapeutic and some are harmful or maybe just pointless? A good friend whom we trust is a person with whom conversing may be beneficial,whereas “dumping” your problems on someone  may give only momentary relief.I feel real friend listens and may comment,may even criticize.Someone you  know less well  may react badly.You must not blame them for you are ignorant of their personal life and difficulties.
Conversation of course has the advantage that you are with the person to whom you talk and can stop or adapt your talking in the light of their nonverbal responses.To a lesser extent it is also true on the phone if you know someone well.

Just as gazing into the lighted front window of a large home filled with people and pictures and lovely furniture may make you envious so may your fantasied views of others around you.And yet it is likely they feel pain just like you ;we operate often from a view of life which is a poor fit with reality [whatever that is]
Since conversation may be good,bad or meaningless so it is with writing.
Writing comes from .your experience but must convey it in a manner by which others can feel the truth of what you are saying.As with music, poetry can say certain things not possible in other ways.And as in music there are forms developed down the centuries in which others have expressed their feelings. I have read that writing poetry in a structured form is therapeutic,But writing in free verse may not be.In either case poetry can stir up deep feelings.

Fiona Sampson, author of,The Expert Guide to writing poetry, advises that you keep the phone number of the Samaritans near when writing poetry but prose may be less stirring

I read about the value of structured writing in an article about Sylvia Plath.I am sorry I cannot find the reference as yet.Some people say writing prolonged her life,others that the kind of writing she got into at the end may have precipitated her suicide.We cannot know the answer but we should be aware that it may not be “letting it all out” that helps but the shaping and sculpting of the material into a form which pleases us and others
Alternatively writing about Nature ,other people,love, may turn our minds in a new direction away from our obsessive thoughts

unthought known

ttcbs's avataran a to z of things that can't be said

The unthought known is a wonderful term, coined by the psychoanalyst Christopher Bollas (1987). In very general terms it refers to what we ‘know’ at some level, but cannot be put into words. The detail of this ‘some level’ and why such knowledge cannot be said emerges from his understanding of how selfhood is formed through otherness:

‘the concept of the self should refer to the positions or points of view from which and through which we sense, feel, observe, and reflect on distinct and separate experiences in our being. One crucial point of view comes through the other who experiences us’ (pp. 9–10)

The ‘other’ is first experienced as a process of self-transformation, be it from hungry to full, cold to warm, discomforted to comfortable. But Bollas (1987) also claims that the pursuit of “symbolic equivalents” to the transformational object is in fact central to the identifications we make…

View original post 317 more words

She loved an adverb more than me

 
 
Image

 

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 we 'reaved lovers 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 down in a black 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 so lonely.
What is a left man to do?

Shall I vote for love or money?
Shall I throw my self away?
Shall I get a new agenda?
Will a new life start today?

Come back Miriam,come back Sarah!
Where have all the women gone?
Come back Rivka with your grammar.
I can feed you a cheese scone.

I work hard and I can cook.
I put fresh linen on the bed.
I can pay my bills in full.
But without my Love,my heart is dead

Love knows what to do

Love knows what to do

Mind the gap...
Mind the gap… (Photo credit: asparagus_hunter)

Some folk are made of rubber

Some folk are made of glass

And when the stormy winds blow

Rubber lets it pass.

i

Some folk have eyes like water

Some folk have eyes like ice.

And when we’re introduced

We do not look there twice.

 

 

Some folk have learned to use us

Some folk give us respect.

With those who cannot see us

We cannot  connect.

 

 

Some folk where born  to sunshine

Some folk were born to storm

And fears imagined in the mind

Can cause such dreadful harm

 

 

Oh,hold me to your bosom

Oh.hold me close to you

Some folk were made to hate and fear

But love knows what to do

 

Oh,let me feel your body

let me cherish you

Some folk  have been neglected,

But love knows what to do

The skylark

Freed from her trap
Bird soared into air,and hovered
And floated, resting;
And flew higher, singing as she flew,
And higher again,
Till there was only her song,
Left in the silence,
Trembling.

Up on the wide,stump topped hill,
I felt the lark inside my heart
And heard her singing.
And flying up with her,
I saw gold sun and silver moon,
Moors of heather ,and sheep grazing
Green hills,
And shimmering lakes,
Clouds ,sun and sky in watery mirrors.
And sang ,and dipped,and dropped,
And curled
Up the blue
Bright heaven, and rested
On the wind.
All that day
I was a lark singing.

I shall always have a vision of
A bird
That flew upwards,
Rejoicing and free
Into a deep blue sky, and high
And higher
Beyond high
Into a place, beyond eye even,
But music still sending.

I wish I were back on that heathery moor,
With the nibbling sheep and the bees sweetly humming,
Hearing again
The poignant song
Of the skylark,
A prisoner,freed by a magician,
From her trap,
So happy to be free,
So wonderful to see.
Do it again,
For me,

 

For life’s but a true story we invent

No words of mine can potently display
the anguish and the joy that touch our lives;
yet all our ghostly forebears went this way
where words may pierce our hearts like sharpened knives.

No sentient being willingly at first
Accepts the pain that true perception brings.
Yet we must not take hearts to be a curse;
we need not flee from knowledge,though it stings.

Each day demands our thoughtfulness and love
from which all better actions rightly come.
Each day the grace we have is just enough,
Continue reading “For life’s but a true story we invent” →

Stan and the meringues

Stan and the meringues

England

Source: Kathryn1000

Stan and Annie were clearing a big desk to make space to studygovernment

statistics.Despite this Annie was dressed as brightly as a mad

peacock on l s d. in turquoise cotton trousers and a teal blue

viscose

and polyester [with 5 percent elastane  V necked striped top

She chose the V neck was because she thought it made her look

slimmer but if that were so it wascontradicted, somewhat

paradoxically, by the clinging induced by the elastane in the

fabric.What a problem dressing is nowadays she murmured

Her bedtime reading was “Contradiction, Paradox,Woman and Society” by the

unknown,unseen yet internationallyfamous author Dr K. R. BraithwaiteParadox and contradiction are the route to understanding” was the lastsentence she had read before she fell asleep last night

Then she had dreamed she saw amouse eating a lion.No wonder she had

indigestion today”Shall I make the coffee” she said to Stan.

“No,dear.I’ll do it if you can get the graph paper sorted.”

Stan stood up and walked across the room with a dazed expression.

“I hope he’s not been trying self hypnosis again” she thought

quixotically.He returned with two large mugs of steaming hot

coffee.”Would you like a meringue” he enquired.

“I’d love one.”

“So would I,” he answered glumly.”But we have no cake at all.”

“I blame Tony Blair.”

“Why him?”

“Well,I have to blame someone,don’t I?”

“Why not blame yourself“

Stan began to sob and moan.

So Annie rang 999.”Can you send a paramedic.My friend needs a

meringue.” she said in a friendly tone.

“What do you think the N.H.S. is ,a cake shop?” the receptionist

replied assertively in ringing tones.

“Well,we older folk need cakes!”Annie cried.

“How old are you,” the lady said.

“Why is there some cut off point?” Annie retorted……..

“Yes,we only supply meringues to centenarians!” she was told.

“Well really,whatever next,” Annie cried in shock.

“I suppose they have to economise now and can no longer supply cakes

and ale to pensioners like they used to do.”

But we could send you some toasted mouse sandwiches,” she was

told.”Don’t bother,” she cried fortuitously.

The heat had made her makeup run and small rivers of turqouise,black

and blue were crossing her face giving it the appearance of a large

bruise.She wished she had followed the advice her mother had given

her,”When in doubt,leave it out“

.

Or,was it “when in doubt,say nowt”

or even “when glum ,keep mum

“I would have kept Mum,”she thought resentfully, “but the law won’t

let you once they die“.

“Why do we have so little freedom here in England?” she asked Stan

querulously.”I can’t tell you” he croaked mysteriously

“Why not? It’s forbidden by the Official Secrets Act.”

“After we finish the statistics on unemployment and mental health we could look

into Official Secrets,” he promised her mellifluously.

“Stan, you are so good.” she shouted gratefully.

Will you wash my new jeans?” he asked.

“Why can’t you do it?” she fretfully quizzed him

“I don’t want Mary to see them.”

“Gosh it’s 5pm .She’ll be back soon.”We’ve not got far today,

I expect we can make up for it tomorrow.”

Not wanting to contradict him she remained silent whilst he studied

her face like an a psychologist trying and failing to see meaning in

an ink blot.

Then the doorbell rang.It was Dave,the paramedic with a tray of mouse

sandwiches.What a surprise

I have a calling to follow

I think my vocation is sacred.
I keep seeing visions of God.
He’s like a bright light
Exceedingly right
Does anything seem to be odd?

I have a calling to follow
I just do not know the details
I pray and I wait.
By yonder lychgate
Do vocations ever get into the Sales?

I would like it if I could buy one
I’ll give you all the money I’ve saved
Sell my idea?
My dear,no fear!
Just consider how well I’ve behaved.

Everyone has a vocation
To be who they know that they are.
Yet I am not me
Without you to be
Here in my arms by the fire.

I’ll get an answer tomorrow
As I dream of God during the night
She will give me an image
And the much needed courage
To go on till I see the Light.

The problem is one of translation,
For God speaks in symbols not words
Symbols are wells
in which truth dwells.
And the Spirit swoops down like a bird.

Why not find your vocation?
It’s possible whatever your age.
Attend to your dreams
and how your life seems
Vocations are now all the rage

 

Love was,oh,so long ago

Waxy flowers in the snow

Source: Kathryn

Waxy flowers poking through
Snow so white
Flowers bright.
Made me think of you.

I see once more your dark gold hair,
Soft as snow,
On my pillow.
Now my bed is bleak and bare

,
Your face turned to me,flower to sun,
I loved you.
You were true.
Fear by love was overcome.

I saw the cyclamen in snow,
Pink and red,
Now frozen,dead.
Love was,oh,so long ago.

But never gone from in my mind.
Thoughts so deep,
Upwards seep.
Love was gentle,love was kind,
You’re always in my mind