The Christmas Cake cut into infinitesmally small slices?

He fell in love with the cat: a short sweet story

Mary had made a Christmas cake with marzipan but no white icing.Stan was diabetic so she had opted for a middle way.Like some Zen Buddhists.You don’t either cut it completely nor have a 6-inch layer of icing.No, you find a middle way.Like 5 inches of icing!
Mary like almonds so she went for marzipan with her home ground almonds and some sugar.The raw egg part was worrying but so far nobody had died after eating her cakeStil,l if you are dying , enjoy the cake while you can!
Annie arrived for a cup of coffee.
Wow, that cake is large.You will get fat if you eat it
I am not planning to eat it all myself, Mary said merrily.
In fact, if I could find a way of cutting an infinitesimally small piece I could have on every day forever.
Would the cake not shrink ?asked Annie with a puzzled smile
No, because a real number times an infinitesimal is itself infinitesimal Mary answered.
So it must be zero, Annie decided.
No , said Mary.All of the  calculus is based on the idea that they are not zero.Then, at the end, we pretend they are zero and cross them out.It’s like magic or sleight of hand
I thought maths was logic, Annie said in an angry voice, tossing her purple hair over her shoulder.Alas it was a wig so it fell off and Emile bit it!
Gosh, Annie why are you wearing a wig? Mary asked.
I am involved with a Jewish man so he won’t make love unless I wear a wig.
Surely if he is  Orthodox he should not sleep with you unless you get married.
We can’t get married, Annie said boldly.
Why not?
He is already married….Annie muttered
Well, that seems wrong.
What, being married?
No having an affair.I know Stan is old.Can’t  you find a  single man?
Women can’t go running after men.Men enjoy the chase.They despise  women who run after them.
Well, can’t you ask them if they are married?
No, it seems too cheeky, Annie smiledAnyway in fuzzy logic you are not either married or single.You are  married to the extent  of some decimal number in between 0  and 1
Some folk are 0.999 married and some are 0.34 married.
But who measures it? God? It’s not much use.
You have to guess , said Annie.I like Jewish men
How many do you know, Mary asked.
Three said Annie triumphantly.
You can’t generalize from three, Mary said.
If I test a larger sample I shall never get to find one till I am 99, Annie wept.
Think of the fun, though, Mary said teasingly.And you’d have to travel a  lot as many live in the USA, France and other places including Israel.How do you fancy Bibi Netanyahu?
Annie was silent, then burst out: life is not science nor technology.It’s an art like watercolor painting.Why do you call him Bibi? Do you know him?
Not biblically, Mary said humorously.I’ve never even met him.He’s just   been in the News because of Trumpelstiltschein
Does Bibi know Donald is half German?
No, but the Queen is too.More than half,maybe.
Where does that take us logically?
Off to Boots to buy some expensive makeup and then to have a manicure and tea in a cafe
If only politicians did this life would be much easier and kinder/
And so say all of us!




In deep now, turn off that bright light


Autumn 2013 008IMG_20130820_072103 (2)

I’m in deep now,never been this deep before
The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door.
In so deep,the ocean has its own startled floor.
I’m down,down.down,never been so dark,so more

I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am
I think I had an accident,fell over,then I swam.
Sometimes it’s a loss, betimes it’s a man.
I guess I only do it 'cos I  want to know if I can.

I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain.
Would I choose to relive it,if I was born again?
The deep joy is the amazing gain.
But the sorrow is  damn sad,let’s admit it plain.

I’m in deep and it’s over my head.
What was I thinking of,when I fell  out of that bed?
I look up and  the sea’s so  turquoise like that mist is red
When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.

At first, it was all just black,black pain
But from the bottom of the  well,I looked up with awed love again.
That’s when I recalled,feelings are wise and sane.
Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep,deep zone.

I dunno if I’m  ever comin’ out.
We can’t control it,ain’t that what life’s all about?
I’ll never love with innocence again,nor not feel doubt.
But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.

I’m swimming and the ocean’s so mysteriously bright
Down here we don’t have no day nor no night
Fish nudge me with  big grins  and teeth white;
Sea flowers fondle me and whisper,turn off that light!

What does poetry do for us?

The novelist Richard Ford differed from the poets in his take: “The question ‘Why poetry?’ isn’t asking what makes poetry unique among art forms; poetry may indeed share its origins with other forms of privileged utterance. A somewhat more interesting question would be: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?” You can’t generalize very usefully about poetry; you can’t reduce its nature down to a kernel that underlies all its various incarnations. I guess my internal conversation suggests that if you can’t successfully answer the question of “Why poetry?,” can’t reduce it in the way I think you can’t, then maybe that’s the strongest evidence that poetry’s doing its job; it’s creating an essential need and then satisfying it.”



A man is at his tallest when he stoops to help a child
A Man of Words and Not of Deeds is Like a Garden Full of Weeds
A man that breaks his word bids other be false to him
A new broom sweeps clean, but the old brush knows all the corners
A nod is as good as a wink to a blind man
A person who can smile when things go wrong has found someone to blame it on

And on blue Cleveland Hills


Coats on the hall stand
Smelling of you;
Coats on the hall stand
Some are mine too.

Hats on the top hooks
Caps that you wore.
Now where you’ve gone
You will need them no more.

My hats will be puzzled,
Hanging there all alone
Now when I see yours
My heart feels like astone.

I found some of your shoes
All covered with green
Now they’re in the bin bag
No more to be seen.

I found half  your pyjamas
The rest are all gone.
I wonder where these hid,
Where’ve they come from?

Last night in my dreams
You were right by my side
We were cleaning the oven
With brillo and Tide.

But when I awakened
No glimpse did I see.
Except looking slantwise
Towards the red  maple tree,

Why did you leave me?
Why did you go?
I held your left hand
And fondled it so.

Come back to your loved one
Don’t leave me alone.
I don’t want to live
Just to hear myself groan.

Touch me with your fingers
Melt my poor, sad, lone heart
I let go of your hand~
Then the agony starts.

Up north in old Richmond
And on blue Cleveland Hills
I’ll remember your dear face
As my eyes with tears fill.

I will lift up mine eyes
To the hills where my strength
Comes down from the Heavens
Endless in length.

Stronger than granite,
Stronger than steel,
Stronger than silver
Is the love that I feel.

Stronger than iron;
Stronger than gold;
Stronger is my love,
For the one I once held.



I found your diary for 2015

I found your diary for 2015
In my heart, I wish you were  at home
When sinners thrive, why are you not alive?
I saved your photographs on Google Drive
I may print  one,; your smile should long survive,
Though in the clouds, you valiantly will roam.
You never answer when I  call your phone.
Come back, my lover, criticize my poems

A lender nor borrower be
A leopard cannot change its spots
A little of what you fancy does you good
A long way to go
A man comes from the dust and in the dust he will end – and in the meantime it is good to drink a sip of vodka
A man in love is a fool, and an old man in love is the greatest fool of all
A man is at his tallest when he stoops to help a child
A man is judged by his deeds, not by his words
A man is known by the company he keeps
A Man of Words and Not of Deeds is Like a Garden Full of Weeds
A man that breaks his word bids other be false to him
A man walks, God places the feet
A miss is as good as a mile
A miss is as good as a mr
A new broom sweeps clean
A new broom sweeps clean, but the old brush knows all the corners
A nod is as good as a wink to a blind man
A penny always turns up
A person who can smile when things go wrong has found someone to blame it on
A picture paints a thousand words
A place for everything and everything in its place
A positive pessimist is better than a negative optimist
A problem is a chance for you to do your best
A problem shared is a problem halved
A proverb is a true word
A proverb never lies, it is only its meaning which deceives
A quarrelsome wife is like a constant dripping on a rainy day
A reed before the wind lives on, while might oaks do fall
A rolling stone gathe

Ezra Pound’s advice


  1. to acknowledge the debt outright, or to try to conceal it. Don’t allow ‘influence’ to mean merely that you mop up the particular decorative vocabulary of some one or two poets whom you happen to admire. A Turkish war correspondent was recently caught red-handed babbling in his dispatches of ‘dove-grey’ hills, or else it was ‘pearl-pale’, I can not remember.
  2. Use either no ornament or good ornament.
  3. Let the candidate fill his mind with the finest cadences he can discover, preferably in a foreign language, so that the meaning of the words may be less likely to divert his attention from the movement; e.g. Saxon charms, Hebridean Folk Songs, the verse of Dante, and the lyrics of Shakespeare – if he can dissociate the vocabulary from the cadence. Let him dissect the lyrics of Goethe coldly into their component sound values, syllables long and short, stressed and unstressed, into vowels and consonants.
  4. It is not necessary that a poem should rely on its music, but if it does rely on its music that music must be such as will delight the expert.
  5. Let the neophyte know assonance and alliteration, rhyme immediate and delayed, simple and polyphonic, as a musician would expect to know harmony and counterpoint and all the minutiae of his craft. No time is too great to give to these matters or to any one of them, even if the artist seldom have need of them.
  6. Don’t imagine that a thing will ‘go’ in verse just because it’s too dull to go in prose.
  7. Don’t be ‘viewy’ – leave that to the writers of pretty little philosophic essays. Don’t be descriptive; remember that the painter can describe a landscape much better than you can, and that he has to know a deal more about it.
  8. When Shakespeare talks of the ‘Dawn in russet mantle clad’ he presents something which the painter does not present. There is in this line of his nothing that one can call description; he presents.
  9. Consider the way of the scientists rather than the way of an advertising agent for a new soap. The scientist does not expect to be acclaimed as a great scientist until he has discovered something. He begins by learning what has been discovered already. He goes from that point onward. He does not bank on being a charming fellow personally. He does not expect his friends to applaud the results of his freshman class work. Freshmen in poetry are unfortunately not confined to a definite and recognizable class room. They are ‘all over the shop’. Is it any wonder ‘the public is indifferent to poetry?’
  10. Don’t chop your stuff into separate iambs. Don’t make each line stop dead at the end and then begin every next line with a heave. Let the beginning of the next line catch the rise of the rhythm wave, unless you want a definite longish pause. In short, behave as a musician, a good musician, when dealing with that phase of your art which has exact parallels in music. The same laws govern, and you are bound by no others.
  11. Naturally, your rhythmic structure should not destroy the shape of your words, or their natural sound, or their meaning. It is improbable that, at the start, you will he able to get a rhythm-structure strong enough to affect them very much, though you may fall a victim to all sorts of false stopping due to line ends, and caesurae.
  12. The Musician can rely on pitch and the volume of the orchestra. You can not. The term harmony is misapplied in poetry; it refers to simultaneous sounds of different pitch. There is, however, in the best verse a sort of residue of sound which remains in the ear of the hearer and acts more or less as an organ-base.
  13. A rhyme must have in it some slight element of surprise if it is to give pleasure, it need not be bizarre or curious, but it must be well used if used at all.
  14. That part of your poetry which strikes upon the imaginative eye of the reader will lose nothing by translation into a foreign tongue; that which appeals to the ear can reach only those who take it in the original.
  15. Consider the definiteness of Dante’s presentation, as compared with Milton’s rhetoric. Read as much of Wordsworth as does not seem too unutterably dull. If you want the gist of the matter go to Sappho, Catullus, Villon, Heine when he is in the vein, Gautier when he is not too frigid; or, if you have not the tongues, seek out the leisurely Chaucer. Good prose will do you no harm, and there is good discipline to be had by trying to write it.
  16. Translation is likewise good training, if you find that your original matter ‘wobbles’ when you try to rewrite it. The meaning of the poem to be translated can not ‘wobble’……………