Zaftig is used to describe women
When men watch them in a pool swimming
What a design!
Oy vey,she’s not mine.
Her costume is, one might say, gripping.
I suppose we’re not zoftig today.
We aren’t allowed rolls in the hay.
No ,we cannot eat bread
Unless we are dead.
And that’s not conducive to play.
adjective
It takes a long time for a tree to die.
Though its trunk be almost severed with the axe
There was plenty of sap above
Then the leaves began to wither
According to Freudian theory,writing with a fountain pen is the equivalent of copulation.Damn it.I thought I was a virgin when I got married.That Freud.. who does he think he is? God……Anyway as we get older we can enjoy this simple outlet without dressing up making up or on-line dating.And you don’t need protection,contraception or metal detection.Lose it the inky way.Buy a pen today.I am not sure if fibre tip pens are the same!Or ballpoints.I can see a fountain pen is the most similar and so I can believe children should not learn to write any more.Typing is alright,I think.
Why do roses hurt our hands, forlorn,
When sheep don’t hurt the shepherd as they’re shorn?
We could cut down the roses in our rage.
Their own aggression might bring down their death.
Yet, beauty in their form does love engage.
So we ignore their useless,painful wrath.
Recklessly we love a spiky friend.
Enchanted by their learning or their face
But wounds unneeded bring this to an end.
Patience thins, we sever this embrace.
Roses have a beauty that beguiles.
Shall we then endure their thorns and wiles?
The aftermath of a storm and flood.
From after- + math (“a mowing”), from Old English mæþ (“a mowing”), fromProto-Germanic *madą, *maþō, *maþwō, *mēdō (“a mowing”), from Proto-Indo-European *(a)mē- (“to mow”). Cognate with Dutch made, mad (“area of ground cleared by a sickle”), German Mahd (“mowing”). Related to Old English māwan (“to mow”). See mow, meadow.
aftermath (plural aftermaths)
My books are very evocative
But I feel they’re slightly provocative.
But they are not porn.
Not are they corn!
My tutor says they’re derogative.
I know there’s no such word as derogative
But there should be in my opinion-ative.
So I fear I mislead
For I am in need
I want both your love and prerogative.
Oxford Dictionary
Line breaks: evoke
[WITH OBJECT]
awoke, bespoke, bloke, broke, choke, cloak, Coke, convoke, croak, folk, invoke, joke, Koch, moke, oak, okey-doke, poke, provoke, revoke, roque, smoke, soak, soke, spoke, stoke, stony-broke (US stone-broke), stroke, toke, toque, woke, yoke, yolk
If you happen
to like reading,
books,
can have
a very powerful effect on you,
fifty shades of gay,grey and a way
an evocative effect,
wonder
bringing forth
It’s not as though
when I read
I’m gathering
in
formation,
or indeed
can remember
much
I know the books
that grip
effect is indiscernible.
recognise ?
Leavisite position,
reading certain
sentences
makes you more alive,
[also may kill you]
and a morally better person,
whatever morals are now
are they absolutes?
and that those two things
go together.
[like marriage]
what is clear
are powerful unconscious
evocative effects in reading
books that one loves.?
about
these books
we want to go on
thinking,
matters to us.
not just fetishes
to fill gaps.
[So filling gaps is bad]
like recurring dreams
[but not nightmares]
can’t help
thinking
about
remember them
or can thinking
be unconscious?
Image by my sister
Holiday
[hol-i-dey]
Spell Syllables
Synonyms Examples Word Origin
[See more synonyms on Thesaurus.com]
noun
1.
a day fixed by law or custom on which ordinary business is suspended in commemoration of some event or in honor of some person.
2.
any day of exemption from work (distinguished from working day ).
3.
a time or period of exemption from any requirement, duty, assessment, etc.:
New businesses may be granted a one-year tax holiday.
4.
a religious feast day; holy day, especially any of several usually commemorative holy days observed in Judaism.
5.
Sometimes, holidays. Chiefly British. a period of cessation from work or one of recreation; vacation.
6.
an unintentional gap left on a plated, coated, or painted surface.
adjective
7.
of or relating to a festival; festive; joyous:
a holiday mood.
8.
suitable for a holiday:
holiday attire.
verb (used without object)
9.
Chiefly British. to vacation:
to holiday at the seaside.
Origin of holiday Expand
Middle EnglishOld English
950before 950; Middle English; Old English hāligdæg. See holy, day
Related forms Expand
preholiday, adjective
My florelegium’s come.
My anthology’s published, done.
The flowers are pressed,
The hopes confessed.
I hope I earn a crumb.
Word of the Day
Definitions for florilegium
A collection of literary pieces; anthology
Citations for florilegium
… Brichot who was not merely kind to Morel, but would cull from the Greek philosophers, the Latin poets, the oriental storytellers, appropriate texts which decorated the Baron’s propensity with a strange and charming florilegium.
Marcel Proust, translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff & Terence Kilmartin, The Captive, 1992
Printing also encouraged a trend toward ever larger reference books as each edition tried to lure more buyers by offering something of interest to everyone, or at least everyone who could read Latin. One of these was the “ florilegium,” a book gathering memorable quotations (or “flowers”) from respected authorities of many kinds — religious writers, philosophers, poets, and orators.
Ann Blair, “Information overload, the early years,” Boston Globe, November 28, 2010
Origin of florilegium
Florilegium can be traced to the Latin terms flōs meaning “flower” and legere meaning “to gather.” Historically, it has been used to refer to both collections of literal flowers and figurative flowers in the sense of notable literary extracts. It entered English in the mid-1600s.
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I
People often assume talking is good for us.It must be or it would have died out!Yet even when we are small we know talking or being spoken too can cause pain.I’m leaving out parental criticism.But gossip hurts and so do lies.often.
Later while talking to some people is good,it’s not universal
Words like flying pebbles hurtle from her lips
They may not hit me,but they keep us apart.
Of course,it may be unconscious..
That’s the modern excuse.
Politicians do a double trick.
They sound as if they want to reach us
But they can’t depart from a script they wrote two years ago.
He smiled like a dead drake,leaned towards me,bared his lips
And said,I love you.
I reared back to escape his yellow fangs.
I’d rather be alone.
I suppose the best time is
When we have a balance of talk and silence.
And for women,it’s usually when the men are absent.
If a woman says a few sentences men think it’s a lecture.
You may not believe that men talk more than women
But research shows it.
It’s how we judge their talking.
Boring talk is the worst.
Especially when we can’t escape.
We think we can’t,perhaps we can.
There’s a warm silence
which feels good,like a cashmere blanket
around the shoulders
which can contain what we say
and what we don’t say.
Which unites us.
Then there’s a cold silence
You are telling me not to speak
Not to come close.
Even worse,it may say
I’d like to destroy you
You are not human
You’re not worth anything.
Daggers drawn
Hate.
Then there’s the silence of indifference,
You see me but feel nothing.
I could be a table or a hat
A book or potato.
You live in your bubble
And nothing can pierce it.
Even to see me die would not
Affect you.
You seem to have no affect.
When true love’s gone and doom hangs over head When life runs like a river to the sea Then shall I take new lovers to my bed? And with their carnal touch consoled be? When my love lies,so breaks my tender heart. When life seems grey and rocks bestrew my path. Then, shall I my life of evil start? And on the world shall I bestow my wrath? When true loves lie and wreck all loyalty. When puzzlement makes all my world seem mad. Then I shall upend causality And let myself do deeds which make me glad. For I have love’s sweet child inside my soul And I shall tend her till at last she’s whole
The cause of sadness also shows its end;
That we let go the loved one and remain.
Such comfort,aid and love we have from friends
Helps us bear the heart’s most dangerous pain.
But if our friends fear their own hidden grief.
If sorrow is never let to touch their heart;
Then friendship’s stolen by a nervous thief;
As wishing to retain our self,we part.
The friends who sit in silent company
Who look for no reward yet love us true
Who show, quite clear, desireless empathy;
They are friends who warmth and hope imbue.
Patient silence may do more than words
The utterance of the heart is not absurd.
In Derbyshire there is a cafe advertising “Cream Teas”.But that doesn’t include the pot of tea!Nor even a cup of tea.It makes me wonder if it has any cream in it.Life,doesn’t it annoy one sometimes?Well,it annoys me.And I am random sample size one so we can generalise to,
100 percent of the sample were annoyed by modern life.
To be a perfectionist is not the same as being a tourist
Or a Cubist.
It’s a state of mind which doesn’t recognise itself;
That believes there’s only one way:
The ideal way.
And that will can achieve it.
To be a perfectionist
Is to be afraid of being ordinary or average.
How do we change?
Can we change?
Everyone assumes we can,
That will power can do it.
But like losing weight,it’s hard
Or impossible.
In any case does anything perfect even exist?
Ignoring humanity,is the world perfect?
What does it mean?
Is a baby perfect?
Is the sun perfect?
How are we using words?
Stan fell asleep in front of the roaring fire.Emile lay across his lap.Emile was so limp he looked like a wet towel casually over the old man’s knees.It was Stan’s birthday but no party had been arranged.He was struck that Mary had not baked a cake..nor even bought one at the Co-op.
That was no surprise really as he did all the cooking including Bakewell tarts and Xmas cake,He was a versatile man who could also mend old radios and fix clocks that were stuck one time….usually th wrong one!
He also spent quite a lot of time giving statistics lessons to pensioners and making love with his blonde and busty mistress,Annette who lived next door.
He decided that being so near her was a big advantage given his age.
Suddenly he was awakened by chuckles and giggles,There were Mary and Annette holding a big iced cake and a pot of tea.The doorbell rang and in came all Stan’s friends from his Art class.Mary produced sandwiches and pork pies,sausage rolls and potato cakes.
How did you do this ?,he enquired dazedly.
We did it all in Annette’s oven.She has two so it was quite easy.
Mary was not jealous of Annette for Mary would rather read Principia Mathematica than go to bed with Stan.Apparently she was mildly autistic but she was happy doing maths as many of her co-workers had the same syndrome.
She did have one daughter whom she found hidden in a gooseberry bush in the garden.This was enough for Stan as he was 92.But luckily he did have a good gold plated pension of £390.09 per month.
Everyone was having a fabulous time until Anne tried to light the candles on the cake.No matches could be found.
Ring 999,Stan called childishly.Mary obeyed and soon the ambulance drew up.In ran Dave the paramedic.
Is it your chair? he enquired wildly.
No,it’s this cake.We can’t light the candles on it.Shall we douse it in petrol?We have a jerry can full of it in the spare room.
That is very dangerous,he shouted.
Well,we are old now and need the car badly.Risk assessment gave us evens on the odds.Dave produced a silver lighter and lit the candles.Then he conducted them all as they sang,”Happy Birthday” to Stan.Stan managed to blow out 90 candles before passing out on the rug.
Well,at least he didn’t break the chair,Mary said philosophically.
I wish he had,said Dave.I’ve got some superglue here.
Well,we do have a wardrobe that’s falling apart.would you like to mend it?
Sure,he replied gratefully.This is why we have the NHS!
We are here for you 24/7
Or come to A and E if you get a mouth ulcer or a cold sore.No problem is too small!
Stan came to on the rug with Emile beside him.He gazed deeply into the cat’s green eyes.
I think I’ve fallen in love with you,he informed the Emile.
Will you sleep with me and let Mary have your basket.
Are we engaged,said Emile.
Definitely,said Stan.I’ll get you a golden collar with diamonds on it.
When shall we be married?
As soon as it’s legal,Stan answered honestly.
In the meantime,we’ll have to live in sin.
Then he fell asleep again with Emile in his arms.
What a lovely picture, cried the ladies.
Look at this.What a happy sight.
What love,what devotion.
How strange,what a commotion.
They’re in love,what emotion.
Don’t tell the Pope,we need caution
When you touched me so.
Maybe you never knew
What your words would do.
Where lovers once embraced
And thus you bring torment
To me to whom love you sent.
When I close my eyes
My daytime face then dies.
I look across dark seas
To sacramental trees.
My dreams are full of loss.
Is night or day the worse?
When we return next here
I gaze upon your face,
Forbidden to embrace.
My arms ache deep inside,
As if in agony tied.
Torn apart by grief
Love is now a thief.
Where has God’s face gone
As brightly shines the sun?
The pains of life are sharp,
Cutting through the heart
But still we turn towards love,
With all the strength we have.
Trusting in the dark
And emptiness beside
I step into the void
Love can’t be denied
Mary woke up with a start,to see the big holly tree swinging from side to side in the wind.She was sleeping on the living room floor in a sleeping bag.As she had not been on holiday she had decided to pretend she was on a camping trip.The weather was so unstable,to risk putting up the tent was not an idea she spent much time dwelling on or with.
Emile strolled into the room and jumped onto her large and supine body.Good morning, he cried loudly.
For goodness sake,Emile,please don’t shout.I feel fragile when I waken up.I am wondering if the idea of camping at home is a mistake.For one thing,you would not be with me if I went to North Wales.And so I could lie peacefully until I decided to get dressed.But then I might miss you.
I’d miss you,mewed Emile.Can I not come with you when you go hill walking? I promise not to run away.Unless we see a tyger of wrath or a Chesire Cat.
We’ll have to see,Mary told him,her eyes gleaming like floodlit lapis lazuli. in the night.I didn’t know you liked Blake’s poetry.Neither does he Emile replied languidly.
Mary struggled up and went to the bathroom for a quick shower.I suppose it is more comfortable camping at home,she said to Stan who was hovering over her head like a large hornet looking for its nest as she wrapped a robe around her generous body
I don’t mind where you are ,he replied honestly.But if you were in Wales it would be hard for Dave to come to help you out.
So true,she answered casually.I’d better get dressed now.I’ll see you later,Stan.Mary ate her breakfast on a rug on the lawn in her nightdress..This saved her sweeping the crumbs up in the house or spilling food onto her clothes..She then decided to go to Bicester Shopping Village as that is what she used to do on holiday with Stan in former years.Stan was puzzled by why she wanted to shop.The thing was she preferred quality clothes and could not afford them in the department store in Knittingham.In Bicester they had last year’s clothes for half price.Or even clothes from 2 or 3 years ago.
She put on a long tweed skirt and a pink striped jumper over her bright blue roll neck top.On her feet she put soft blue suede boots.This wearing of boots at home dated back to the time when hse lived in a house with no bathroom and the lavatory was by the back gate.It had no light not lock but that was what people were used to then.
Sitting in the old green car,Mary watched her neighbour Tom cutting his hedge.Another job for her to do or to arrange,or was she going to become one of those people whose front gates fell off and hedges grew to trees after they suffered a bereavement?Not to mention those men who never change the pillow cases after their wives die.
She drove away slowly deciding to go to a Garden Centre instead of clothes shopping.After all who would see her clothes now?As long as she had a decent winter coat that would cover up her moth eaten knitted merino wool skirts and trousers and her over tight jumpers.Why not buy some flowers like crocuses and daffodils in pots to put in the hall and living room to bring her back to the reality of life on earth?They were just as real as the horrors of war and troubled nations.What could Mary do to help?She might have worked as code breaker when young but her eyes were no longer good enough.
Mary rang 999 at tea time.Can you send Dave round.My new plants look a bit unhealthy.And ask him to buy some milk on the way,please.Make it quick as I need a nice cup of tea made the way he does it.Thank you.Maybe I’ll phone Annie,she murmured before humming Nessun Dorma to herself.I wonder if I could write lyrics for a pop star,she thought pensively.Or buy a guitar and sing my own songs.Is the guitar hard to learn,she pondered.Maybe it’s good for the fingers.But the neighbours might not like it.A violin would be even worse!
My mind seems blanker today
Than is usual when I am at play
I have hints of my dreams
But my memory now seems
To run my brain in its own way.
Concentration is the key issue here
And not letting our minds fill with fear.
We are told far too often
How older brains soften
A prophecy dangerous to hear.
The protesting world
cries out like a trumpet
playing “The last post.”
The eyes of the lost ask me to tell
what is unspeakable,
but I have nothing
except to ask why bugles are not played for you
at Remembrance Ceremonies.
Were you not soldiers too,
fighting for the right to breathe?
The “right to life,”
As you dragged yourself off the truck
Not quite believing but
Yet,yes,believing,paradoxically that
Soon you would be silent amd still.
Your teeth carefully taken for gold”
Yes,they were green alright
Recycling was very important to the Nazi..
One might almost say they were the pioneers here of what we do today
So was hygiene. They practised so well
How to wash their hands clean from guilt,
So much soap they needed
So they could play Mozart
and tenderly touch their children
Then sleep on clean linen enjoying such dreams.
Soon the world would be perfect.
all in order,all tidied away,
Unique,complete, orderly ,dead..
Yes, death of everything w as the real final solution.
All packed away in boxes,
Waiting for the Resurrrection.
How far is it to heaven from where we started?
Would Jesus like to meet you now,to greet you,
So pure,clean and perfect?
You have cut out your own heart with the breadknife
Because it troubled you so,beating like that.
When you were only doing your duty.
Doing what men have to do.
A dove flew up as the agnostic man comforted the
frightened boy
And hand in hand they died right there
At the foot of the Cross.
Which you revered,I believe.
But it was God’s son hanging there
And you all knew.
As a lover, he was utterly sublime.
Yet he did it as just a pastime.
He much preferred daydreaming
Or financial scheming
Why,even rewriting my rhymes!
He was in a hurry to get out of bed
He said he’d change when we wed.
But he had three more engagements
And secret arrangements.
Thus was his fantasy fed.
How my heart sings 