When we’re chilled by illness or bereaved
The  spring tides of  the seas of memory  lust
The mind’s door swings,the  torture scene’s retrieved

Children   have no power and  cannot leave
Adults  fearful,wild, and, more, are callous
Caught too soon  by fools and madmen’s weaves

In Europe with our vicious wars' conceived
Children  dwelled  deep in our frozen malice
Dreadful  memories stole their minds like thieves

Are  souls mature  enough to learn  from such deep grief
When we feel  like  rubbish, thrown adrift, alas?
When we’re struck by hardships,we still seethe.

Adults have  the power to look, perceive,conceive
Each child is Jesus,tortured,tried, and tossed.
This is the birth  and death of memory

My heart is   pierced  by children on the News.
Echoes shake  this heart till black and blue.
Whether  felled by error,war ,disease
With patience , can we tolerate unease?

All the little things I didn’t understand
All the little things I never noticed
You wanted a long shoe horn of a special brand
You couldn’t be bothered to go voting

All the times I called out,won’t you hurry up
All the times I got a bit impatient.
I must have  put a stopper  on our loving cup
Other people called out, hey,man, he’s ancient.

When you asked for braces I never understood
I didn’t see you emaciation
My head must be full of some  stupid type of wood
I wish I could have been a lot more patient.

I waited at the bus stop while  you went back for  a pee
I got home and  felt  so nauseated
I got a premonition that   either you or  me
Was going to be affected, to be taken

You were the one who was too close to the edge
You  sank down and  so patiently you waited
Then the doctor came and threw you off the ledge
You sank down, you were emaciated.

I guess it was  unfortunate that both of us were sick
Normal life would never  come again
But I  never let go of our golden loving cup
Normal life was  here and then was gone

I wish that I had noticed those tiny little things
You couldn’t eat, you said it was your teeth
Can’t the Lord allow  us to sing our special  song
As I  bend over your dark coffin with a  wreath?

I  wonder was it better we pretended all was well?
Was it better that we acted normally?
Was it  good for you that I  dressed you up so  swell
Would you like me to take you to the Sea?

Staithes or Whitby Town, I’ll wear my wedding gown
Reality’s much more than you or me.
And holding your casket, I’ll leap and  we’ll go down
In our beloved salty ,cold , grey Northern Sea.

3 pairs of black nights
10 pairs of locks
14 pairs of stickers.
3 beige paws.
2 knight oppressors.
1 dressing down
2 pairs of shrews
I pair of tippers
I pack Hell has to pass
Oil of kipper mints.
2 Bars and a  Soap Opera
Tooth feast with push button.
2  perennial Tooth bushes.
I  bother.
2 schemes and a nightjar
I flask of  boiling hot sea.

Our deepest need is for a dialogue
Without raised voices or the wish to  wound
And we may find this on a  simple blog.

Some Shakespeare plays have got their own prologue.
And in the plays, we see the world alround.
Our deepest need is for real dialogue

Some comments one would not say to a dog.
The silence of the net makes judgements  fume
And we may find this on a  simple blog.

Barbaric people wish to hang  and flog.
Please, God, let  pity  come  down soon
All  peoples need a  trusted dialogue

At times, tested, we are caught by fog.
The instruments of angels  pierce  our gloom
And we read /write this on a  simple blog.

The sky is brighter , summer is assumed.
Share the earth with stars and sun and moon.
Our kindest wish  is for a dialogue
In  which  we   find the sacredness of love

I write like this when I feel blue.It endears me up.
She was wearing cropped, ripped jeans and, showed black ankle eyes therefore I is.
She was swearing, tripped Jean and eyed her ankles.They were created that way
She wore pop-ups under her long skirt to hide her  conformities
I  like knee eyes myself.Tights prevent  certain visions
Did you have to be a spectacle? I  love contacts, myself.
With this fling, I thee bed.Get on with it and make me a sinner.
Do you take this man?If not, I shall.
Where do you take the woman after that?
She was horrid for 50 years.She’s not bred yet,
Her husband was omnipotent.He built and erected malefactions.
What did she glue?
When we got divorced, he took the leg-over and I got the Leggo set.
One man is much like another  when they bark.They never speak Dutch to me  but that’s because I type silently
Yes, I committed adultery so I could make my Easter Depression last longer.First I had to get married.That was the hard part.After that it got easier and easier.Now I lie down all day.I read Bakhin and smile complacently
.

https://aeon.co/ideas/descartes-was-wrong-a-person-is-a-person-through-other-persons

“I am because we are, and because we are I am”

“According to Ubuntu philosophy, which has its origins in ancient Africa, a newborn baby is not a person. People are born without ‘ena’, or selfhood, and instead, must acquire it through interactions and experiences over time. So the ‘self’/‘other’ distinction that’s axiomatic in Western philosophy is much blurrier in Ubuntu thought. As the Kenyan-born philosopher John Mbiti put it in African Religions and Philosophy (1975): ‘I am because we are, and since we are, therefore I am.’

We know from everyday experience that a person is partly forged in the crucible of community. Relationships inform self-understanding. Who I am depends on many ‘others’: my family, my friends, my culture, my work colleagues. The self I take grocery shopping, say, differs in her actions and behaviours from the self that talks to my PhD supervisor. Even my most private and personal reflections are entangled with the perspectives and voices of different people, be it those who agree with me, those who criticise, or those who praise me.

Yet the notion of a fluctuating and ambiguous self can be disconcerting. We can chalk up this discomfort, in large part, to René Descartes. The 17th-century French philosopher believed that a human being was essentially self-contained and self-sufficient; an inherently rational, mind-bound subject, who ought to encounter the world outside her head with scepticism. While Descartes didn’t single-handedly create the modern mind, he went a long way towards defining its contours.”

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2007/11/why-no-one-wants-to-be-a-new-formalist/

“If I have to belabelledd, I myself prefer the term “retro-formalist”, which at least sounds vaguely cool, like wearing vintage clothing and listening to vinyl, something so square it’s hip.
So what is NF? Just who ARE these embarrassing people? British poets who work in form and meter are apparently just being… British (that Modernism stuff was all very American and Continental after all), i.e., old formalists. New Formalists have to be American for some reason. Is it people who have studied with Yvor Winters? People who returned to form and painfully relearned prosody from manuals after an apostasy in free verse? People who write screeds against a Modernism that was actually better grounded in craft and tradition than most working poets today? People who write exclusively in form? People who capitalize their lines? People who have published in a formal journal or attended West Chester, a craft-focused conference in Pennsylvania (where, yes, I have had the opportunity of both taking and teaching classes)?
Glibness aside, though, do I feel belligerent against free verse? No, I admire good free verse, I wish I wrote it better. Tennis without a net has its own beauties and choreography. But I write best (as more than one editor has pointed out to me when I tried to sneak in some free verse in a submission) when I write against the constraint and pressures of form–any constraint, really, be it syllabic, repetend, stanzaic, metrical, rhyme-schemed. I write… freer that way.”