Day: May 10, 2017

Was it wasted?

Where has all my love  gone to
All the love I poured on you
Where has all the love gone to
Was it all, was it all wasted?

The actions and the calls of love
Disappear  like flying doves
Is there meaning I can’t give
Was it all, was it all wasted?

Pouring fragrance on his feet
Money wasted, it might seem
Signs and symbols darkly gleam
Nothing  ever is, nothing ever is wasted

We all live in faith our love
Where it comes from, how it does
We live in faith , like hand in glove
Pour  the love  and let it rove
Excess and glorious as above
For it’s made to be,made to be wasted

You can sleep anywhere

Doctor,doctor,I;m worried about my coughin’.
What about your coffin?
Well,it’s keeping me awake at night.
Why,are you sleeping in it
I have only one place to sleep.
If you are tired you can sleep anywhere!
is that legal?
Of course, it is.
Well, can I sleep in the Queen’s bed?
In theory,yes… but you might frighten the horses.
Why, do they sleep with her?She must have a big bed.
Don’t be so ridiculous…
Well, she has loads of money; she, could have a bed made for her.
She has a bed maid for her
Do you mean someone makes her bed every day?
well,don’t you make yours every day?
No,I bought one in a bed store and it’s well built.
But do you change the sheets daily?
No,i never use paper I write letters on my chromebook.
Which letters?
Any letters at all,except French ones.
but they use our alphabet.
it’s not ours.
Whose is it?
Possibly the Romans.Tantrum ergo!
They are all long gone into their coffins.Uno,duo tres,quattore…,decem,duodecem,duagessin’..
I knew coughin’ was very dangerous
I think your grammar is bed.
What a posh excent you have
It’s all I have left of the old palace.
Well, never mind you can share my coffin if you like.
But is there a bed in it?
Just a bed bug as yet…
I blame the CIA.. who do you blame?
I blame God and he blames us so it’s pretty much a stalemate.
We need the Messiah…..
Not again,we’ve not got over the last one yet…
You make him sound like a hurdle…
Well,it’s one way of looking at it all.. a big hurdle.
It’s all this talkin’ keeps me awake at night…
At least it stops you coughin’

Doctor,doctor,the coughin’s keeping me up all night again
For goodness sake put the lid on it.

All I ask is that you polish me

I am a kettle made of stainless steel
I am a saint,  for tea  is brewed to heal
And , unlike kettles on an old  coal fire,
I am not dirty nor do I perspire.

My mirrored sides reflect you as you cook.
Look at me and read me like a book
I’m  full of love and hotter than a man
Oh, dear lady, love me while you can.

Superior mother,  yet inhuman  I;
Even electric kettles sometimes lie.
I shall never punish you, my dear
For perfect love like mine shall wield no fear.

All I ask is that you polish me.
For, in between your hands, I  yearn to be.

Who can tolerate the need for words?

Our structure grows as we are socialised.
We hear and see and reach for kindly touch
We learn to speak and later to tell lies.

We see clear truths which adults then deny.
We hear the priest shout in the holy church.
Our structure grows as we are socialised.

They question us but must we then reply?
They peer into our souls in constant search
We learn to speak and later we hear lies.

We’re like a dry stone wall when vandalised
Some stones sink down and others  try to clutch
Our structure grows as we are socialised.

What part is it that chooses how we grow?
Is it soul or heart in  troubling lurch?
We learn to speak, we hear and we tell lies.

Who can tolerate their need for words?
Who can bear the need we have for care?
Our inner structure grows  to social ways
We learn to speak and integrate our lies.

It fell to earth with solemn gravity

Another branch has broken from the tree
For nine short months, it weakened and grew dry.
It fell to  earth with solemn gravity

Is comparing us to trees good simile?
I’d find a better if I’d wits to try
Another branch  has thundered from the tree

The tree grieves not, for it likes to be free
Its main desire is stature, to be high.
Dead branches fall to earth by gravity

Some compare life to a drunken sea;
Or to the sky where dance wild nuclei
Yet one most ancient symbol is the tree

The strong hang on in their tenacity
Even as their leaves and berries fly
Weaker branches fall  with gravity

 

Death comes  so much harder to the high
This is no truth but neither is it lie
Another branch has broken from the tree
It disconnected all its twigs; lay down in lea.

I copied some leg exercises

DSC00038

 

Fly on your black, with your legs stretched back and hands by their sides or floating like wings
Bend the left knee and tape it to your chest then write a note
Put an electric brand around the ball and then hold both the ends by the hands.Now draw an image in Paint on the ceiling
Slowly straighten your West foot up towards the ceiling and bookmark your own toes.
Make sure your hips and the grass you brought are firmly pressed into the beloved earth.
The right foot should be kept afraid and the toes vexed, pointing to the ceiling.
Count till 20 while in this position and then faint sideways onto that grass we met before
Do the same routine on any other legs.
Do 3 Frets and two moans and you’ll be a different person.
You’ll be arrested.

De mortuis nil nisi bene

IMG_3549

 

Philosophic  [from wikipedia]

We assume a special attitude towards the dead, something almost like admiration for one who has accomplished a very difficult feat. We suspend criticism of him, overlooking whatever wrongs he may have done, and issue the command, De mortuis nil nisi bene: we act as if we were justified in singing his praises at the funeral oration, and inscribe only what is to his advantage on the tombstone. This consideration for the dead, which he really no longer needs, is more important to us than the truth, and, to most of us, certainly, it is more important than consideration for the living.[3]

And looking at the world with gratefulness

The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm
They have their form, their shape, their wistfulness
What is dead no longer does us harm

Thus being dead is no cause for alarm
There is no need to suffer loneliness
The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm

As they age, they look like a dead palm
The sort we got in church had comeliness
What is dead no longer does us harm

The secret of long life is keeping calm
And looking at the world with gratefulness
The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm

Meditation on dead flowers is balm
We fear no longer our own death’s fullness
What is dead no longer does us harm

Waste not time in hateful wilfulness
We sing with love our own dawn choruses
The dead flowers in the vase have certain  charms
What is dead no longer may  alarm

Diary poems by Anne Cluysenaar

Sunrise in winter

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/may/12/poem-of-the-week-anne-cluysenaar-diary-poems

 

 

 

January 13

Hunting the Higgs

No wonder they love a laugh, the physicists.
What ever they find or don’t, it’s OK.
Symmetries of the world just remnants
of those which, if perfect, would only have led to

no world at all – anti-matter, matter
would have cancelled each other out. Maybe.
Or maybe not, if the theory is at fault.
And if it is? More exciting still.

Whatever we’re made of, it wants to know
how it came to be what it is. In us,
for a while at least, the stuff of stars
gets a glimpse of its own precarious life.

Like a single life, that will soon be gone.
Universes before, maybe, or after
our own, we won’t ever get to explore.
They make up what is, though. And here we are!