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Order of Service
Welcome to the funeral party.
Ghosts please remain seated at all times.
Hymn 1 :Smoke makes angels cry.Allelulya
Hymn 2 Rabid with fleas, we drink wine and get tight
Hymn 3. Now the carnival is over.
Tribute by Doctor Woebegone. [15 minutes]
Hymn 4 Holy Souls, in heaven with doves
Hymn 5 Now is the hour when we must live or die
Hymn 6 Love is the strangest thing.Love is the ideal fling
Hymn 7 I wish all of you a fast goodbye.
Hymen 8 We love smoking flies.Bravo.
Hymn 9 Time to spray love bites.
Hymn 1o This is the flower of all we lived and tried
All donations disgracefully received
Day: December 17, 2016
For my sake turn again to life and smile by Mary Lee Hall
If I should die and leave you here a while,
be not like others sore undone,
who keep long vigil by the silent dust.
For my sake turn again to life and smile,
nerving thy heart and trembling hand to do
something to comfort other hearts than thine.
Complete these dear unfinished tasks of mine
and I perchance may therein comfort you
Long ago
She heard his crying
Palpitations
Made waves sing in his ears
Sea shells soft murmurs
This song so silent
Passed through walls and fences
She heard his crying
Outside the prison
She stood in her long rough coat
She trembled and shook
He felt her presence there
Her vibrations moved him
That was how they danced
She knowed his bones.
She fauxfilled him with finesse
She knowed his bones.
She crenallated with him
She willed him with mindlessness.
She grades his rates for the witch where the going ones go to
She killed rats with her sulks.
She loved Jim like no other man on earth could.
She left him in her will.A bit later she died.
She had hated wrath all day
She took his lair off him
She was only his life
Oh, pass my wife.
Adults used sex toys to defeat armed robbers!
The Social Contract is crumbling away
The Social Contract is crumbling away
A little or lot every day
Without full consent
Great Britain is rent
Into fragments in all shades of grey.
Governments may appear to be strong
That kind of thinking is wrong
Without social desire
They cannot aspire
To make us all feel we belong
Families fight over meals
And anguish becomes unconcealed
The sacramental table
Is being disabled
The social contract must be quickly re-sealed
Now we see the same sin everywhere
Trump rides on the beast of despair
We were told to love strangers
By one born in a manger
If he is here now,then nobody cares
I’ll tell them to buy superglue.
My doctor likes reading old books
About wild men who can kill with a look
But he is quite kind
Though a little undermined
By being governed by robbers and crooks
Yet there are some decent folk too
Who mend Britain with U and HU
That is not strong enough
The cracks are extremely tough.
I’ll tell them to buy superglue.
An unusual version of Joan of Arc
Handwriting or typing, which is better for poets?
https://www.theguardian.com/science/2014/dec/16/cognitive-benefits-handwriting-decline-typing
“It’s not just a question of writing a letter: it also involves drawing, acquiring a sense of harmony and balance, with rounded forms,” Jouvent asserts. “There is an element of dancing when we write, a melody in the message, which adds emotion to the text. After all that’s why emoticons were invented, to restore a little emotion to text messages.”
Writing has always been seen as expressing our personality. In his books the historian Philippe Artières explained how doctors and detectives, in the late 19th and early 20th century, found signs of deviance among lunatics and delinquents, simply by examining the way they formed their letters. “With handwriting we come closer to the intimacy of the author,” Jouvent explains. “That’s why we are more powerfully moved by the manuscript of a poem by Verlaine than by the same work simply printed in a book. Each person’s hand is different: the gesture is charged with emotion, lending it a special charm.”
OCR online
Do not speak of empathy to me
In my warm nest I lie with morning angst
I have no wish to rise up from my bed
Slowly turn the wheels of mind unthanked
Lady Lazarus no,forI am not yet dead.
I see an image of my husband dear
His face was black while he sat on the chair
He fell onto my bosom in despair
The suffering of the old is far from rare.
Inside a rehab centre they placed him
A dying man was sent to exercise
Pneumonia and his heart made this a sin
They sentenced him to death with their cold eyes
None so blind as those who will not see
Do not speak of empathy to me
Why should we write in form?
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/articles/detail/89288

“Perhaps some of this opposition stems from a common misconception. Unlike other arts—and perhaps even other forms of writing—readers and writers alike often associate poetry with feeling, not technique. Part of this may stem from a misunderstanding of William Wordsworth’s famous definition of poetry, in which he begins, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. …” His wording encourages a reading in which poetry simply occurs and does so uncontrollably. If this is the part of the quotation that sticks with you, it’s no surprise that you might associate poetry more with emotional intensity and less with the how of its conveyance. But in the second half of that quotation, Wordsworth tempers his original statement: “… it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Those unexpected and powerful feelings are actually being observed at a calming distance from that emotion.
More important, Wordsworth’s statement doesn’t acknowledge the structure that serves as a scaffolding for those feelings, a framework that makes a poem more than just cathartic release. It doesn’t acknowledge form. Why would it? For Wordsworth and his contemporaries 200 years ago, form was assumed. If a poem didn’t rhyme, readers could be sure it employed some sort of metrical scheme.
Associating poetry with feeling can seem very egalitarian because everyone has feelings. Although that’s true, not everyone is a poet, and the message of this model of art is actually exclusionary: it doesn’t offer an aspirant poet a pragmatic path forward because it hides the real work behind the scenes. What is an aspiring poet supposed to do in this model—feel harder?
I want to clarify that some of the best poets have qualities that can’t be practiced. It’s that ill-defined, hard-to-put-your-finger-on something that separates merely technically proficient writing from the work we call genius. Whether we have that spark is out of our hands, but we can have all the inspiration in the world, and it won’t matter if we can’t express it well. Setting aside romantic notions of poetry and dealing with the nitty-gritty of technique gives all of us the ability to improve our poetry. We all, with practice, might move others to feel something that we have felt or to see the world as we do. If we’ve got that spark, technique gives us a way to share it. For my money—mind you, I am a poet, so that’s not much—writing in form is one of the best ways for poets to practice technique.
How to use quotes in your writing [and more advice]

Q – Quotations. Using the words of an expert, a thought leader or simply someone that isn’t you is a great way to build credibility and interest into your writing. Check out these ten expert tips for using quotations.
R – Read. Everyone who has ever given advice about better writing has said to read, and with good reason. Study more, struggle less.
S – Story. “We are creatures of story, and the process of changing one mind or the whole world must begin with “Once upon a time.”” – Jonathan Gottschall. People are enthralled and persuaded by stories. Even if you are writing a blog post or a case study, delve deeper and find the story. Think about emotional engagement, suspense and resolution.
T – Talk to people. Whether you are conducting a journalistic interview, or just down the pub with your friends, everything you hear forms part of what you write. Engage with people in the real world, listen to their ideas and be open to suggestions. You have to collate ideas, not just dispense them.
A-Z of better writing
To the tapping bird
A bird taps on this window every day,
Frail as flying leaves are in a gale.
But now he perches on the potted bay.
He feels the weather like the blind do braille.
This bird is faithful and I hold him dear.
He’s fearless as he pecks upon the glass.
We hope he has a modicum of fear,
For who knows when a sparrow hawk will pass?
I see him like a human soul forlorn
Struggling to discern his fateful way.
For soon he may be taken by a storm
But blithely he will eat, and after play.
The smallest bird has trust in the Unknown
By his example, our own way is sho



