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I was unready for anything,
with no charms like a bee.
Each fresh day is torture..

As you don’t hate me.

I was as tame as a dingo,
I was right in my mind.
Each night  had its daydreams,
In that you were   real kind.

I was charmed by your molars.
They were sharper than whales.
Each dawn brought the moon out.
As you cut your nails.

Rolling stones gathered
Your heart was not mine.
I’ll give you what you wish for.
It is by my  design .
.
As long as the clock speaks
As long as the rose.
As long as the bike pumps..
I’ll remember your nose.

As long as my patterns;
As brief as they are;
As long as my brain’s dead
I shall parsnip a star.

I love a good proverb.
I love no cliches.
When you find some Wisdom
Do not sever my pay.

Justice long as a ruler,
Sharpened to a screw.
When you are more kind,then
I may leak what I brew
.
As long as the flat Earth
As wise as it’s broad.
The moon in the water
Heard the crow caw.

Please hear my tall story
Sing  beside my cello.
I may fail at  the Strife Class
But I can  say ,I know

I went to the Church belle,
And asked for a clue.
The finger on the dial
Kept pointing at you

Oh,dear,I’ve got panache again.

I suffer to please ancient men.

I dress in red gowns

Intermingled with brown.

Flamboyant and   in fashion, I am.

It may be genetic,of course.

So I refuse to feel any remorse.

The world is so sad

We may all go mad.

And that would be very much worse.

Panache is not wrong,anyway.

Self confidence is good,so they say.

Wear a cap with a feather

And a coat of real leather.

I’ll sell you all mine on E bay.

http://www.pagebypagebooks.com/title.html

Biblioclasm: The practice of destroying, often ceremoniously, books or other written material and media.

I found some of my old poems and they were really funny.And before I began writing I had no sense of humor.So all you have to do is write for 4 hours a day every day for 5 years and you too can have a sense of humor free.It might be less trouble to buy a large book of jokes instead.

In London there  once lived a bored girl

She  grew  tired  of the  blind  social whirl

So she learned to spell  Nietszche  wrong,

While biting off  threads too long.

Then she played , How Now John , with her curls.

[see ,it’s not a limerick

and it is terribly bad but it is rather late!]

Oh,yes,I do lovely handwriting

Just like my dad.

It runs in the family

And I like chip sandwiches with butter

It runs in the family.

No,I can’t do cryptic crosswords.

Or enigmatic looks.

It runs  not in the family.

I read too many clever books

Instead of earning money.

It just runs in the family.

Yes,we are all music freaks.

We listen to Schubert and Schoenberg all night.

It runs in the family.

We are all impolite.

But we can’t help it cos

It runs in the family.

Yes,we all use four letter words,

It’s a free country,besides,

It runs in the family!

And no we can’t write poetry,you see

Writing doesn’t run in my family.

But,we all practice monogamy,

So far,though, unsuccessfully,because

Adultery runs in the family.

Which puts a slightly different complexion on the phrase

“It runs in the family”

But, alas,all of my ancestors are dead.

It runs in the family!

http://www.newstatesman.com/culture/books/2016/01/toilet-or-lavatory-how-words-britons-use-betray-our-national-obsession-class

Actually, it’s very complex.So saying passed away is lower class whilst dead is

upper but I used both/either  depending on who I was speaking to.

The receptionist at the surgery having asked:

What do YOU want? was told:

He is DEAD

but the gentle cab driver who asked was told,

he has passed away ,

and he wept [being a foreigner ,you see]

I feel irked that people still bother about those things and shall use the lower class ones as much as possible; so I am just making the tea now after visiting the toilet and finding a serviette and some tinned fruit to have for the sweet.[not in the toilet,of course.]

He said I was  a not a real  poet

My knowledge was , let’s say, inchoate

But when I wrote a sonnet

He said,Now you’ve done it.

You are a born   one and don’t you just know it!

I said, after  six years of practise.

I might have even become a stage actress.

But my vocation is  to pen,

And to amuse  gentlemen.

As the world turns round  again on its axis.

Six years is  more than 2,000 days

On which I have studied and prayed

For seven hours or more

Which brings up  my score

To fourteen thousand hours ,by the way.

So really I’ve not done that well.

But luckily most folk can’t tell.

I’ll   accept my position

With no self derision.

I might almost be in a nun’s cell

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  and I wrote you a new song.

I’m singing  for  with music we belong.

Thoughts

That is the last verse of a poem i wrote recently.I did not have the notion of another hand being on my tiller before I began writing.Yet I feel it is very important.Clearly we don’t consciously make our own blood circulate and you can think of other things  like that.If there is another hand steering me  I need to cooperate with it.Maybe that hand is wiser than mine.I came to the conclusion that we can only cooperate with it if we are relaxed.So becoming relaxed is necessary for good living and also for prayer, if we do pray.The best thing about many religions is that before God all souls are equal and all of us are valued unless we deliberately allow evil to overcome us.I think it’s always been hard not to to share the view that our possessions   or our our  stupidity or brilliance determine our value.I have got more trust in humbler people if they can avoid bitterness in modern society.I think working with the hands benefits the  mind and heart.Intellectuals can be very cold sometimes.Maybe they were cold already and fled into  the intellect to escape human feelings.Meanwhile let’s think about the other hand.