Solution to lack of hospital beds

Theresa May has ordered that all corridors in hospitals be relabelled as wards. and given names:
“Long thin dirty blue ward”
“Long yellow windowless ward”
Also toilets and cloakrooms.
A toilet is “An ensuite ward for one”
A bathroom is “a ward for people who like sleeping in water.”
Since a ward is  now anywhere with a trolley or bed  in it no logician can complain.And if it’s you there you’ll be too ill.You may  even be dead but as there is no nurse they don’t know.
It makes you think.

I sang to let him know that I was near

No-one should die on a trolley in a hospital corridor. We demand more funding to make our NHS safe for everyone who needs it.
38 degrees  appeal.

On his trolley happy and at peace
He  smiled then died within my glanceI
sang to let him know that I was near
In the hope my love would ease his fear.

Is it all right to die on a  trolley in the car park? Or in the bathroom?
It’s not the trolley,it’s the location.
When my husband was dying I was quite unaware of where we were which was fortunate because I did not realise my singing was entertaining or pacifying the entire A and E  department.I should have asked for money!
I sang psalms which usually I’d not recall the words of.Then I sang songs my dad sang to me….lullabies.Paul Robeson.Logically I had no idea he was dying but my actions and behaviour showed part of me knew.I find that odd.
I do feel very sorry that some folk die in a  corridor.They’ll probably begin calling the corridors wards soon.Then nobody can complain.

Can we choose the virtue, not the sin?

Do we choose what we perceive each hour?
Or are we automata clothed in skin,
Who see the thorns and then ignore the flower?

Can we, like grass, be grateful for a shower.
Or is our store of gratitude too thin?
Can we choose what we perceive each hour?

Can we choose to smile instead of cower?
Can we love the game played not to win?
Who  notes all  sharp thorns,  yet not the flower?
Do we choose to love or use  our power?
Can we choose the virtue, not the sin?
Do we choose what we perceive each hour?

As we struggle inside Babel’s tower
Ambivalence torture us within
Most will see the thorns  yet not the  flowers

With softened eyes, we see the whole sweet bower
If we draw near, we see what is now dim
Can we choose what we perceive each hour?
Who sees the sharp thorns  but not the flowers?

From the Guardian: In Guantamno Bay suicide is described as SIB – self-injurious behaviour, or “an act of asymmetrical warfare”.

Now that Trump has been elected leader of the nominally free world, democracy has jumped the shark. But absurdity is nothing new to Guantánamo – a place where peaceful hunger strikes (the last remaining form of protest for detainees) are renamed “non-religious fasts” and suicide is described as SIB – self-injurious behaviour, or “an act of asymmetrical warfare”. It’s a place where even books make the authorities uneasy – Crime and Punishment and Uncle Tom’s Cabin have been banned, along with Jack and the Beanstalk. Thankfully, Reprieve director Clive Stafford Smith is still allowed in – but his books are not (which he tells me is one of the few kindnesses the guards have shown to the prisoners).

Oh,Yale lock on my front door

Oh,Yale lock on my front door
Your ingenuity I adore.
You keep the thief from coming in
To steal the garbage from my bin.
To steal my husband’s radios
And other bits , I can’t say more.
I know we can have bolts as well.
Which came first, I dare not tell.
We had a Chubb ,I can now tell.
And a giant front doorbell.
It plays a dozen  different tunes
To frighten off that crescent moon.
So in my handbag I have keys
Asthma sprays for when I wheeze
GNT for heart attacks
And hankies in those dainty packs
Then , of course, I have my purse
Mobile phones which often curse.
I have lipstick, suncream,balm
A comb and toothpick  to add charm
So when I lock the big front door
I knee down to door

Poetic truth:Wordsworth


Wordsworth’s Views on Poetic Truth

Aristotle was the fist who declared poetic truth to be superior to historical truth. He called poetry the most philosophic of all writings. Wordsworth agrees with Aristotle in this matter. Poetry is given an exalted position by Wordsworth in such a way that it treats the particular as well as the universal. Its aim is universal truth. Poetry is true to nature. Wordsworth declares poetry to be the “image” or “man and nature”. A poet has to keep in mind that his end (objective) is to impart pleasure. He declares poetry will adjust itself to the new discoveries and inventions of science. It will create a new idiom for the communication of new thoughts. But the poet’s truth is such that sees into heart of things and enables others to see the same. Poetic truth ties all mankind with love and a sense of oneness.

What is truth?

noun: truth
  1. the quality or state of being true.
    “he had to accept the truth of her accusation”
    synonyms: veracity, truthfulness, verity, sincerity, candour, honesty, genuineness; More

    antonyms: dishonesty, falsity
    • that which is true or in accordance with fact or reality.
      noun: the truth
      “tell me the truth”
      synonyms: the fact of the matter, what actually/really happened, the case, so; More

      antonyms: lies, fiction
    • a fact or belief that is accepted as true.
      plural noun: truths
      “the emergence of scientific truths”
      synonyms: fact, verity, certainty, certitude; More

Old English trīewth, trēowth ‘faithfulness, constancy’ (see true, -th2).

Continue reading “What is truth?”

As sudden as the ending of a song.

Was this the apple then, your mother’s breast,
Which father thought was his to oft caress?
And when, in deprived rage, you bit to test
In return, he vowed to ever you harass.

At this, you learned that you could hate as well,
For punishment struck blows to your small heart.
Your memory, since wordless, could not  tell;
Though pain and anguish made your soft skin smart.

As unknown as the journey to your birth.
As shocking as the grief of unmeant wrong..
As frightening as the gauging of your worth
As sudden as the ending of a song.

Impossible to foretell or to prepare,
The dangers to our breaking hearts lie there

The world is not a womb and cannot be.

Oh, hands so painful, why do you test me?
I need to write so God must cure me here!
From the world of ills, I wish to flee.

I  feel I am a small boat on a sea.
infirmities  like mine hurt like a spear
Oh,  dainty-fingered hands, why test you me?

The world is not a womb and cannot be.
Within by good and ill we need to steer
Oh, hands so painful, why do you test me?

I hope to turn my face to better see.
Away from this built world where strangers leer
Oh hands, oh heart, oh God, no more test me

To join the club of pain there is no fee.
So for no one human is the price too dear
Oh, hands so painful,  how can suffering be?

We have no other life than this one here.
To see and hear and touch  we feel desire
Oh, hands so painful, why dear Lord, test me?
Yet from this world of ills, I ‘ll never flee,

Good’s no sin

Deceitful winter lets the sunshine in.
I smell the earth and see a  snowdrop lone
Yet what seems pleasant is, in truth, a sin.

In minute ways the lengthening  day begins.
The virtuous  hope   the true way  will be shown
Deceitful winter lets the sunshine in.

At least the darkness hid what is within
For we each bury  shadow under stone
Then what was pleasant turns to torment grim.

The  world is other, we  live on its skin.
With unfulfilled desires, we infant moan.
Deceitful winter lets the sunshine in.

We blame gods and men, for grace is thin.
Yet must we learn to trust the great unknown?
Then all that’s pleasant  feels no longer grim.

Perceptions change as we move  towards our home
Where all that’s wicked shall be overthown.
Deceitful winter let this sunshine in.
What seems bad is good, and good’s no sin.

The lifeboat

The life boat crew are safely home
They’ve brought the shipwrecked sailors too.
The storm has passed, the wind has dropped
The sea is swaying softly now.

Wrapped in soft night clothes, their offspring
Are all in world of dream still lost.
Their fathers’ safely home this time.
They save wrecked ships despite the cost.

Will any lifeboat crew be there
To help less blessed ones from despair,
And lives, too many , spent in care
No fathers and no mothers near?

The sea we certainly must fear,
But more we fear the acts of those
Who try to buy our minds and wills,
for votes in the election booths.

Oh hush my baby, go to sleep,
It is your mammy’s job to weep.
I wish I knew just what to do
To empower the lives of wains like you.

Sleep well, sleep well, my little child.
The sun will rise, the air is mild.
We’ll trust that when we all set sail
Our love and courage will not fail.

Oh,hush my sweet one, I am near.
The world’s too big for bairns to bear.
We’ll do much better this time round.
We’ll not let this boat run aground.

We must be incarnate


So much depends on mood and time of day

We interpret or mis-shape what we perceive.

The sun may shine to show a better way

Or absent that,  a transient cloud deceive.


No lowing herds wind down our oil fumed  roads.

Tranquillity at dusk has disappeared.

With artificial light the daytime mode’s

 Prolonged and reverie’s  feared.


To truly live we must be incarnate.

God himself  has paid this price alone.

For time misspent we do not get rebate.

As ,like the leaves in wind, away we’re blown.


To live  aright perception must be clear

Including in its breadth all that we fear.