Day: February 22, 2017

Are we not too old for pleasures rash?

‘She held me in her arms and caressed me
Though she is 87 . I am 93.
I  felt a warmth run down my outside leg
The dog had peed on me, though taught to beg.
There was nothing else to do but strip right off.
When she saw me nude  it made her  froth
Are we not too old  for pleasures rash?
Why do you not  get the loving crush?
Get into bed and caress my left knee
For it gives excess suffering unto me.
Why go to bed when you need physiotherapy?
I read  that  lesbians enjoy sex,so why not me?
Well do you wish  me  bite   your  outer ear?
No,I prefer the  love without the fear.
Why not hug and kiss and say  night prayers?
We can get to  sex by gentle layers.
No,we are too old we cannot wait
We might die and it will be too late!
Well,if I die there are some younger folk!
Ah,but they don’t talk the way you talk.
So why are we in bed  just to converse?
I just desired to  be me and perverse.
Well, let me rub your back with chilli cream
If it hurts your bum ,you’ll have to scream.
What will the doctor think if I’m all red?
Just tell her   this: a tiger shared your bed
But would a cat be able to apply
This chilli cream to me at its first try?
I guess  I’ll have to  do a Ph.D
Called, what the cats I love have done to me.
Do you think I am a masochist?
I fear I cannot answer till we’ve kissed!
And after that  my memory is quite blank
If I am not a virgin,I’m a crank.
To think I had to wait till 93
To know what my own sex could do  to me.

A mere mirage

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My  new-found hope may be a mere mirage;
Illusion of no help in my despair.
Yet imagination   stirs up needed courage
And helps the mind and heart in their repair.
I’ll dwell not in the mind’s relentless thoughts;
I’ll use my eyes and ears and skin
Then i that trap, I  never shall  be caught.
I’ll see  and hear to moderate this din.
In wider focus all will take their place
I’ll focus less on  this  wound I bear late
And see  both good and bad in every space.
So not dismiss the world and all its states.
Changing  vision show   us  truer measures.
Perception valued brings to us much treasure.

When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves

 

Of all the seasons, I love most the Fall
When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves
They love to  toast themselves in summer sun
And want no shelter from the Western wind.
While squirrels   hide their  nuts and batten down
For winter on this  European isle.

For  those who wish there is the Shopping Mall
Where they forget  thin nature now bereaved.
For children  playing ball is joy and fun,
With grazed  legs and knees forever skinned
Meanwhile the rich put on their evening gowns
And after dinner, dance  and woo a  while.

But many like myself  desire the call
Of  knotted hedge  and bent aslant old trees
Of damp long grass and hares wild on the hunt
For  winter   madness  makes all  beasts grow  thin
We in  old wool coats   will crouch and frown
In camera,  waiting with our hearts docile.

Yet,there is a threat in  hearing, Fall
As if our forebears could  have lived quite free
Unclothed and loving,   dreams  of human’   haunt
As if we could wind back the reel and  film again.
Knowing this impossible we’re drawn
To  fall ourselves and sleep  and never smile.

The world itself is dance,  it is a Ball
If we lose our thoughts  and merry be
Give ourselves what we most truly want
This world was made for us to span and scan
Every plant for you  and me is grown
And so we smile and smile on Europe’s  isle

Cafe menu

Cod rows on crust
Cod raised on toast
Salmon sand witches
Herring aid  chips
Fat beef  and moan.
Lamb chops home  groan.
Chicken. if you ask it!
Beef minces with harlots and turned hips
Toast lamb bundles with sweet potted toes;
Greasy pudding with meat spores and sprouts

Jelly sets
Free carnations  with milk
Figs in a blanket.
Busted tarts.
Lemon mice.
Yoga hurts,wide selection
Creme brew-lay.
Bavarian looms.
Jam and rubber sponge with dream
Ill bred and battered pudding with real raisins and bastard.

In the gusts of wind,all children dance

In the gusts of wind  small children dance
The leaves, though  brown,seem lively as they’re  blown
These ancient leaves seem merry as they prance.

Falling down  and bouncing , happy chance
It is an act more dangerous to the old
In the gusts of wind  our children dance

With  such leaves, a cat may find  romance
They tickle him in places far too bold
The long  dead leaves seem merry as they prance.

This cat and I  now share  sardonic glance.
His eyes are golden with a hint of cold
In the gusts of wind , all children dance

Though we don”t worship God, what is the chance
That love itself   descended from  that throne?
The lusty leaves seem merry as they mince

Here I stand ,by sadness  overthrown
Till some human calls to  take me  home
Yet in this  gale, the children can’t but dance
Dynamic leaves  show  passion and entrance

Jandy Nelson, The Sky Is Everywhere

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“grief is a house
where the chairs
have forgotten how to hold us
the mirrors how to reflect us
the walls how to contain us

grief is a house that disappears
each time someone knocks at the door
or rings the bell
a house that blows into the air
at the slightest gust
that buries itself deep in the ground
while everyone is sleeping

grief is a house where no one can protect you
where the younger sister
will grow older than the older one
where the doors
no longer let you in
or out”

The second coming by W B Yeats

 

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The sun flew

Yesterday the sun was fearsome gold
The sky of cerulean blue was   summer warm
Yet now I tremble in the dreaded cold

Where are those arms in which I  once was held;
Where the smile and where the loving balm?
Yesterday the sun was fierce with gold

Once, with  love I was made  kind yet bold
I rested on the strength within his arms
Yet now I tremble in the stealthy cold

My heart is crying. for  love now seems withheld.
And no protection shields me from dread harm
Yesterday the sun was warm and gold

With his body I once wished to meld
I gave myself to hold him  then so warm
Yet now I tremble in the stealthy cold

Grief can cause both tears and wild alarm
Yet music or the song of birds  is balm
Yesterday the sun  flew starred with gold
Yet now I clothe myself to live  with cold