Life is a film and love’s the bond.

I saw you look,I saw you stare
You liked the colour of my  hair.
I heard you speak,I felt  less bleak
Now I sit  near where you were.

I held your hand, on Southwold sands
Your hand was warm,who understands?
Your time was up,you won the lot.
I gave your grace to  those forgot.

I rode my bike,St Giles was dark
A car hit me  and I saw sparks.
You knew my name, we were the same
I saw real stars, when  shot by car.

I saw a hand turn in the sand
Life is a film and love’s the bond.
Your trust complete,I was your sweet
The end is here; it’s no defeat.

For life’s a tale we won’t bewail
You write along the  hidden trail.
Your narrative  can no more live
You  were yourself.,no more to give.

We knit the fabric  for the young
And with this gift our song is sung
The melody, sonorous be
For life is good and love is free

And yet I weep whilst I’m asleep
I wish to be with you so deep
Come back again,we’ll live the pain
We’ll weep till we  become the rain.

For fire burns and stomachs churn
We may not get what we have earned
Who is the judge,who keeps the ledge
Who will be when love’s  alleged?

There’s never a seed to mythologise.



It’s coarse for the loose to give a source for the slander.
There’s many a slip fixed up by  some lip.
One bore  is a bitch and one is a whore.
Many  a man saves sites  to lurk.
He was struck in the  balls,grim.
There’s never a seed to mythologise.
When women creak, men should falter.
What a pity our  arms and legs don’t unscrew  when  unneeded.
There is never a need for a double negative,not ever.
Many cliches are useful when life becomes a cliche.

Inside the vestibule and chapel at Eastbridge Hospital (c) Jane Risdon 2015

Wild as a scream

chimera_4063It’s so hard being a real lady,I feel I have tried my best
I bought myself new makeup, lipstick and a thermal vest
But I feel there’s something lacking, my deodorant does not work
I used to love  that pink Innoxa, now it’s Dove which I can’t shirk
First, we  have to do our faces,with abrasive wash to  clean those pores
When I took another Selfie,I knew that it would take ten hours
Then we have to soak our bodies in a bath of perfumed silk
As we drowse in lovely reverie, someone shouts, drat where’s the milk?
Surely that can’t be my husband for he never shouts at all
If he does he will regret it, God  knows I shall not play ball
When  I’m really clean and  perfumed,I  put on a brand new dress
When he sees me in the doorway, he calls, what a bloody mess.
What do you mean my darling angel, to whom are you shouting that
He said,it’s your  nylon wig,my sweetheart,it is just like Trump’s doormat.
Well,I never did my hair yet,I took so long getting  clean
He said,I prefer you dirty, and your hair wild as a  scream.
Well,I should have asked him,before I spent 500 pounds
I bought all that Boots can offer, and some more around the town.
So I’ll never  be a lady and he’ll never be a lord
I’ll wear makeup in the kitchen and grime  for love in bed.
I can’t waste my money ,I’ll wear Dove during the day
Then I’ll sweat with dark emotion when  my husband wants to play

How to be a writer

Painted My books and home 010


How to Be a Writer: 10 Tips from Rebecca Solnit


“Find a vocation. Talent is overrated, and it is usually conflated with nice style. Passion, vocation, vision, and dedication are rarer, and they will get you through the rough spots in your style when your style won’t give you a reason to get up in the morning and stare at the manuscript for the hundredth day in a row or even give you a compelling subject to write about. If you’re not passionate about writing and about the world and the things in it you’re writing about, then why are you writing? It starts with passion even before it starts with words. You want to read people who are wise, deep, wild, kind, committed, insightful, attentive; you want to be those people. I am all for style, but only in service of vision.”

My foundation’s cool vanilla


My foundation’s cool vanilla
And my lipstick is pink willow
I’ve been shopping autumn makeup in the store
I cannot wear mascara
In case it says,how are ye’ ?
In any case, I can’t see much any more.
So I have to get assistance
Despite my strong resistance
The assistant is examining all my pores.
Is your skin quite oily?
She questions me adroitly
Till my knees sag and I fall  down on the floor.
They shout,are you ok,dear?
I gather that the Lord’s here.
He has come to take me up to Heaven’s door.
I  won’t need Cool Vanilla
I’ll never look like Queen Camilla
But my  face will wear a smile from ear to  ear.
I shall die here in Cosmetics
I know I’m no ascetic
But with Sweet Jesus, I shall know no fear

What God endowed the owl with such excess

The owl can see with wide and narrow view
Focuses both poets and artists knew.
The broad sweep on the canvas makes a place
Where details and designs can have their space.

What God endowed the owl with such excess;
When all her progeny enjoy such bliss?
I think, where is the snake with frightening hiss?
What startling accident created this?

Eagles,hawks and owls must kill to eat.
No blandishments nor kindness make them sweet.
What God could make an Eden this deceit;
Where lambs are snatched up while their mothers bleat

So God himself destroys to fill his leisure;
Such fearsome revelations show his measure.