Month: February 2017

The red sun rising burns each day in fire

The red sun rising burns  this  day with fire
The terrible,  so strong it   burn  the sea
It torments   human fuses  s on  that wire

What would be  of service in a pyre?
Bring your wood, I am a witch,no plea.
The red sun rising burns  this  day in fire

I tell the truth as much as I aspire
Inconstant to my  feelings I shall be
I feel tormented ,fried by copper wires

The brightness of the sun hits at desire.
I long to feel   great loving arms  snatch me
The red sun rising burns  each day in fire

Read as  message from a  new Messiah
Or prophet in the wilds of history.
I feel afraid   for who plugs in   the wires?

What will come,a slouching beast  we see.
From Bethlehem he  slithers as  we flee
The red sun rising lights this   world in fire
Now, every day ,we’re scorched by funeral pyres.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Again it’s winter in the Natural World

 

Again it’s winter in the Natural World

I saw the snow  fall as  cold clouds unfurled

I like the feeling of  this winter rest

 Though most prefer the heat and summer zest

 

I   like to see the sun like a red ball

On the horizon after  blackbirds call

It tells me  we are animals, we’re flesh

In the  whole of nature we’re enmeshed

 

For now with  artificial light and mobile  phones

We can ignore both  nature  and time zones;

Forget that  we  must communicate  wordless

By touch and sight and feeling, in our flesh.

 

The red sun rising burns   this  day in fire

I stare  now avid with my whole desire.

 

 

 

What he meant was quantity is not what we desire

 

8282959_f520I used to love my mother
but then I got too old.
She didn’t want to feed me
Because I felt the cold.
My feet and hands were purple
which she told me was wrong.
I couldn’t change the colour
so had to change my tongue.
I used to love my father
Until he went away.
They said he’s with the angels
and small girls ought to pray.
And then I loved the cat we had
And all four kittens too…
Until my mother got fed up
and sent them to the zoo.
I said I am disheartened
Life is far too hard…
or else I’m hypersensitive
and must become a bard.
I loved a Spanish waiter.
A young man from Peru.
I loved a lot of others–
No more than ninety two.
That is just an estimate
An average, a norm.
It’s what I told the doctor

When he filled out a form

He said to me,You err,my dear
And I mistook his speech
I thought he meant he loved me.
But he just meant to teach.
What he meant was quantity
is not what we desire..
One man is sufficient
Unless he  sets on fire
And in the darkness of the bed
What matters is their smell.
Some men smell like honey..
much more I cannot tell
for though these men pursued me
I had such poor eyesight
I didn’t  see them properly
especially at night..
I was more keen on Wittgenstein.
and whether I am real..
Maybe I’ve gone crackers

And don’t know  I’m surreal

I don’t want any lovers now
for love brought so much pain
I’d rather be a jellied eel
than fall in love again.
But friendliness and welcome
Are what we humans need…
And cats and dogs and willow trees
Which don’t make our hearts bleed.
One man is sufficient
And necessary too..
Without my own sweet husband
whatever will  I do?
He listened with his heart and soul
And he was never harsh…
He liked to hear me singing
Across of Southwold Marsh.
He liked to take the ferry boat
Across the River Blythe.
But now I hope the ferryman
will not  for me arrive..
We have to cross that river
We have to let life go…
We have to be untied and freed.
We think,but do we know?
In the silvery moonlight,
Time gets her own  way
In the darkness of the night
Time will have her say.
Time has come and gone again
And so the hand descends
So I bid you fond farewell,
We have reached the end.
Oh,wrap me up, dear mother
in my winding cloth
Take me in your ancient arms
for I have had enough.
I’ve loved and loved and loved again.
I’ve puzzled and I’ve pained
but all I want’s a writing tool
To write down words again

Limericks with voice typing

 

I once had a doctor call  Jones

he’s stole all my money for loans

he gave to the poor

then he gave them some more

for the pity that he could not  endure

then I had a  doctor called Brown

he lived near the centre of town

but the rent was so high

it made his wife cry

and it almost got Dr Brown down

not all  our doctors are men

some of them are female,  d’ye ken?

I prefer women myself

to look after my health

 but I shall take a man  too as and when

I am cooking my dinner right now

I have to boil a pudding  somehow

I have done it before

but I can’t  remember no more

so I’ll leave you  and love you ,I vow

Stan polishes the step

 

Stan was outside polishing the brass doorstep.”My, these microfibre cloths are wonderful” he thought.Mary was out taking a load of stuff to the Oxfam Shop.Suddenly he heard a loud cry., then he felt a pair of hands fondling the top of his bald head.
”Eeh, no rest for the wicked, even at 81,” he screamed.He staggered to his feet and rubbed his knees.”Just give me a hand” , he said,”‘l have to stretch my hamstrings.They tighten up so.”
“I’ll stretch them for you!” Annie whispered roguishly.Stan leant forward to touch his toes and she could not resist the temptation to give his bottom a hearty slap.
”For Pete’s sake, Annie” he shouted faintly.”Someone might see that.
””Don’t worry , there’s no-one around at this time of the day” she tittered.
“Oh, yes there is!”
It was Dave, the paramedic.He had been lying behind the wheelie bins, all three of them standing plaintively in the tiny front garden.
”I’m an MI5 spy, and I’ve been reading your blog, Mr Brown.”
“I’m not called Brown” , said Stan nerdishly.
”Refuses to accept reality, “Dave wrote in his little notepad with some blood he had taken from himself earlier,
”Jesus Christ!”, said Stan.
”Now , now, ” said Dave,”that’s not your name,
”No my name is Tan, not Brown, you’ve been reading the wrong blog!” “Stan Tan!”
Dave appeared crestfallen,
” Any chairs need mending today?”
“My what beautiful ears you have ,sweetheart,” he said to Annie,
“They look like sea shells.”
“Your eyes are like shallow pools in Lake Windermere during a thunderstorm.”Annie replied womanfully.”Are you still a transvestite?” she faltered incoherently.
“No, I had a mystical experience and now I’m a Zen Buddhist”
“How did that happen? ” demanded Stan querulously.
“Well, I was knitting myself a Shetland lace sweater in pale blue mohair, and I suddenly had the feeling that everything was interwoven.Going forward or backwards, sideways or straight ahead, it is all part of the warp and weft of life.”” Mistakes don’t matter” he continued idly.
”Oh,yes,they do,”Annie said pouting her full lips., coated in cherry pink lipstick by courtesy of L’oreal of Paris and New York,lip balm by Yves St Laurent, peach foundation by Lancome also of Paris,toning smokey grey mascara by Max Factor,handbag Annie’s own,deep burgundy 70 denier tights by M&S, Grey pointed ballet slippers by Bally of Switzerland.[also available in black, red and teal].Raspberry lingerie by M&S.
“As I was saying..,”
Dave dived back behind the wheelie bin.
Stan polished the brass and Annie disappeared in a puff of smoke.
It was Mary’s famous imitation of a bicycle bell that had alerted them to her imminent return from the Oxfam shop.
“Don’t they make bike bells anymore?” Dave boringly wondered as he carried on reading the new life of Emily Dickinson
“A loaded gun.”
He thought it was an army training manual but, hey, mistakes don’t matter! Or do they? Read more at your

Mary’s skirt

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As Mary walked down the stairs on  Friday she felt her beautiful  skirt of many colours  slipping off her body and almost reaching the floor. Mary wondered if she had been losing weight but she could not see any difference when she looked into the mirror Maybe it has stretched at the waist .I hope it won’t fall off when I am walking down the street, said  Mary,  especially when I’m in the town
What are you doing ,mewed Emile her little black cat?
I’m not doing anything,she replied .I’m just trying to walk down the stairs and my skirt is slipping
Pull it up said Emile an unkind  tone.

The cat is watching you
She replied tactfully,yes I will when I get to the bottom of the stairs but before Mary. got to the bottom her skirt  fallen off completely and she was only wearing a brown silk petticoats and a pair of teal coloured tights.
You  look nice Emile said. Maybe you don’t need to wear a skirt you  can wear  a  petticoat instead,
Thank you very much ,said Mary but the weather is very cold and a silk petticoat is not warm enough for going into the town although I suppose I could put a very warm long coat over the top. Suppose I went into a restaurant and felt too hot then I would have to take off my coat and then everybody would see my petticoat.
Life is made up of Conundrums like this and the secret is not to start thinking this way in the first place;once you do this is very hard to stop.
Some of Mary’s friends say to her. Are you sleeping alright or how are you sleeping?
Mary never answers because  she knows that if you start  thinking about that this a lot it’s not good for you as you can spend all day worrying about whether you are going to be able to sleep that night.
We have no control over our sleep, she pondered , but we can’t afford ruminating  as it causes mental illness according to some scientists and doctors. Rumination cuts people off from the world as they are always looking inside themselves.
Similarly being a perfectionist is very bad for you because again you’re not thinking about the work that you’re producing and  enjoying it you are always wondering is this good enough or shall I start again oh I am so stupid etc
It is possible ,Mary has found,  to control what you allow yourself to think about.You can cut you thought off before it gets going.
Anything that makes you keep thinking about yourself all the time will create a wall around you and other people can detect this wall; it makes them avoid you.
In general, we should have a few  walls as possible both internal and external
Just then the doorbell rang. it was  Annie the ex-mistress of Mary ‘s husband Stan.
Hello she cried, how do you like my new coat
Don’t tell me you’ve got another one ,Mary  sighed
 I didn’t buy it Annie  murmured. That  sweet lady who lives opposite told me that she has put on a lot of weight and she can’t wear this  anymore ; she asked me if I would like it
But you have already got about 20  Mary said, but I like this one .It’s a lovely colour; is it what we call teal or is it Kingfisher Blue?
I don’t know  but it seems to match  my other clothes and and you know I do like a change.You prefer just to have one coat and wear it all the time, unless you are going out to your special functions, hen you might wear your  best coat ,which is the brown one isn’t it which Stan used to liket because he said it hung well
Yes he did like that very much and I was wearing it only yesterday as it is very warm. I would like to have more clothes like you do but I seem to be too busy to go shopping
Annie gazed  up with  her large round eyes   upon which she was wearing turquoise  and magenta eyeshadow and bright  blue mascara which clashed with her purple lipstick from East Saint Lawless.
That purple lipstick  does not match your coat nor your eyeshadow Mary told her
Well I think that a perfect costume puts men off .So it’s better to do something wrong and anyway a lot of men are colour blind so they won’t know that it’s the wrong shade of lipstick. I think that coral would look better and I shall buy some next time I go into the term because teal and coral look very nice together .Purple is good with blues
Actually, Mary said ,purple make  you look as  if you’ve got heart disease or anaemia.
Thanks a lot , shouted Annie. What kind of friend are you
I am an honest friend ,Mary replied  in  a warm voice.I think that I don’t often say things which distress you but sometimes knowing that you would like to meet another man I  feel impelled to give you my point of view.
That’s very kind of you said Annie but I think now I am too old to find a man who wants a mistress because a younger man could get a younger mistress and an older man maybe past bothering about mistresses and love and such things.And where can I find one,anyway.
I don’t agree, said Mary I think if you look very nice   a man may be very proud to take you out and have you hanging from his arm like a trophy even if he is not able to proceed  very far  with bodily love. After all ,everybody likes someone to talk to and  some companionship ;someone to help them out when they are feeling unwell
As long as that is it is mutual I don’t see anything wrong with it.
The two women stared out of the window and saw a wood pigeon on the shed.Maybe it’s better to be a bird,Mary thought aimlessly before she put  on the kettle for a lovley cup of tea and some chocoate fingers
Tea is the best drink in the afternoon.
And so say all of us.

Peaceful revolution and women’s lives

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-JUnV5ZuRE

 

 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/riane-eisler/empeaceful-revolutionem_b_108158.html

 

“But it’s also terrible for the political and family health of our entire nation.

Let’s start with politics. For both the mullahs in Iran and the rightist-fundamentalist alliance in the United States, “getting women back into their traditional place” in a “traditional family” has been a top priority. There’s a basic reason for this. Rigidly male-dominated societies are also authoritarian and violent. Along with the imposition of a brutal dictatorship by the Nazis, their mantra was returning women to their “traditional” roles in a male-dominated family. Nor is it coincidental that the 9-11 terrorists came from cultures where women are terrorized into submission. Or that regressive fundamentalists in the United States (who also believe in top-down rule and “holy wars”) first organized as a powerful political block around a “women’s issue”: the defeat during the 1970s of the proposed Equal Rights Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

By contrast, in Nordic nations such as Sweden, Norway, and Finland, the move toward gender equity (for example, women are 40 percent of national legislators and are frequently heads of state) has gone along with more political and economic democracy. Not only that – and this takes us to how “women’s issues” are also key family issues – as the status of women rose so also did funding for activities stereotypically associated with women. These nations have far less stressed families because they support child care, health care, paid parental leave, and other family-friendly policies.”

Computer woes

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I have lost the charger for my laptop.I have another one but the head is larger.Should I bore a bigger hole into the side of my laptop?What with?

Why are all the chargers different sizes?

Some  software I downloaded won’t let me type cr*p.That’s why I can’t post much
I feel p*ssed off.Still it doesn’t know what feck means in Irish!

My boyfriend stole my other laptop and sold it to buy food.Is this a sin?He did share the food but why won’t he get a job and earn a wage?He is 98 but if he really tried he could find some kind of work like feeding ducks or taming wild cats.

Can I download the Internet  onto an external  hard drive and then hide it to stop Trump Tweeting?Where is it and why?

Hear the sacred earth,its symphony.

If our  winters never had an end
And flowers no longer bloomed in ecstasy
Into hell my soul would then descend

In these harsh winds the little branches  bend
Birds hide in  trees ,deep where we cannot see
Into blackness my soul would descend

So gone would be the  sunflowers which we tend
Gone would be the person we call  me
If frosty winter never had an end

We would mourn and our own garments rend
To fantasy  we  might  all  blindly flee
Into shade our souls   would descend.

We mus confess our sins and make amends
And reconciled with fellow humans be
For   eternal winter , we have made no plans

Hear the sacred earth,its symphony.
Music, art and spirit all agree
If fierce  winter  calls us to attend
In acknowledging   our  errors, we  ascend.

 

 

 

 

The projection of love

narcissus2017-2

When I saw you waiting in that cafe
I knew you would be mine.
You were handsome, smiling,funny..you were specially designed.
You looked like men I’d only dreamed about in all those years before.
I’m so broke up,so broke up;you don’t love me anymore.

I saw you on the station as I came from out the train.
You wore an old green parka to protect you from the rain.
I wanted to be one with you,to make our Love entire;
But What you did was give me pain too bad be endured.

You walked away so quickly,I could not see you long.
I wish I had a big guitar to draw you back with song.
I looked at where you disappeared;what loss has love revealed?
I wish I could  lay down right here and keep my face concealed.

Railway stations sadden me,for I know we’ll never meet .
I won’t cry more,for tears are falling straight down in a  sheet
I walk fast looking straight ahead, past that entrance gate.
I pretend that you have missed your train,that work is running late.

I count from one and one up to a thousand and then more–
But I know for sure it's far too late; you have closed that heavy door.
You are hiding in a dungeon
You are covered with white steel
But I know you had a heart and you must surely feel.

I lost all my illusions, and then I lost some more.
I wish I could lay down and die,right here on this floor

And as the cocks and chickens try to bleat

Did I say my heart is up the spout
And tea is sitting hotly in the tap
The kettle is complaining I’m a lout
And with its metal hand gives me a rap.

 

Did I say my bed has got no sheets
For I have published them in my new book
And as the cocks and chickens try to bleat
I buy a dress and  hey, it’s my new look

Did I say the cat will not go out
For he is never in, you see my joke
For logic is as stupid as no doubt
And torments  in its ice the evil folk.

Words are signals  telling us  we’re light
And so we float away into the night

What is truth, anyway?

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Where I knit so I can see birds in the trees outside the window opposite

 

“I knit quite slowly,saying no to haste.
I worship with my truth and am not cowed.”

In this poem  which is the  previous post, my truth means that I learned while knitting Shetland lace that  going backwards to fix mistakes is just as valuable as going forward all the time.I had a vision of the world being made by this backward and forward movement.That if we cannot permit ourselves to make mistakes and then correct them we will never get anywhere in living with others or in creating.
When I was teaching I used to do tough problems without preparing them so  students could see me thinking.They liked that

Knitting

I knit the rhythmic pattern of my day,
the complex stitches make me sure to err
and yet I have no fear for on this way
I knit or unknit with due calm and care.

With warp and weft both in their rightful place
with right and wrong accepted and allowed
I knit quite slowly,saying no to haste.
I worship with my truth and am not cowed.

As I go back to fix a stitch not right,
No longer do I castigate myself..
For in a flash I saw as  in real  light
That to and fro are both a part of health.

For now I know we all at times must fail
Such is the truth of our life’s measured tale

Fascism: I sometimes fear…by Michael Rosen

photo0112

http://michaelrosenblog.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/fascism-i-sometimes-fear.html

I sometimes fear that

people think that fascism arrives in fancy dress
worn by grotesques and monsters
as played out in endless re-runs of the Nazis.
Fascism arrives as your friend.
It will restore your honour,
make you feel proud,
protect your house,
give you a job,
clean up the neighbourhood,
remind you of how great you once were,
clear out the venal and the corrupt,
remove anything you feel is unlike you…
It doesn’t walk in saying,
“Our programme means militias, mass imprisonments, transportations, war and persecution.”

I shall milk the cow

My right hand is painful today

  I can’t join my hands up to pray

But rest assured now

I shall milk  the cow

That we bought yesterday on eBay

 

This voice  typing is  good on the whole

 I may even achieve my True goal

If I knew what that was

I tell you because

It may involve me going up  the  pole,

 

Owing to the arthritis which  afflicts me

I must mention it also restricts  me

I cannot walk far

And I have no car

Thank the Lord I can still see/wee/make the  tea/be

 

I sing of colour

Self help is a disaster says professor

 

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http://sciencenordic.com/get-better-life-say-no

 

Professor mimics self-help books

Brinkmann has chosen a rather unconventional way of presenting his points. He has written a book that resembles the self-help books he is criticising.

“It’s a self-help book with a humorous twist — you might call it a self-help book against self-help books. I wrote it like that to generate debate.”

In the best self-help book writing style Brinkmanns book has a seven step structure:

The Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius was one source of inspiration for Brinkmann’s criticism of the self-help and coaching wave. He was a Stoic and made a virtue of standing firmly as to who he was as a person (Photo: Jean-Pol GRANDMONT).

1. Stop soul-searching: From medical science we know that the more we try to feel, the worse we feel. The more we focus on our own health, the less well we feel. This is known as the ‘paradox of health’.

2. Focus on the negative aspects of your life: You have to acknowledge that you will gradually feel worse and worse and finally one day die.  If you bear that in mind every day you will value life more highly than if you spend your time constantly searching for something positive to focus on.

3. Say no: As an adult you have to be able to say no in order to maintain personal integrity.

4. Repress your emotions: It is a common psychological assumption that you become neurotic if you do not express your emotions. However, research is unable to confirm this. Physical illness cannot generally be provoked by repressing one’s emotions. There is, however, evidence that men face a slightly smaller risk of getting cancer if they do express their emotions. The reverse is true for women, but this is trifle

Far better to make friends with voices all

Oh tin bath dear I hold you very  dear
As by a hot coal fire, I wash my ear
Where Mum has got the water, I don’t know
As in the suds I sing  , I love you so.

For in the bath, our forebears also sang
As in the woods they lived with no broadband.
And after many years they  understood
They could talk   outside the bath of dirty mud.

It did not seem like dirt to  people then
As they were often travellers   with the pen
Cleanliness it relative, you see.
Some of us were brought up with grey knees.

But relaxation opens up our chords
And in the woods they bathed and sang like birds
Is it better shopping  the King’s Road
Or daubing all your family in blue woad?

As singing spreads the words each separate.
So every whispering can circulate.
After that,it’s voices in the head
And to asylums, we are swiftly  led

So if we  had stayed uncivilised ,unclean
Would our mental health have better been?
For if we do not speak in words and songs
The hidden voices would not make us wrong.

After all, who ever did decide
We are not allowed to hear from our inside?
Only words from  other  folk are sound
While voices in the head are cruelly blamed.

Far better to make friends with  voices all,
Than struggle through that boring shopping mall.
And don’t use power to label me as mad,
If looking at our world makes me feel sad.

The way through the woods

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The Way Through the Woods by Rudyard Kipling

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods …
But there is no road through the woo

Is a formal poem akin to art

Is a formal poem akin to art
Or does it take the virtue  from my words,
And kill the natural feelings of the heart?

Music has its forms and so is heard
A frame around a painting gives it strength
Yet modern art defies the forms and blurs.

A book is not judged merely by its length
Although it needs a cover and a shape
We don’t have lucky dips into words blenched!

Free verse can be melodious in its sounds
Despite the lack of rhymes at  its verse ends
Expressive and harmonious  are its bounds.

In marriage once we had defined rules
The man at work to bring  a living home
The woman in the kitchen cooking fools.

Each found identity is patterned form
Yet rigid were the choices  now thrown out
And men  had too much power   which often harmed

Every trade  has  structures  which  we  flout
We need to learn the ancient ways we walk
Too much certainty can lead to doubt

 

Is a formal poem  expressive like an  art
Or  does it kill the  feelings of the heart?
Does  the tree of life grow  through my words?
Emptiness embraces what is  stirred

 

 

 

Oh frigid purse, I never meant to pay!

 

The sky  is stark ,the air is cool and still
The black cat’s  run,the birds unfold all day
I sit  down here and with my totty pray
Ye cast o’ foolish thoughts, you raped my  will.
We’ve  each enraged  the bureaucratic mill.
Oh  frigid purse, I never meant to pay!
The sky ‘s  a’spark,the air is warm and shrill
The saturnine demoted  knelled their way
With this feathered pounce, my sample quill,
I  cite the cheque and date it  for next May.
Oh,tit for cat, the tiger’s  bed ‘s astray.
Yer  life is settled by  a  harlot’s will
The sky ‘s a shark, the air is  sharper still.

Let deep green swallow me.

Oh,sweet my heart,let nature dissolve me.
In her  deep greens I am allowed to be.
While in the city  politicians cry
And from my lips I hear a solemn sigh.
Oh,foolish world that  foolish men are free.

What torment that we need society
And cannot dwell like birds in winter trees.
Or like the spider weaving webs defy.
Release my heart,let nature dissolve me.

The rich are common in momentous fee.
Unlike the insects and  the fuzzy bee.
For all of us, our end is ever nigh
Enchanted as the dove  that homewards flies.
Be comfortless in  notoriety
Oh,cease my heart,let  deep green swallow  me.

But I have none, so I will simply bite you.

O Candle from the strike of 75
I’m sure amazed to find you are alive
If I had matches, I would like to light you.
But I have none, so I will  simply bite you.

Oh, hoard of Andrex toilet paper
You will come in so handy later.
If I had room I’d hang you on the wall
Until I feel that certain nagging  call.

Oh,sugar,honey sweet I can preserve you
And for the upper people serve you.
Then as they  all go skowly diabetic
They’ll know  how simply sweet is your polemic.

 

We had these frequent shortages of  laughter
As we were not allowed to talk or behave dafter.
Yet  though we  have  designer kitchens splendid
I prefer  to gnaw on politicians languid

Like music or the menace of Al-gebra.

The art of  loving’s likely going to cost you;
Like  music or the menace of al-gebra.
Will you pay the price,I  need to ask you?

Remember all the lovers who have tossed you!
They say for stress ,to imitate the zebra
The art of  loving’s surely going to cost you

Will you let me , now I need to grasp you?
I remember your first  girl,that minx called Debra
Will you eat my food,I   have to ask you?

I wonder how I’d  feel if I had lost you.
Can I  save your image  on my camera?
The art of  loving, what’s it going to cost you?

I recognise,I know your shape and posture.
I want to steal your kisses;may I rob you?
Will you pay  full  price,I   have  to ask you?

I’ve  loved a million men but not a cobra.
Do I need a permit if I love you?
The tact of  living’s likely to  bypass you;.
Will you pay the piper, when I frisk you?

The friends who sit in silent company

The cause of sadness also shows its end;
That we let go the loved one and remain.
Such comfort,aid and love we have from friends
Helps us bear the heart’s most dangerous pain.

 

But if our friends  fear their own  hidden  grief.
If sorrow is never let to touch their heart;
Then friendship’s stolen by a nervous thief;
As wishing to retain our self,we part.

 

The friends who sit in silent company
Who look for no reward yet love us true
Who show,  quite clear, desireless empathy;
They are friends who warmth and  hope imbue.

 

Patient silence may do more than  words
The utterance of the heart is not absurd.

Silence in the company of friends

Sometimes silence is so sweet
We need no music other than its song.
But when we’re  tired and suffer a defeat
Then silence feels both threatening and wrong.

We need the company of other human hearts
But now we use our smartphones to connect.
This is where new alienation starts
We’re just a voice, a photo book ransacked.

So much is missed when we have no eye contact
No winks.no silent glances as we pass.
We lack the energy,so disrespect
Evoking rage by our behaviour crass.

Silence in the company of friends
Sings  its song whose  melodies are lent.

Being educated is more than getting “information”


Trying to understand:
in  an information culture,
evocation is more important;
explicit saying  counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
the incoherencies
what they’re saying,
the musicality
of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
it listens for words
that are saying more
e,
t’s got something to do with  being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.

Consummated with a kiss.

Sacred the  love the rose dwells in;
Thorns protect what lies within.
Precious flower designed for bliss
Consummated with a kiss.

Eternity is one moment
When chattering minds are each silent.
The warp and weft of life  itself
Has value more than human wealth.
So passive be, with patience blessed
Focus wide and all relaxed
We wait like this  with music ‘joyed
So quietly played, all hurt’s destroyed.

The rose by nature of design
Gives peace to both the heart and mind.
And so it is with this  green world
Of   blossom,  bush,  and petals curled.

In a storm  small  butterflies
Dance  in spaces small yet blithe.
Between the hailstones they will  live
And of themselves entirely give.

We too  find our sacred space
When with nature we embrace.
We  like flowers must grow and die.
We fall to dust and thus shall fly.

In the sunlight dust motes dance
As if by brightness full entranced.
We, like them ,do not compete
For  that love which us completes

For as we’re nothing,we are free
For God made you and God made me.
As we have no pride or will
We trust in One   who will fulfil.