No woman

No woman ever can be what he dreams

Nor can they give comfort,not a  goad

Yet every night he plots and thinks and schemes.

And rarely does he ever go abroad.

No food he eats will satisfy his tongue.

The best wine is as naught to mother’s milk.

He grumbles and will not admit to wrong.

I‘ve known more men than him of this same ilk.

No bed can be the right one for his sleep.

No sheets and pillows suit his wary skin.

He often has made gentle maidens weep

Crying out they’re  too fat or boney thin.’

Beware the man who never can adapt

For in own lone wishes he is trapped

Red maple tree


I lie back in the weather-proofed green chair
To gaze up at the flowering maple tree.
Now, touched by sun,lungs full of scented air
I embrace with joy the beauty I now see.

Old celandine show brightly by my feet
Neglected currant bushes straggle round the path
There is no birdsong yet a silence sweet
Soothes my heart and quietens my wrath.

For my heart's sore and anguished is my mind
Yet in this little wood I feel deep calm.
My eyes are shadowed and my face is lined.
May this green spring bring me a gentle balm.

For even in depression and deep grief,
The mind makes healing medicine of a leaf.

We like the vaguely vogue

dracula-faces Surprise   them by  lying  real vague like a dead ghost
 A dread  like a  wolf’s toe nail hit me.Chiropody fee required.
 Shake the tiger by your wail and  you will be safe ,or play dead
 Slow longings make doubt rise
 If only balls could talk,we’d be nuts.
 The spout  was swilling  the kettle’s back on the fire
 Think outside the  frocks
Prick  your seeds daily
But at the dividends of the delay we’d be ok
 Plenty will fish   with no sea,some with no rod,pole or perch.
 Every god has  their decayed half life
 She  smoked like a   tea pot in a brandy store and boy,what pot!
She owed Leonard Cohen a  poem.Without knowing ,he was  morally inbred
Hell ,he eased her pain.His real name.Norman,morning

Ideas can be concealed

 I thought I'd write some poetry,
Though my thinking was too blind.
So I called into the Ideas Library
To see what I could find.

I looked through rows of new ideas
but none of them appealed,
I turned and tripped and banged my head,
where ideas can be concealed.

If you bang your head extremely hard
You really do see stars.
but don't do this to loosen thoughts,
It's the riskiest method by far 

I spent the night in hospital,
Awakened every hour
I was advised to watch my step
And avoid the Ideas Tower.

I wonder if there is a shop
Where ideas and dreams are sold?
For just a small expenditure,
Put your creative mind on hold.

But if you can't afford to pay
The library is still there.
Just look around and use your mind.
Ideas are everywhere.

The interaction of the world
With vision,thought and mind,
Produces many new ideas.
Those who seek shall find.Idea

The best villanelles of all time



One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop wrote a small handful of truly great poems such as “One Art,” “The Fish” and “The Armadillo,” and can probably be considered a major poet for those poems alone. “One Art” bends a few rules here and there, with good results, and manages to be both clever and moving at the same time: a considerable accomplishment.