Now’s the  time for love and joy  that stun
The grass is growing lusher every day
Where the lambs and rabbits love to play
Now’s the time   for pleasure in the sun

Once imagined, civil war has come.
Like an answer to a  violent prayer
Now’s the  time for  strife and gas and   guns
The grass is flat and  bloodier every day

Shoot the  rabbit if he kills a nun.
Smile when horses pass by on the way.
While the trumpet can triumphant play
And the children  toy with soldiers’ guns
Now’s the  time for pain  and sadness  numb
The gas   makes breathing  deadly every  day

Jennifer was once a backing singer for Leonard Cohen and then became a singer in her own right.She made some records of his songs and I love her Joan of Arc.She helped him when he was not being very successful.

Where you went that day I could not go.
We cannot see the Jordan’s other side.
I helped you and consoled you in your woe.

Alone we each must sail the river slow.
The boatman is  companion and guide
Where you went that day I could not go.

To lose a husband is a heavy blow.
But by the will of God we must abide.
I helped you and consoled you in your woe.

Were you fearful of the worlds above, below?
I wish I could have journeyed by your side
Where you went that day I could not go.

Like refugees, we come to Love  in time
He bids  us welcome, invites us  come within
Where you went that day I can’t yet go.
I helped you and consoled you; be it so.

Mary went into her peach and turquoise kitchen to make a cup of tea.She was pondering a talk she’d had on the phone.It was because her washing machine only worked on certain programmes.
The lady who took her call was trying to persuade her to pay £191 for a year’s  cover as her 12-month warranty had recently expired and Mary felt she was going to expire as well.
But the machine only cost £240.I can get a 6kg Bosch for £260.
The overbearing woman kept on trying to convince her it was a bargain.Luckily Mary decided to hang up.
Annie ran in wearing a green hat and trouser suit with purple shoes.
Have you got any purple eyeshadow, Mary?
Just sit down and drink some tea while I look in my handbag, Mary told her.
I have some but it’s more violet really.
Annie craned over to peer into Mary’s large blue cross body bag from Knightsbridge.
It was full of music tapes.
Why have you got those tapes?I thought they were out of date.Most people have MP3 players now.Whatever they are!
Well, I got a little machine to convert them to files but I find I can listen with headphones and there is a superb one of Elgar’s cello concerto.In a way, the sound is more mellow than a CD.
Annie leant over to see if Mary had a vibrator or some other rude items in her bag.Though why anyone would take a vibrator out of the house was puzzling.Maybe they could help arthritis in the fingers.She saw five!
Suddenly there was a crash.Annie fell down over the remains of her chair which was yellow like Van Gogh’s.
Good heavens.You are getting like Stan.Is his ghost here?
Yes, they heard his voice say.I am missing you both in heaven and I miss Dave too.
What about me, miaowed Emile loudly.
I miss you the most of all,Stan cried.Ring 999.
Hello, can you send the ambulance The chair has literally fallen to pieces.,
In a few minutes Dave arrived in a red and black jumpsuit and purple trainers.
Look, Annie’s chair broke but it is Stan’s fault.
Don’t speak ill of the dead, Dave said gently.How can he have done it
I am here, whispered Stan.I made Annie lean over too far by placing rude things in Mary’s handbag.
Where did you get them from, Dave enquired.
Boots.They sell everything.
Could they see you?
No,  they cried out.Look, the vibrators are moving by themselves… is it the new  batteries?
So Stan had taken them without paying a  penny.What kind of spirit does that?A holy one? Unlikely, but who knows?
Taking them out, Mary flung them into the recycling bin.
You can’t put those in there, Annie muttered.
Well, I can hardly leave them on the garden wall for anyone who walks by to take.
Why not, Emile asked plaintively.
Because I want to be respectable, said Mary.What would all the neighbours think?
I doubt if they would know what they are, said Annie.And of they did, they would not be respectable themselves!
My, you are so intelligent, said Stan.I still love an intelligent woman.
Dave was busy mending the chair and filling the coal scuttle.Then he looked at the washing machine
It’s a fault in the control panel, he said.
The best thing is just to use it on the programmes it works on and don’t bother wasting money having it repaired.Then put the money towards a new one.Nothing is made to last now.
OK, said Mary.I can use rinse & spin or the hot cotton wash.Plus the mixed wash so it will be enough.She was a little weary as she was studying the book of Job in betweeb doing the housework and sorting Stan’s books.
Stan, it’s a shame you can’t take these books away, she told the dear Spirit sitting by the door looking at the garden.
We don’t  bother with books where I am, he said nervously.They might set alight!
Don’t say you are in hell, the women shouted in anxious voices.
Not yet but I am on probation, he admitted.
I thought once you got to Heaven that was it,  Mary replied.
I’m still in purgatory, he admitted.With luck, I’ll be moved up soon.
Why,it’s like being back at school,  the women said in amazement.
But when they looked again, Stan had gone.They were having egg and chips in purgatory and he loved that meal.Still the same even after he has died.What a puzzle it all is.

My husband is so naughty, a very naughty man
He throws down the Guardian on top of his beer can
He buys himself a sandwich in a cardboard box
And puts it in the laundry with his  bright green woollen socks.

He takes off his pyjamas and chucks them on the floor
He uses hankies  frequently, so I have to buy some more.
He wants to have thick sauces on top of all his food.
And when he has a hypo his speech is very rude.

I gave him such a shock when I learned to curse and swear
But we really need to,as “f off “is everywhere.
Why, even in the Bible there are some wicked words
I’ve not read it all yet, except the  Psalm 23rd.

I mean to finish reading it and then when I must die,
I’ll come onto a cloud and shout,Oh pi is in the sky.
For transcendental numbers give a hint divine.
Although you can get it better with a glass of  dry, white wine.

My husband drinks draught guinness and then he fall asleep
He hollers and curses when the oven timer bleeps.
He eats a piece of kipper and cried out,Oh,dear God!
Nobody caught this begger with a British fishing rod

He wants to move to Whitby and walk upon the sands
Sit in the audience and hear the big brass bands.
He wants to see the sun rise and to see it set…
So please send God some gelatine in case the air’s too wet

Sometimes I write poems or short pieces like the one I just added today which imply that it is better to forgive or repent than nurse hatred.I’m not saying it is easy nor is it always possible.But based on my own experience it seemed better for me in that situation.Similarly, I have written about revenge or punishment

I hope it does not seem I claim to have reached anywhere near perfection so I can advise other people.I don’t believe it is  right to judge others nor to imply you are better than them morally.Sometimes it is better not to let one’s feeling out and upset others.Biting the lip is often best.If we need to decide some person is bad for us we can do it when we are calmer.Vengeance often makes troubles last much longer.Some people enjoy fighting and shouting but I do not.So I have to work out how to deal with people who love to shout at me down the phone.Like hanging up or putting the phone on the table and avoiding the person for a while.

Butterflies by  MikeFlemming

I’m as old as grandad, older than his wife.
In the dark coal mine, he worked all night
I look down , dizzy at my longer life.

I’m Marvel, UHT, Carnation blyth.
While he worked the sun shone, rarely bright
I’m as old as grandad, older than his wife.

I’m packed and sterilised; I’m cut by knife.
I’m meat, corned beef,I’m ham tonight, alright?
I look down, I’m a sandwich made for life.

I’ve lived twice as long as Jesus Christ.
Holy Moses, what a strange insight!
I’m as old as grandad, older than his wife.

In the night, the images arrive.
His dog Lassie, who  rarely used to bark
I look round dizzy , wondering at this life

How I talked with Daddy in the park
How I  went with Grandad for a walk
As old as grandad, older than Dad’s wife.
I  stand up, grateful for my longer life.

Scott Fitzgerald wrote to get some cash.
His wife desired a watch  to cure her woe
He wrote a story at a crazy dash.

He worked away as if by devils lashed
One day only left to   get the dough
Scott Fitzgerald wrote to get some cash.

Out it came out in thunder, bang and smash.
More often, he  had tried to  find the flow
He wrote a story at a  manic dash.

Fast he worked and faster she did crash.
He got the watch but it was just so-so
Scott Fitzgerald wrote to get her cash.

She fell into the pit where demons flash
For  jewels  seemed not   to heal  her broken soul
He wrote a story  manic in its dash

The husband and the wife were well enmeshed
She tried trinkets, drink and measured flesh.
Scott Fitzgerald wrote to get her cash.
He wrote that story  so it came to pass.

,

Inside my mind, I dream of gleaming pearls,
Caterpillars, snails with swirling whorls.
I dream contented, all enwrapped;
With reverie and dream I’m lapped.
The inner seas will comfort me,
While gods open my eyes to see

T

The tulips pushed the primroses away
They took the pot from these innocuous  plants
Nature is not kind in such display
The powerful plants can do just what they want.

However, I admire their flowers of red
The shape is elegant, the colour clear.
And had they been in a much bigger bed
Both flowers would give us pleasure without fear.

And now magnolias pink my eyes adore
Two of them  I see from off the bus.
A visual parable, a story for
The short sweet life of all including us.

We deceive ourselves in order to survive.
But shallowness makes trivial  all our lives

Love too great can drown the one adored.
As if Jove sent  tsunami as a gift
Overwhelming all  her personal choice.

Little offerings gentle and deserved
Will  not frighten  neither be too swift
Love too great can drown the one adored.

Speaking kindly as we find our  voice
Not shouting love, when we ought to desist
Overwhelming other’s personal choice.

At other  times a lover’s been devoured
By that selfishness, we’re not impressed
Love too great can drown the one adored.

God alone can speak in such a voice
By his truth, all other is expressed
Overwhelming, merciful and right

Eros, selfish, sacred, who resists?
Keep your love in bounds, may it be blessed
Love too great can drown the one adored.
Overwhelming all their personal , unique worth

Misunderstanding love, she thought it  came by  force
She pushed the bottle to the baby’s lips
So for her lovers , love became a  vice

Free with  cruel comments, called “advice”
She urged her love with leather coated whips
Misunderstanding love, she thought it  came by force

By her will, she thought to make  love rise
Her victim’s  will was  there for her to clip
So for her victims, love became a  vice

They asked for mercy, pleaded for divorce
Nothing she’d not started got permit
Misunderstanding so, she thought love  could be forced

They ran, they cycled, stole a soldier’s horse.
But still she gasped, grasped nothing of their wit
So for her victims, love had been unwise.

What if Lucian Freud desired her sit?
Would he have made her muse and his culprit?
Misunderstanding love, she thought it  came by  force
So  in her victims walked, but left by hearse.

http://www.drmetablog.com/2009/04/nick-and-the-candlestick.html

I’m lost in worlds of mind and memory
Of people gone and problems that devour
When Nature calls out with her yields, her plea.

My  eye is turned without and what I see
Is food for senses numbed by Men of Power.
I leave  the world of mind and memory

Is anything as  alluring as a  tree
When sun  leaps through transparent leafy tower?
Good Nature holds out  generous, haunting pleas

We make a whole from visions fragmentary.
The truth is richer, fiercer, even rawer
So leave  the worlds of mind and memory

I see  the woods,  once  Tudor  hunting fields,
Where Anne Boleyn’s  young daughter showed her power,
Though motherless by father’s cruel decree.

Rain and sun, oh, watercolour free!
The  celandine haunts with its golden flower
Once lingering at the edge of how, maybe.
Now  Nature draws me in  with earthy plea

Adjoining to our house there was a space
It was about 10 feet wide
The builders of the the terrace of 10 small houses
Must have  miscalculated
Each house could have been one foot wider
We called it The Concrete
That was where I learned to ride a bike
My brother taught me to bowl overarm
I played twosie ball on the wall
A big girl taught me.
In the back street women had washing lines
When the bin men came  they had to bring it in
Mum washed the binmen’s mugs
Coated with thick ash and dirt
She thought it was the only time anyone washed them
She gave them boiling water too, to make tea in a tin can.
On Guy Fawkes day we had a bonfire.
Boys prowled throwing bangers across the road
Nobody called them louts, it was normal [for boys]
Boys were strong and brave
Girls could make cake and scream when they saw spiders
It was sex role division
Tough for nervous boys who didn’t want to kill spiders.
10 feet wide, a house long, The Concrete was our  little world.
Mum said, where’s your brother?
I said, he’s on The Concrete.
So she screeched his name from the doorstep.
Here,get me 8lb sugar on the road.
It’s on offer.
Life is  on offer but do we notice?

https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/ebb-and-flow/201610/the-power-writing-poetry-in-old-age

Photos by Mike Flemming 2017 copyright

Quote:

After some initial resistance and discomfort, they now write relatively freely and openly; they are glad to tell their stories through poems. When I ask them to speak directly to the stars—or the moon or the sky— as Keats does in his poem, ‘Bright Star’, they are excited and adventurous. They have now written poems about music, childhood, roses, seasons, war. They have constructed persona poems and comparison poems and learned to use metaphors and similes. They take pride in both their own creations and those of their fellow poets. They love listening to what well-known poets have written.

And they have connected to the naturally poetic in their deepest selves, writing with increasing confidence about their wide range of personal experiences and emotions, from the very happy to the very sad.

In a recent poem that the workshop composed together, a collaborative poem about the end of WWll, Marie wrote:

‘There was a beautiful magnolia tree on our cobblestone street in the Bronx/ Before the war, my husband and I would spend hours and hours sitting under its magnificent blossoms/ Hours, hours/ So many of the boys from our neighborhood never made it home again/ Under the tree is a plaque for them/ Situated on a mound of grass/ Stars carved next to each of the dead soldiers’ names/ So many stars, too many stars’.

“This workshop is the best thing that has ever happened to me!” Marie announced at our last meeting.

Marie and my special, old age poets are viewing their days with fresh eyes.  They seem to be finding beauty and meaning everywhere—in their memories of the past and in today’s world around them— through the writing of poetry.

As Proust said, the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.

3My hope died in my mind while I late read
At night while tears dried on my pallid face.
Did excessive thoughts of  Plath focus my dread?

My mother used to say that her heart bled
But never did we share a warm embrace
A mouse died to Cain’s rue the Bible said.

We mourn the loss of  those weighed down by lead
The  heart has rooms which accidents deface
Did the flight of   Sylvia Plath focus my dread?

My mother and my father shared a bed
I  rocked in cradle wild as outer space
A mouse lived in Dad’s  shoe, that’s why he’s dead.

My mother turned from father’s lost dear head
I  had come between them, blocked the joining place
As Ariel  tempted Plath, she willed her dread

Look again, oh mother, know my face.
Respond to my new being, give me place.
As she puts on her shoe,  she says I’m dead
Did thoughts disowned by  God desire her dread?

By

Worship now my gas-on-glass new hob
To clean and gracious looks my friends aspire
I am so kitsch, so stuck up I’m a snob
Though to be frank, I love an open fire.

Or wait, it’s  ceramic halogen I want
I’ll have to buy a  full set of new pans
Regardless of the  creditors who pant
I need magnetic bases, not tin cans.

How about the old gas cooker cleaned
And ceremonially baptised till it gleams
After all, on gas, I’ve entertained
Till nothing of the meals ever remained

I think I’ll go to cafes for my meals
And after that I’ll take the ones on wheels!