Like a piece of ground where bombs go off repeatedly,

my inner landscape is perpetually marked
by these explosions of sorrow,
made all the worse
by the lack of a listening ear,
a warm open heart
or an outstrerched hand.

I have constructed a map
but it's incomplete,by its nature;
so even now,I might stumble into an old hole
or a new one,created
by reverberations underground;
the noise like distant music,
a  constant drumbeat.

We do not dance
I might call it the Liturgy of Loss,
a dance to the music of rhyme;
Patterns abd shapes hold the feelings
and express them.The shape of these forms
is a container for the grief.

In this way,I indicate
that life will go on;I hear the healing music
and sing to its melodies
like a mermaid on the edge of the sea in winter
when the water is cold and green like his eyes,
and the rocks are hard like large fists.

Nature can be a s ymbol for such emotion
we cannot walk without a tear in ech eye
and a softening of our hearts
as tenderly we touch the world
and are touched in turn by each other.

Stretch out your hand to meet mine.
We can hold each other better
than each can hold theirself.
Like in sex, the meaning is not the climax
but the giving and being given;
receiving and being received.
The sacredness of the erotic needs no explanation
to a gardener or a fisherman
but may need it for the information saturated,postmodern
who dwell in the fascist virtual reality
we call life on earth today

A wonderful word is oleaginous

It scarce rhymes  with the old word magnaminous.

We say oily instead

To show we’re ill-bred.

Yet  endure so  much  folly from the cadge in us.

Oleaginous is a very long word

Not one I have frequently heard.

We temper our  choice,

When we use our own voice,

To avoid giving pain  when it’s shared.

Should men being allowed to offend

By cursing in email they send?

They hate criticism

So prefer witticism.

But to  swearing the apes can descend.

“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

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.

An invited comma?

Punctuation marks,see the nurse

Wool stops, here.

An excavated  ark.

A restoration mark.

Mull flops end all repentance.

Never end with hands.

Never start fingering  before you have stopped.

Before writing  very many words,  decide how to puncture the entire para-gaffe at once.

Never confuse emoticons with real wheelings

Never hurry.

Never finish before the end.

Never ending words skulked away sulkily

 When Oscar sits on the windowsill

And sees someone within,

His mouth opens wide in soundless cry,

He gives us his cat grin.

Oscar rubs around my legs

He’s such a friendly soul.

He then rolls round upon his back

And waves his long striped tail.

But after Oscar’s greetings done,

He’s off to do his rounds.

He sets off from the white door

To the long thin gardens end.

Every inch of soil and seed

Is subject to his nose.

The garden looks one way to us,

But he can see much more.

I wish that Oscar cat could talk

And tell us what he’s found.

Ten thousand spider’s weaving webs,

A slow worm on the ground.

A million ants climb up the rowan,

I sometimes watch them too.

I see  striped wasps and honey bees

In this small natural zoo.

The hedgehogs sweet have long been gone,

but we have diverse birds.

Oscar sits on my tall stool.

He watches them for hours.

The pity of it  all,

that a blindman’s buff

should determine our fate;

that people can’t  make distinctions

fantasy becomes vision

we see with our minds and our eyes are blind

The pity of it all

when we might love

The pity of it all

that we are no longer just animals

that we are conscious

The grief of the madness.

Cliches are boring to  hear

Like, why is that spoon in your ear?

We must  make things new

Or give a fresh view.

I will stir my tea now,with a spear.

My father kept spoons in his hat

For often he wore a wool cap.

When Ma wanted teaspoons

He told her  he’d resume

When all of the spoons were quite  flat

Your love is a rose,I am sure

But why not use a new type of flower?

My love is a   frog

We sing in a bog.

Then we sing  once again on the hour.