Your absence has so distanced us in grief.


I try to feel through dark and distant space
To where you dwell in a so called “heavenly” place.
And you are far from those of us, who care.
Our hearts are dulled with loving thoughts not shared
Your absence has so distanced us in grief.
We can neither share our loss, nor gain relief.
I stare into the spangled sky at night
I see a space  devoid of  any light.
I feel into the edges of my soul
I sense,somewhere, a partially dismembered whole.
Would new technology ever aid my view,
As I search around for some tiny trace of you?
How can  you choose to svanish in the night,
And never ,from then on, be in my sight?
I wish that I’d been there when you went off,
Then I could have  told you how I love.d
Shall I never hear again your gentle tenor voice
Enchanting me once more with your  sweet choice?
Shall I never  find the laces from your shoes,
Floating gently back to earth through these  elm trees?
I see more flocks of gracious geese flash by.
Are those your fingers tracing lines right through the sky?
Can you  see these same  geese from up above?
But you’re on the other side, too far  away
I look at all that’s near,as I’m still here.
I know now you’re too far away ,too far away, too far away ,my dear.
I know now that you’re too far away,oh dear.
How can I learn to live with love, not with fear,
As I go on ,now, down these coming  empty years?
So sad that you’re not near,not here,not here,my dear,my dear.
Shall I sometimes, in the night pretend,pretend,pretend,pretend,pretend,pretend  you  are
Oh,that heaven were not  so agonisingly .so wickedly too  far
So we  slide down the escape chute of the years,
Like children clutching close our teddy bears?
And we cross the ghost filled plains of  ancient wars
Which cover most of Europe with their scars.
How can I compare  my losing one I love
When screaming poppies  haunt  below , above?
When bones  of Jews tortured  to their  ground
Make the guilt of  Europe ever,ever  bind
When gypsies ,gays and  women big with child
Died unimagined deaths in a Europe  so defiled

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

W. Wordsworth
CCLXXXVII. Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
            To me did seem
        Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.          5
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
        Turn wheresoe’er I may,
            By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

I hear you brawling now at home


I fear you calling me back home
I hear you brawling now at home
I hear you calling from the foam
I feel blue crawling drunk at home
I hear you polished all the chrome
Oh,dear,he’s  been struck by  googled stones.
King Lear might fall for our new  home.
I hear you call Macbeth in’t gloam.
My gear’s not suited to their home.
I leered at all the men in Rome
I sneered at all his orphaned gnomes
A spear  would feel   unlike my phone

Stan makes the tea

Stan was cooking  tea that day,
While his wife went out to play.
He cooked a pie of frogs and cress,
He wanted  Mary to impress.
Stan was wearing his old clothes.
Where old clothes come from,no-one knows.
He meant to change when he was done,
So  they could have some fun.
But Anne his  mistress rang the bell,
Stan was so surprised he fell.
He hit his head upon the stove,
And his poor scalp turned blue and mauve.
Ring 999 and ask for Dave,
This man is old yet must be saved
The paramedic gave him glue
To stick together his old shoe.
Then he rubbed on arnica..
The head,oh horror, Guernica.
“Get the camera,take a pic.”
Stan was feeling rather sick.
“How can you use my wounds as art?
Rest assured I’ll take no part.”
He hit the camera with his stick,
And felled his mistress with a brick.
So now they’re in a mixed sex ward,
This experience can be shared.
They get their food at 3 am
Half for the ladies,half for the men.
The doctor asked them what went wrong.
Both of them had lost their tongues.
Neither  said what they had done!
Now their anger is all gone.
The moral of my myth is this:
Being unfaithful is not bliss.
Mistresses can be a pain,
Especially if they’re very vain.
And better not to look for love,
Except with cats or sweet white doves.
Let your neighbour love you less!
And don’t make comments on her dress.
As for voyeurs,keep a crutch.
Hit them hard, but not too much.
If they want a work of Art,
Tell them home is where to start.
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