I made a  cheese flan
Both burned  black and undercooked
It was edible

I guess my knack left
Along with my dear husband.
All's been cremated!

That's why I can't eat
I see Auchawitz and Dachau.
Christianity.

These ring the death knell.
That Pope was  no kind of star
Mechanical  thought

Christianity
Now has come to its ending
Crucified itself.

Resurrection
Will not do us any good.
We must start over.

But crawling on  earth.
Kafka made the images
Now  we must live them

I decided I needed more excitement in my life so I washed my dry clean only trousers.
I am afraid to look now, but at least I didn’t use the 95 deg hot wash.
I have a better idea.Shall I steam them next time. It will kill the germs; I don’t know if they will look any cleaner but it beats playing Patience all day long.
I sent a Christian interpretation of the Bible to a  Jew of the Orthodox kind.Did I say “kind” well, he was the opposite..Is it my fault if I am a  fat, dumb, unfeeling, unsympathetic, bald cow?
When my husband died, my friend sent me an extract from “The Book of Pure Drivel”.What does it mean?Should I buy the book?
Answers will be useful.Do you wash wool suits in the machine?

h

 

 

https://www.gotquestions.org/still-small-voice.html

 

Question: “What does it mean that God speaks in a still small voice?”

Answer:There is only one place in Scripture where God is said to speak in a “still small voice,” and it was to Elijah after his dramatic victory over the prophets of Baal (1 Kings 18:20-40; 19:12). Told that Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, king of Israel, was seeking kill him, Elijah ran into the wilderness and collapsed in exhaustion. God sent an angel with food and water to strengthen him, told him to rest, and then sent him to Horeb. In a cave there, Elijah voices his complaint that all of God’s prophets had been killed by Jezebel and he alone had survived. God instructed him to stand on the mountain in His presence. Then the Lord sent a mighty wind which broke the rocks in pieces; then He sent an earthquake and a fire, but His voice was in none of them. After all that, the Lord spoke to Elijah in the still small voice, or “gentle whisper.”

The point of God speaking in the still small voice was to show Elijah that the work of God need not always be accompanied by dramatic revelation or manifestations. Divine silence does not necessarily mean divine inactivity. Zechariah 4:6 tells us that God’s work is “not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,” meaning that overt displays of power are not necessary for God to work.

Because He is God, He is not confined to a single manner of communicating with His people. Elsewhere in Scripture, He is said to communicate through a whirlwind (Job 38:1), to announce His presence by an earthquake (Exodus 19:18), and to speak in a voice that sounds like thunder (1 Samuel 2:10; Job 37:2; Psalm 104:7; John 12:29). In Psalm 77:18 His voice is compared to both thunder and a whirlwind. And in Revelation 4:5, we’re told that lightning and thunder proceed from the throne in heaven.

The shadows of the family act alone
They’ve been cut off from consciousness and care
They do bad deeds,attack destroy their own

We cannot reach our shadow on our phones
Nor seem them in the mirror of despair
The shadows of the family act alone

In darkest times when one of them’s in pain
To  hold their  feelings  in seems  ever rarer
They do bad deeds, attack, destroy their own.

Yet if  they’re questioned, they  at once explain
That what they do is really very fair.
The shadows of the family act alone

How hard is it  to  our own self regain
When feelings sharp have caused a  painful tear?
We do bad deeds, attack, destroy our own.

Oh,would we had the strength to suffer, care
And not discharge our rage quite unprepared
The shadows of the family  drift alone
Do bad deeds ,show ill will to their own

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/essays/detail/69530

 

The society whose modernization has reached the stage of integrated spectacle is characterized by the combined effect of five principal factors: incessant technological renewal, integration of state and economy, generalized secrecy, unanswerable lies, and eternal present.

The spectator is simply supposed to know nothing and deserves nothing. Those who are watching to see what happens next will never act and such must be the spectator’s condition.

—Guy Debord

In a political culture of managed spectacles and passive spectators, poetry appears as a rift, a peculiar lapse, in the prevailing mode. The reading of a poem, a poetry reading, is not a spectacle, nor can it be passively received. It’s an exchange of electrical currents through language—that daily, mundane, abused, and ill-prized medium, that instrument of deception and revelation, that material thing, that knife, rag, boat, spoon/reed become pipe/tree trunk become drum/mud become clay flute/conch shell become summons to freedom/old trousers and petticoats become iconography in appliqué/rubber bands stretched around a box become lyre. Diane Glancy: Poetry uses the hub of a torque converter for a jello mold. I once saw, in a Chautauqua vaudeville, a man who made recognizably tonal music by manipulating a variety of sizes of wooden spoons with his astonishing fingers. Take that old, material utensil, language, found all about you, blank with familiarity, smeared with daily use, and make it into something that means more than it says. What poetry is made of is so old, so familiar, that it’s easy to forget that it’s not just the words, but polyrhythmic sounds, speech in its first endeavors (every poem breaks a silence that had to be overcome), prismatic meanings lit by each others’ light, stained by each others’ shadows. In the wash of poetry the old, beaten, worn stones of language take on colors that disappear when you sieve them up out of the streambed and try to sort them out.

———-

Compulsive Flirting Disorder Symphony
Theresa May Losing Certain Election Imitation Syndrome for Triangle and Drum
Underflirting  and/or under talking Syndrome  Quarte for piano and oboe
Underwired Bra Accident Disorder a new play by Miguel Strain
Shapewear  Excessive Itch  Disorder: latest writings of the nouveau cliches
Side Zip Trouser Stress Incontinence and its effect on schizophrenic cats
Lack of Public Conveniences Obsessive Anxiety Syndrome set to be played on  a harp
Side Zip  Trouser Lumbago Dances
Fear of Wearing Skirts Syndrome:Ballet Trouseau
Fear of Knicker Elastic Phobia and Rondeau in G minor
Fear of Wire coming out of Bra in Public : Concerto for three wire strung violas and  gutted cello by Lady Katepotatos Ph.D [Clotsford and Anchorage]

 

I felt distressed because I wanted to listen to Mozart’s Requiem.I put it on and suddenly Theresa May’s voice began talking loudly.How much money are they wasting on this? Then they have one mocking Jeremy Corbyn.Well, it has made me like him more!

I do have a camera but often I use my phone.Now it seems the lens is damaged.It gives a blurred effect.I found it quite interesting that I could make some  images quite different from the usual ones.I already put one here on a post.These are all made from the same photograph.I find them quite moving as if I am in another dimension

Life and danger live through these quicksands
We cross them with excitement and unease
Drawn there by the warmth of loving hands

Across the bay, there are the mountain lands
Where dwell  the  sheep who roam as they may please
Life and danger live  through these quicksands

Astute the eye ,we look for what’s beyond
The rocks so  pressured by the winter freeze
Drawn  there by the  pleasure of love’s hand

Nothing either weather or seasons
Protects us from the storm, the strange disease
Life and danger live on these quicksands

Humans live beyond sense or reason
Imagination  fluid  yet will not freeze
Drawn  there by  the thought of children’s’ hands

Some stay inland and cultivate the bees
Others want to cross  untrusted seas
Life and danger live over  quicksands
Men drawn there by the hope of better lands

The sparrows sing as if to draw me to
The present moment’s gravity and grace
Our contemplation of life’s nature new

What  other attitude is worthwhile now
That I no longer see your loving face?
The sparrows sing as if to greet me too

Eden is still here, we miss the clues
We miss the  ardent touch,  the lost embrace
Our contemplation of the world renews

On my face, the tears are jeweled dew
In my body, I feel held, enclosed
The sparrows sing as if to greet me too

Now the blackbird sings as if on cue
Inside my swollen heart, I feel its grace
Contemplation of  life’s nature new

I saw your soul in your transparent face.
And crisscrossed lines from struggle left their trace
The sparrows sing as if to draw us to
The contemplation of the  wildness true,

 

The pattern of your speech is in my ear
Although I do not hear  you speak  out loud
Shall I say ear or is it heart that bears
The form that  made  your speech have its right sound?

Wherever in myself I find your trace
I long to keep it even when I grieve.
As though, because I do not see your face,
I never wish by sound to be deceived.

And at the end you did not speak at all
Like the baby  while inside its  little nest.
Yet with your eyes you made a final call
As contented as a baby   joined to breast.

And so you went, but left your patterns here.
So with my prosody, I feel you near