Suppose I were a psychopath?
Month: May 2016
Good night
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The shadow:dark and light
Criticism is sometimes helpful.It depends on the relationship between the people,the power balance and whether the one giving it cares about the other.After all we may pay a therapist to listen and while they possibly don’t criticise directly we may learn things we find hard to acknowledge about our self and that if we can study it we may understand our own behaviour better.But that usually takes a long time.Change is hard and so even if we know we have some faults we may not be able to change them.But maybe it’s better if we know.On the other hand criticism often a form of defence.{Attack etc]
The side of ourself we don’t know about is called,The Shadow” in Jungian
psychoanalysis.Sometimes there may be good qualities hidden there.
Of course it all depends on how much we can change.But if you discover you are full of envy then that might explain why you keep no friends for long.We think we know ourselves but we don’t really…judging by dreams I’ve had
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Criticism:is it projection?
My dad sang this to me.. good night!
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Colors of the night
My love is painted by night in the velvets of the sky on the canvas of my heart. Moonlight is the brush painting my longing in colors of stardust that is rolling down on my cheeks. My heart is an a…
Source: Colors of the night
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Oh, the dentist
One of my teeth broke yesterday.My dentist has retired but I managed to find a new one.There are no NHS ones near me… so I hope it’s not major.
My Acer chrome-book went dead but an Acer technician has fixed it over the phone which is a relief.I prefer it as it is faster than the Windows laptop.
Well.I’ll be glad when I actually leave.I am not frightened of dentists but it takes energy sitting there with them poking about
I don’t know the dentist’s real name
But mostly their hands feel the same
They stick in anaesthetic
With murmurs sympathetic
Because they can’t bear us in pain
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Cycling
When I go out upon my bike
I feel so very joyful.
Free as a flying bird at play,
Or a child eating a trifle.
The air is sweet,my eyes are bright
The sun’s rays soft caress me.
I ride swiftly and safely past
The oak ,the ash, the beech tree .
Ancient walls and flowers tall,
I pass like a boat gliding.
And quietness grows inside my soul,
With this sweet cycle riding .
At last I reach my home again,
So full of air and sunshine.
I love the earth that gave me birth,
My body feels now more like mine.
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Sweet dreams from England to all
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Sometimes, even love
Ah,did you throw away the ripened fruit
Because inside it hid a hardened stone?
As anything not total does not suit
Love’s ambivalence seems to you a crime
Don’t throw away my love when I offend
For I am human too and lose my sense
As tension makes it difficult to bend
And sometimes even love is too intense.
Rather , see how much love there still may be
And balance that against my human faults
Instead ,one mark ,one sin one thought unfree
Weighs more than years of love ,binds me in guilt.
As panic will grow less when we just wait
In such a way , real love can contain hate.
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Welcome
Welcome William to the joyful world
Where mother love and father love combine
And so your life shall tenderly unfurl
In Eden first where life may seem divin
Behind grandparents, are their parents too
Invisible except for genes passed on
As ancestors’ sweet lives have brought forth you
Then in some sense they have not really gone.
Before you there is life, a tale unwrit,
Yet in your mother’s arms you safely dwell.
With love and friendship and some little wit
We wish for all like you , all shall be well.
A past unnumbered, future fiction yet
Ah,take this love and kindness which you met..
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String quintet by Mozart
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One man went to row
Do you remember that song,One man went to row?
Well,it’s because we are always having rows.
But we are women
Generically, we are all men
Yet genetically we are women
Strange one letter makes all the difference.
Especially if it’s in Greek.Or not.
Plank you so dutch
Won’t tension knit…
I am too tight
Loosen up.Undo your zip and leave that armour off.
I didn’t know there was a zip.
It’s a metaphor.
Who’re you,Mrs Wittgenstein?
Don’t take that tone with me
I am joking.
You could have fooled me.
Wittgenstein didn’t laugh much.
Three of his four brothers committed suicide.
That is not just genetic…
It was their father’s strictness.
Well,I feel sorry for them except if there is a heaven they’ll be there.
And we hope their Dad will not!
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No corset
I am afraid there is no corset on my screen
Are you looking at ladies undies?
No,I mean that arrow that moves with the mouse
Don’t tell me mice are armed now!
Well if you were a mouse what would you do?
Propagate.
I am surprised you believe in propaganda.
The thing is,it’s hidden.It looks innocent
Like some women do even after being married 9 times.
Perhaps they are innocent and don’t consummate their marriage?
Why don’t they read The Toys of Sex
Do you mean the Joy of Sex?
Whatever,toy boys,joy,sex and love.
I thought it was your mouse you came about.
Freud might understand
Say whatever comes to mind
Well I have said enough
But who decides?
It’s a feeling,an intuition.
Like love?
That’s deceptive.
We have to decide.
Decide what?
Where that corset has gone
Cursor
I don’t think we need to actually curse her even if she has run away with our corset
My mind reels
Irish or Scottish?
,
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Slides to my eye
The sky looks greyer
But at its height it’s well lit
Annoying the clouds
Clouds depend on wind
They have no engines inside
No pollution
Low orange sunshine
Slides to my eye through acer
Light and shade make art
Each large shrub is dumb
Each darkness is different
Birds can have a choice
Holly is much loved
Prickles protect the feeblest
Bold eagles just glare
The eyes of mothers
Give heart,encourage babies
Or they may destroy.
Who were the gorgons?
Who has not felt numbed by glare?
Who has not frozen?
If we do not melt
We might shatter into shards
Flying to pieces
Inside our own skin
We are not a unity
We are a jigsaw
Or we are dry bones
To be burned in glowing coals
Our spirit will rise
As God lit a bush
It burned without destruction
An eternal flame
Burning is confused
Alchemists were never fools
Wisdom was evoked
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By the lily pond
How beautiful it was when the sun shone And I walked with you,my dear husband, through the gardens. How happy I was to sit with you by the lake and to hear the water from the fountain splash. It's our our favourite music now we cannot visit the sea To hear the tide rush in,then fall sucking on the shingley beach. But I see it in my minds eye. Aldeburgh,the fishing boats go out at sunrise. I awoke early and saw the sun across the sea and the boats setting out in the soft light. Dunwich,the heath filled with birds the cliff and the beach where sometimes one can find marble from one of the many churches washed away by the encroaching sea. And Southwold,the marsh so quiet I heard crickets. We went across the Blyth in the rowing boat And saw the place from which our picture of Walberswick was painted... If only life could be captured,slowed, for a few minutes for us to receive the beauty and hear the sound of the sea The everlasting music of the heart
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Apposite
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What feels a loss may foretell growth.
When first I saw your soulful face,
Then wished I most to you embrace.
I wished as well to clothe you in
The sacred images within.
To find a home for love without;
To fold my dreams all round about
Your loving body and your face
Were covered in such joy and grace.
But now my dreams are cast aside
The world of meaning denied life.
What seemed most precious now is fled…
And I lie sleepless in my bed.
What is the world when unadorned
With all that in my heart I’ve formed?
There is no meaning I can trace.
As in a mother’s empty face.
On these grey rocks my path is hard.
From paradise, my self is barred.
To struggle or to grief succumb
When this dark day of mourning’s done?
Into His dazzling darkness dart
My dreams and love like dying sparks.
Into His Mystery so fair
I’ll cast both hope and my despair.
Thus my dreams will be transformed
To show themselves in other forms.
What feels a loss may foretell growth.
On my hope,I’ll take an oath
That nothing in my life is waste,
That I have not for phantasms chased.
And you are human,as am I.
Let’s live again until we die
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IQ?
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We can’t go back and repeat the experience
We were sitting as usual by the window
gazing at the wintry trees
You began to cry out:
The house is under attack,
A storm is coming .
The glass windows will shatter
We’ll be stabbed.
We’ll be injured
We’ll be killed. I must get outLooking out,.I saw only the calm bare branches
gazing at the wintry trees
You began to cry out:
The house is under attack,
A storm is coming .
The glass windows will shatter
We’ll be stabbed.
We’ll be injured
We’ll be killed. I must get outLooking out,.I saw only the calm bare branches
Looking out,.I saw only the calm bare branches
Of the maple
And two wood pigeons in the fir tree
were chuckling to each other.
The wind had not changed.I know it’s midwinter with the bitter
breeze with an edge to it ,like a knife.
The sun low like lemonade in an almost emptied glass.
Sending light through the forsythia onto the bent old fence.I turned to you puzzled
Reached out my hands to comfort;
But you shouted
Keep away
as you got your thick coat out
and ran from the back door right into the dark woods.If there were real danger,why did you desert me?
Years later you told me of bad news you’d had.
Seemed like the inside and outside got confused.
I became a Fascist.I was a flaxen Anglo-Saxon.
I was Hitler’s grand-daughter.
I was a descendant of the Borgia Pope.
A witch , a demon, a torturer.
You believed that
I would break my glass; cut your face
with the jagged edges and laugh
like we once saw in a film.
Of the maple
And two wood pigeons in the fir tree
were chuckling to each other.
The wind had not changed.I know it’s midwinter with the bitter
breeze with an edge to it ,like a knife.
The sun low like lemonade in an almost emptied glass.
Sending light through the forsythia onto the bent old fence.I turned to you puzzled
Reached out my hands to comfort;
But you shouted
Keep away
as you got your thick coat out
and ran from the back door right into the dark woods.If there were real danger,why did you desert me?
Years later you told me of bad news you’d had.
Seemed like the inside and outside got confused.
I became a Fascist.I was a flaxen Anglo-Saxon.
I was Hitler’s grand-daughter.
I was a descendant of the Borgia Pope.
A witch , a demon, a torturer.
You believed that
I would break my glass; cut your face
with the jagged edges and laugh
like we once saw in a film.
Unlike in science,
We can’t go back and repeat the experience
as if it were an experiment.
See if we were drawing the right conclusions
If you’d stayed a few minutes more
You might have realised
You were half asleep
And dreaming.
It was a daymare that escaped.
Once gone,you never returned
To the house where it seemed the glass broke
into shards and cut you to shreds.
And a woman loved you.
I don’t blame you
though I weep.
We are often deceived by our imaginations
We see not what’s here
But what we most fear.
And flee the human contact
Which, alone, might help.I always leave the door ajar
And some food on the kitchen table;
In case you come back hungry and tired.
though I weep.
We are often deceived by our imaginations
We see not what’s here
But what we most fear.
And flee the human contact
Which, alone, might help.I always leave the door ajar
And some food on the kitchen table;
In case you come back hungry and tired.
It was your mind that shattered,not the glass…
And that’s much harder to mend.
But it can be done
If you stop fighting.
And let the inner seas flow free.
You need a hand
But it also frightens you.
Besides, my hand is not strong enough to hold you.
Only to touch you gently
To say how sad I am.
And that’s much harder to mend.
But it can be done
If you stop fighting.
And let the inner seas flow free.
You need a hand
But it also frightens you.
Besides, my hand is not strong enough to hold you.
Only to touch you gently
To say how sad I am.
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He liked to excite women with his studied impropriety
He was a picky person with a penchant for piss artistry
He liked to excite women with his studied impropriety.
He often went to bed with a woman of society
Then she would be troubled by her sudden notoriety.
As demanding as a pigeon with one eye and no stability;
Although he had been gifted with a wide range of abilities.
He always told the truth in a manner Jesuitical
It gave rise to deep wounds and to curious thoughts inimical.
It gave rise to deep wounds and to curious thoughts inimical.
He read between the lines and fantasised romanticly
He knew his Greek and Latin and corrected folk pedantically.
He liked to drink ripe brandy and practise tantric gallantry.
Until it led to arguments and words fired off too frantically.
He said he felt real lonesome even when he was in intimacy
Wished he’d never bothered to lose his youth’s virginity
He did too much for others and got stressed out by an accident
Until his control broke and gave rise to a grave incident.
So now he is in prison and finds it suits him perfectly.
He was made to be a hermit and he lives his life less jerkily.
All he misses now is the ladies so beloved of him…
He wonders if they can be jailed and share his cell and comfort him?
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Come live with me
Come live with me and be my helpmeet now
I’ll share my only bed with you and how!
If you let me love you
I’ll darn your old gloves 4 you..
If you come and meet me brow to brow.
Come live with me and teach me all you know
About poetic licence and Soho
I’ll mend your vacuum cleaner
And learn expressions meaner.
How cheerfully the hours to come will go.
Come live with me and be my lover true
Without one,however will we do?
I’ll set up model railways
And learn the Jewish weekdays
Come live with me and I will sweep your flue.
Come live with me in Norway on a fjord
I’ll mend my Canon PowerShot if I’m bored.
I’ll watch the flowers growing
And then we must be sowing.
How happy Wittgenstein’d be if he’d knowed.
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If I should cease to love you
If I should cease to love you when you die
And quickly fill your space with a new man
Then perhaps my claiming love was but a lie
And I can fill you place with anyone.
Are not our friends unique and therefore lost
When death pulls them away to darker shores?
Yet we will love each one despite the cost.
And when we weep, is this not what life’s for?
Loss and gain and loss and gain again
A pattern from the infant to the sage
So joy and pain and joy and pain remain.
Who knows what is inscribed on the page?
To feel,to suffer, then feel joy once more
Will open up the Heavens’ golden door
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Losing ourselves
Photo by Mike Flemming.Copyright.
I think many of us would agree that we are happiest when we lose ourselves in some activity.And then how fast time seems to go.Like when you kiss your beloved
When we are feeling down it’s not so easy to forget our self.We often think distractedly trying to find a reason for our discomfiture.
This is why writing,painting photography give us the chance to look outward.And so even if your work is not very good it’s still worth doing it.Photography is in some ways the best because usually unless we do portraits we will be outside looking at birds,trees,flowers and so on.Also we might meet a neighbour;I met one yesterday who has seen two blue moths in his garden which I’ve not seen for years.
Sometimes we compare our work to other people’s and feel despondent.But all learning takes lots of practise.And blurred photos make a good starting point for using Artweaver or Pixlr online editor.
Also learning new things makes everyone anxious.Some people give up because of that but if you keep going it will pass.
People think that if you are intelligent you can learn or even know things without learning them,like being a concert pianist!
Yesterday I had an instance of this.I met a neighbour for tea.She has just got a tablet.She thinks it’s a Kindle Fire but it’s not.
Anyway she asked me to set it so that English and Hebrew or both available.~Well I didn’t even know that was possible .I fiddled with it for a while and managed to do it.. so she was impressed but one thing I know is that there are only so many possibilities and if you go through them you will find the one you want..Of course we were relaxed, unlike in an exam and that helps.If you are tense your vision narrows,so I read.
I tried it on my Kindle Fire and it just went entirely into Hebrew so if you see my next post from that do remember to read right to left
It’s quite hard to change it back if you don’t know the language.But I did it!The art of doing things is to keep trying different possibilities…but sometimes one can get obsessed so use a timer and stop after a certain length of time.
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Birds in May
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Is Stan Jewish?
A story for cat lovers :Emile goes for a bike ride
Stan had just got back to his lovely bright home from a ride on his old mountain bike.Emile had travelled in his special cat seat/basket just in front of Stan as he liked to see the road less travelled should it appear..and he liked purr to encourage Stan to ride further.
When Stan got home to his luxuriously detached yet bijou dwelling he went to the wonderfully disappointing cloakroom to wash his paws before putting the kettle on for some tea.
Ah,how peaceful it is here,he thought…,how nice Mary is still at Suddenly and alarmingly, the door bell rang.There,on the flower bedecked porch,stood a large, beautiful curly haired woman holding Emile in her pretty freckled arms
I believe this is your cat,she said boldly.So he tells me.Why, he even knows the address.Well,if he’s anyone’s he’s mine,Stan admitted uneasily.What has he done now?Did you not notice he jumped out of his basket?she asked enquiringly.
Well,no,Stan answered furtively..
I was getting a bit tired and keen to get home…I forgot my water,
Well,I hope you won’t let him do it again,he could end up absconding,
By the way,I’m called Yvette.
Are you Yvette Cooper,the MP,he enquired wildly.
No, she said,I’m Yvette Hooper,the swan lover.
Do come in for a cup of tea,he said caringly.
I don’t mind if I do,she said,then I can be sure your cat is alright.
Tell me,Stan said,Do you live with a swan?
No,she said,though I do have an old Swan saucepan.
A saucepan is not much company,Stan responded.
Well,at least it never shouts at me!Yvette said quickly.
Have you suffered verbal abuse? Stan said in a kind and supportive voice.
I have yes.We had a mutual agreement that I could be handcuffed and verbally AMUSED for 3 hours a week.you see we’d read this book,”Fifty shades of grey.”It’s all about human bondage
But my boyfriend thought it was verbal abuse I wanted.As I was upside down I couldn’t tell him of his error.After that ,things were never the same.
Why did you have the handcuffs?asked Stan calmly.
We were given them for Xmas,she whispered.
Also a whip and some rubber gloves.
Why the rubber gloves?
For washing up of course!
But after being whipped would you feel like washing up?
I don’t know.We split up before we even tried the whip… to be honest,I didn’t want to use it.
Alright, my dear.I understand it all.Here you are.. drink a nice cup of tea and try these biscuits I made myself they are almond biscuits from my Penguin Jewish cookery book.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm,delicious,she cried.Are you Jewish,Stan?
No,but why should they have all the best recipes?
A good point… maybe because they had almost the first alphabet so began to write them down before anyone else Not to mention they invented monogamy,a great religion,Freud,Wittgenstein,Einstein,rhinestone
.Give them an accolade. I mean,Jesus Christ! What more do they have to do to be rewarded?
Ascend into heaven?
Make more cheesecakes?
I wonder,said Stan pondering slowly
The back door opened and in ran Anne,Stan’s mistress.
She was dressed in soft teal with toning turquoise trainers and she wore a light beige foundation with bright coral lipstick making a subtle contrast… all by Lamcom of China.
Oh,Anne,have some tea.This is Yvette,she very kindly rescued Emile after he jumped off my bike
.Don’t tell me he can ride a bike,Anne screamed,showing off a good set of teeth and a lo ng red tongue.
No,I was riding it.Stan told her sensibly.
Hello Yvette,Anne said,where do you live?I live on the top road by the wood.Yvette answered politely, her auburn hair standing up in a mass of curls as she spoke,showing off to good effect her light orange lipstick and burnt sienna eye shadow…in fact it was colour from her art materials..
Have you been there long?Anne enquired politely and warmly.
No,only a few weeks..we don’t know anyone..
So you are married?
Yes,my husband is in the Police Service… he cleans policemen for special occasions.
I didn’t know anyone did that.Can’t they clean themselves
A self cleaning policeman…or how about putting coat of Teflon on them so they can be wiped with a wet cloth?
It’s up to him,said Yvette.I am a lecturer at Pond’s End Polytechnic.I teach philosophy..
In a poly?
Yes,I have a D.Phil from Oxgridge in the philosophy of science with particular reference to Dirac’s remarks on Wittgensteim.
Do they study such remarks in a poly?
All the students do Philosophy of Science…it’s compulsory.
Stan said,I wish they all did Peace Studies too…
I know,said Yvette kindly..If only we could bring peace but we are descended from the most aggressive primates… why many of them were sado-masochists.Well some were sadists and the rest were masochists I gather.The ones who weren’t died out as they never mated..
Well,I’m not a sadist,said Stan,or at least only to myself!
Do you beat yourself up,the ladies asked.
Just in my mind,he answered judiciously.So do I thought Yvette.
Let’s have some more tea,called Anne from the hall,I’ll make it.
Anne is my mistress,Stan boasted humbly……
There was little point trying to seduce Yvette now Anne had met her and vice versa.
Yvette was intrigued.That is rare ,for such an old man to have a mistress.
Is a wife not sufficient for you?
A wife is necessary but not sufficient,Stan teased her.
Well,my husband has no mistress, she said unknowingly, but I have several boyfriends.
How do you get the time?
I have a rota,she chuckled happily.
You seem an intriguing lady.May I have your email address,mobile number and your landline?
Your height and weight too..clothes size and shoes too.
Yes,it’s
My phone number is Oh,oh,6666666666666.7777777777777777………………..
That’s irrational,he informed her knowingly.
Have you got an i Pad,she then asked boldly.
No,I’ve not even got a Kindle..do you recommend them.Maybe you could come to ComputersRus with me on Saturday.
No, she said,I’m Jewish.
Are Jews not permitted to visit Computer shops..Some religious edict,is it? he said inquisitively.
It’s the Sabbath,you dimwit,she responded.We don’t shop on the Sabbath but don’t worry I’ll come on Monday with you..you are a charming man.I need as many as I can get.
Why are you deficient in some way?Stan whispered.
No,I’m very proficient and mildly conceited,she admitted modestly.
And I like a good kisser.Are you a good kisser?
Well,maybe you could give me a test,he said manfully and if need be you can give me some lessons followed by a total Examination to see if I satisfy you.
Just then Anne came in with fresh tea..
Emile mewed loudly.
What is it.Emile ? Stan asked.
I am jealous because we cats can’t kiss.
Well kissing is neither necessary nor sufficient in the art of love.Rolling about together in some soil is also very nice..
I hope you don’t expect your wife to roll about in soil,said Yvette questioningly..
Well,i can ask her,Stan said,but her main interest is topology and knitting.She is often very cold in bed…
Can’t you warm her into life;Or buy an electric blanket?
No,she’s hopeless because of a type of Asperger’s syndrome but I love her anyway.
Have you tried a new technique like whipping each other or tying yourself to the bedposts.You can buy handcuffs now in Boots,I hear.
Why some doctors prescribe them on the NHS nowadays
I thought Love was enough, Stan answered
It seems in the UK people are into whips and handcuffs…
Well,count me out,said Stan,I’m more into a careful yet tender study of the skin from the toes right up to to head,followed by gazing into her eyes for ten minutes.
Why ten minutes?asked Yvette.
I can’t wait any longer…
Well,you’ll have to practise..she said coyly.
I can practise with him,said Anne virtuously.
Yes,the more the better…he’s getting older so he can’t wait.
He needs satisfaction as son as possible.
The door bell rang,It was handsome Dave the paramedic.
Hi,he said,I was worried as you’ve not called 999 today.I brought a leash and some whips.
I’m Yvette,the woman said.
I’m bisexual,he told her.
That’s a strange name.
Never mind that,give me your email address and phone number
It’s ywoman@love4all.com,she said
or 09964321.3333333333333333333…..
If you’d like a non-rational phone number email me at hotcats@hell.com
Read more freely in the Daily Slur tomorrow….on sale everywhere and making life hell as fast as they
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Fauve
fauve
adjective FOHV
Definition
1 : of or relating to painters practicing fauvism
2 : vivid in color
Examples
“Fauve colors brought sizzle back to tableware, but could you really eat off a Rorschach of orange, black and pink?” — Julie V. Iovine, The New York Times Magazine, 14 Mar. 1993
“Three were landscapes…. The other was a later painting of Adele, pale and strained, standing in a big hat with her arms loose amid fauve colours of red, mauve and green.” — The Economist, 19 Feb. 2011
Did You Know?
When French art critic Louis Vauxcelles spotted a statue reminiscent of 15th-century Italian art in the midst of works by an avant-garde group of painters—principal among them Henri Matisse—at an exhibit in Paris in 1905, he verbalized his shock with the words “Donatello au milieu des fauves!” (“Donatello among the wild animals!”). His reaction was to the painters’ unconventional use of intensely vivid color and free treatment of form, and apparently his words weren’t far off the mark in describing their art: Matisse and company’s art movement became known as “Fauvism” and the artists flourishing in it, the “Fauves.” In 1967, the intense impact of their colors was still vibrant, inspiring one writer for Vogue to use fauve as an adjective to describe the colors of a “striking” flowered coat—and that use can still be found today vivifying colors.
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Fiction and reality
Seems like the ice is inside me
Air,bitter they call it,whispers to the sweet planes of my face,
Shrieks shrill to my cavities,ears,mouth and nose;penetrates all that’s open;
Probing like a surgeon’s knife,to see what healing damage it might do.
A frozen finger touches my heart;
Seems like the ice is inside me sending urgent warnings.
On that high inner mountain,you’ll feel nothing at all…
You’ll be the snowman, a bloody icicle;
An Old Testament of Endurance;
A legend like the pale polar bears, snuffling uneasily around the summit
Touching a woman’s heart is the quickest way to gain her attention
I’m looking at you;you’re in pieces.You’re a puzzle,a jigsaw with two double dynamos;
A broken racing bicycle crossed with two ice skates.
Ten motorboats crashed into a yacht and abandoned on a Swiss lake in winter.
Can I leave you scattered like this?
You’re a man in a penguin suit;
Diplomatic, attached with the coldest reserves.
You’re a spy from the court of the Vatican City
A screaming Pope;
An unbaptized demon.
A lost angel with no hands;
A half hung side of meat;
An unbroken rampant horse deluded by winds east.
We were split,one from another;
Split in ourselves too–thoughts and emotions
Are raw like meat,weeping as they are pulled apart into islands.
I see there’s a cold window between us.
I rub it with my damp coat sleeve,like children do,licking on it;
And see your eyes gleam in hope like greenish diamonds.
Yet I can’t touch you, until we learn how to melt glass.
Are you trying too as you smile weakly,
desperately holding onto this impossible slippery glass?
We’ll try to reach you at the bottom of whatever frozen ocean you sigh in. to
Here you are,a flat and two-dimensional Prospero.
You rise like a non-U-boat already firing at the upper orders.
Here you are walking through what seemed like ruins
And you are not just alive, but burning.
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Owl
My husband came from Durham so I was fascinated by this owl.One of his friends said he had some in a holly tree outside his bedroom window when he was a child
short-eared durham owl meditating over the dale's edge, shadows the fields and folds in elegant diurnal flight. on windside,careful sight, may swoop to prey and away. your yellow broad-eyed look, at once both sharp and distant, holds me. oh,silence, oh,wind on green, oh, earth, sky. immense your held vision; sphere without centre, pied geometer of flight, sketch your descent and ascent. trees bunched by dry stone wall call heart home.
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Turn the key
How a writer works
Is God turns their key
Then their eyes open
They say,I am me
How a writer writes
Is they move their hands
Words form sentences
The flame is fanned
The hand and the mind
Connect and words flow
The eyes look inwards
Where fertile winds blow
Land of images.
Starry skies and frost
Curious creatures
Unicorns long lost
A little white horse
O’Faolain saw.
I was riding it
I was filled with joy
I choose an image
Or it chooses me
Symbols are like wells
We dip and we see
Bring up the bucket
Let’s see what we caught
A starfish,a jewel,
No-one ever bought.
What is their story?
A starfish from sea.
Let’s move the jewel
Setting it free.
A child,a starfish;
A jewel ,a lady;
Lend me your ears
Come along with me
Children like to play
But ladies adorn
Themselves with treasure,
A man, child is born?
Are eyes not jewels,
Long hair not silk rain?
When the man appears
Their love is unfeigned.
A white horse will dance
The pale strand is mine
Sunlit sea turquoise
The earth is divine
I am their star-child
Love gave birth to me
I am their jewel
Watch me and you’ll see
How my heart speaks 