Day: March 11, 2016

No handkerchief shall I boil e’er again

When tasks and labour wear us into shreds
And burning sun does shrivel up the skin
Shall we like lovers leap into our beds
And see how rapidly we can now sin?

When vests and Y fronts decorate the halls
when trousers seem to multiply at speed
With thermal undies ready for a ball
And bras converse with panties as they breed.

Then shall I throw the whole lot in the trash.
As sorting and disposing invokes wrath.
We’ll wear nothing but watercolour wash
Until in winter we all sneeze and cough,

No handkerchief shall I boil e’er again
To signify my fresh revolt from men.

Alcohol will make me sin

Oh,doctor I am in a flap

I cannot turn this childproof cap
I cannot take my medicine
So I shall toss it in the bin

The beta blockers make me down
I am in a study brown.
The mini aspirins make me bruise
And my mind is quite confused.

The ibuprofen hurt my heart
Yet without my dose I cannot start.
The thyroxine has no effect
So now I feel my life is drecked.

The codeine fails to make me high
I’m not addicted, though I try.
I’ll have to take a shot of gin
And alcohol will make me sin.

I’ll go to parties in a dress
That makes men’s hormones more or less.
I’ll take a big one home with me,
And give him poison in his tea.

And when I am in jail at last
I’ll feel remorse for all my past.
I fear I suffer dreadful pain
God has struck me yet again.

It’s not enough that I am blind
And suffer terrors in my mind
Not enough that lovers cruel
Give me stick instead of jewels.

Or maybe life does not make sense
Especially when one feels so tense.
For so random are my days
thus my life has gone astray.

I think that I shall buy a cat
And love it tenderly and chat.
But if my cat gives me a scratch…
I’ll light its tail up with a match.

All the world must me obey
Else I’ll be enraged all day.
I want my own way all the time.
Other people must conform.

I am here and full of ills
What do you think of these blue pills?
If they take away my heart
That at least will be a start.

Then they can remove my brain
To help me with this  fearsome pain.
Why not kill me right away?
Then I’ll be from pain astray.
.

So much for grief counselling

leg

 

“It is generally assumed that the principal emotional response to a significant loss is grief. Certainly sadness is usually a predominant feature and can feel overwhelming. As Freud suggests, and as is acknowledged in most of the modern literature on the subject, grief and sadness are not mitigated by counselling. The only relief is the passage of time. Articulating the sadness may be somewhat helpful but, very often, the hopelessness and despair that accompany a client’s realisation of the finality of death are deep enough to appear untouched by the methods of counselling, however sensitively offered.”

 

Source unknown

 

What not to write

Your skin glows like the orange blossoms in Tesco’s at Xmas
Sweet as  poison oak in the purest  depths of summer.
My yearning heart rises to your Arp-like voice and leaps like a goat at the whisper of your  post modern name.
The evening ascends  as if heated on a great owl’s wings nightly.
I am calmed by your airy shawl that I carry into the twilight and hold next to my heart
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears on my duvet cover in the next week
As your thighs falls from my trousers, it reminds me of our coalition government.
They are all mixed up like you and there are more of them.
In the hushed  play time, I listen for the last humming of the singing bats
My heated arms leap into my coat all alone. as per usual
I wait in the crystal moonlight for your secret sheet of text messages
so that we may be as one,hand in hand,foot in shoe.
in search of the gloriously gay and spiritual soup of love.
Whatever. Be mine.Sometime

Life is what we know

When soft winds blow and air strokes our bare skin.
When days are long like melodies of youth,
when light wakes up the soul from out her sin
Then shall we know when this sweet life is truth?

When flowers droop and leaves are dried and brown;
When water’s short and all  the ground’s forlorn
Then do not meet disaster with a frown,
For out of heartfelt sorrow new life’s born.

When winter’s here and all is quiet and still
And nothing seems to move or grow or speak
Then we shall learn the limits of our will
When through the soil the first green shoots will break.

For seasons change and actors come and go.
Yet through such changes, life is what we know..

Yet love is like a fearsome heavy blow

How like a bird’s nest is my unmade bed
As twigs and feathers from my feet did fall.
I ought to take my shoes off, but instead
I leave them on or hurl them at the wall.

As for a lady’s nightgown I do lack,
And wear old vests my dear husband once loved.
For ladies’ garments often have no back.
And fit too tightly, like a rubber glove.

For pain and torment some will undergo,
To gain attention from a handsome man .
Yet love is like a fearsome heavy blow
Survive it like an act of God unplanned.

So take life lightly though you are enchained;
For it is short and everything remains.

Roses

 The roses by your gate

Revealed my sweet fate:

That I would love you in summertime,

That my poetry would always rhyme,

That a dream of petals falling from above

Would drench us both with sunshine’s golden love;

That we would fall into deep grassy meadows

Full of daisies;lie on our backs.Swallows;

Darting across the sky would see

Our shapes intertwined with bright buttercups.

Who knows when love will erupt

And carry us on its flowing waters

To places unreachable in summer saunters?

Into the eye of love itself.

Love

  • I love you like I’d love a black walnut
  • You’re so rare I can’t eat you.
I’ll put you in my pocket
and take you with me
when I go in town
I’ll feel your crinkles and your wrinkles,
But nobody will know.

I love you like I’d love a comice pear.
I’ll put you in a golden bowl.
I’ll let the sun shine on you,
Till you are ripe.
I’ll put you in my bag,
Take you to a meadow of buttercups
And devour you.
And nobody will know.

I love you like I’d love a flower.
I’ll give you my best vase.
I’ll stand it in the window.
Then I’ll look at you all day
With my peripheral and my central vision,
Till your pattern is embedded in my brain.
I’ll sleep well and dream of you all night.
I’ll wake up and remember it all.

And nobody will know

Humor is good for inflammation:geometric progressions

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Scientists have found humor helps arthritis, instead of prescribing ibuprofen the doctor will tickle you with a feather duster.You’ll have to strip of course and if the nurse came in it would look strange to have them doctor running around the room saying,”You need another tickle”So he’ll give you a pack of cards each of which says:
This card entitles the carrier to one tickle today,two tickles tomorrow.Four tickles the day after, and so on.
If the number of tickles doubles each day,how many tickles will you have been entitled to in a week?In a month?
On the last day of the year would the number of tickles you were prescribed be more than the number of seconds in the day?
You’d better tick off the doctor for not understanding the growth rate.Still if it gives you or her/him a laugh……..your pain will diminish.
Bring back the tickle,I say.It never did me any harm,though I say it myself.
If that fails to heal you,you could ask for Capital Punishment…. you’ll have to move to London for that.

I know that being sad is no disgrace

The bell rang on the ancient church at noon.
A sparrow flitted to the Tudor wall.
Was this the knell which brings us damned gloom?

 

Perhaps there is no meaning here at all.
I read my unknown thoughts projected out;
And in my rage, desire the walls to fall.

 

Like you, I am too often stuck in doubt.
Betrayed by old ideal and vanished wish.
So what is in confuses that without.

 

 

Oh,pain, oh ,mind, oh agony, oh flesh.
I shall not cling to life and wait for grace.
I am, myself, a fish in net of mesh.

 

 

Was this my destiny, my rightful place;
Alone besieged by sorrows on all sides?
I err for being sad is no disgrace.

 

So ,to my hopes, I’ll cling like drowning beast.
Until my invitation to the feast.

 

 

Imprisoned spirits

How like a prison   is my cubicle;

A prison,a trap, a cell,a place of fear.

For humans,this  is truth indubitable;

We need to roam ,to see,to smell,to hear.

 

Yet in the bureaucrat realm , we must observe,

The rules laid down by  generations gone.

And from their ancient code we cannot swerve.

Even if by rules we are undone.

 

Did Euclid discover how grave was a bath?

Did Moses fear  to see the burning bush?

Did Einstein follow someone’s else’s path?

Did Socrates  give voice to utter trash?

 

Imprisoned spirits are to revolution called.

Lest by lioness they should be mauled.

 

 

 

Your face

I wear my heart displayed upon my face.
Attentive readers find their meaning there..
Where feelings thought too deep to be embraced
Can shine demurely where they do not scare.

As Freud observed, we're never quite disguised
Betrayal is our body's real motif
The message comes conspicuous from the eyes..
Bright sparkles  or the tears of blackest grief.

The answer to a question seemly leaps
So Yes or No is visibly revealed.
The blush that spreads so fast across the cheeks
Both bold and shy unable to conceal.

Your face tells me you lied when Love you wrote.
Yet let us part with song, thus write our poems.

I desire to live

I feel soft ghostly hands around my throat
That want to pull me to the darkest deep
My husband cannot leave or be remote
He wishes me to join him in his sleep.
I shall resist for I desire to live
Though sightless are my hours without his face.
I have no more  to friends that I can give,
Now he has taken from me his kind embrace.
As lonely as a swan without its mate.
As tired as swallows after they migrate.
I must accept my unconsoled fate,
Yet not believe this be a constant state.
From my loss, I shall recover when
The birds return and warm sun shines again