The wit of God

MusingA man who fond of lemons is
Cares not how he gives a kiss.
‘T is a proof that he would rather
Have a lemon than a lover.

A child who never was embraced
Will not marry in much haste.
It’s a hint that she would, maybe

Be afraid to have a baby
.A heart which mean with kindness is,
Will rarely feel true friendship’s bliss.
‘T is a proof that some would rather
Be correct than be a lover

A student who so clever was
Cannot match  the wit of God
Tis a proof that she would rather
Be unknown that be your Saviour.

I’ll deceive you whenever you wish.

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Please set alight as  soon as your pen is working  and you find the japer

Be Misrael in a Blair Tee.

Don’t keep me banging on like this, whenever, I am ad hoc again.

Do I talk too Dutch?Please shell me.

My, the Samaritans have back up.TheWaqf.

Am I too tight for you? It’s my brains.

Are you still bare? I am.

Are you overcrafted? No aitch.

The Open University offered me a tub once.

Are you still arrive yet? Me neither.

I was a very intelligent dunce.So follow my selections.

I used to teach wrath at Oxford when I was a splongeur.

Does my sign put you down? I am sorry, fate.

I am missing you so dutch.Why won’t you perceive me?

I’ll deceive you whenever you wish.

Do sponsor my phone balls, please.

My electricity is surprising

I paid a huge bill, last streak.

They keep frisking me; I am pure.Well,sort if.

Why is money so cunning?

I have forgotten my PIN  jumbles again for all my credit yards.Am  I in a bauble now?

I am sorry. I  got married away.Twice.

Where will it haul wend…?

Was sin ever original?

Nobody believes in sin any bore.It’s  No, Satan

Who relieves God?

Come to the Tempus with me,fugit?

When we live so close to the cliff edge

When we live so close to the cliff edge
So even one small shudder knocks us down
We must choose our attitude with calm
And not for rage or anger ever dredge.
When we live too close

Some  are saved by one outstanding ledge
They suffer shock but not much-dreaded harm
Yet we cannot trust mere Chance’s arm.
Nor on hoping for a climber’s wedge
When we live with choice

 

We need to know  that life awards no badge
We need to know what will be our special balm
In the imagination’s   proper realm
When we live so close to the cliff edge
When we wish to live without a grudge
When  our needs are close

 

 

Oh,like the flowers

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When we are born into a happy space
We feel our vulnerability is held
And from  fragmented senses, a self weld
That feels a unity with its new place
When we are born

 

When we are born , the shock  must strike us hard
At  first , we were a fish in private seas
With mother’s breathing music,company.
Yet  force unknown from  this  sweet space us lured
When we were born

Oh, like the flowers, one day we will die
For some, it is a sudden accident
Or it may be a languid, long descent
Until in arms of angels, we will  cry
And our beloved spouses stand and sigh
Oh.  like the flowers.

Then life begins again

When we begin the slow descent  to age
From that peak or maximum of strength
We notice nothing as it has no length
So feel no need to cry or scream in rage
When we begin.

The ” writing on the wall” is on the page.
The well off sink in angst, the workless tense;
We’ve lost our youth, our mind looks for defence
Then we begin the slow descent of age.
Then we begin.

The music that we hum is  a slow dirge
An elegy falls from every pen to page
I do not  feel it’s good that we should rage
But gently take the  shroud of silk or serge
As in the living earth, we all shall merge.
Then life begins again

 

Waiting

How like a prison my dear home can feel
When waiting here for parcels to arrive.
The clothes that had such catalogue appeal
In Royal Mail vans were loaded for their drive.

After several days they’ve not appeared
The Escalation team attempt to trace
Meanwhile, I get writer’s block  from fear
You’d think they had to carve Big Ben  from ice.

At last, an answer, ring our famous store
They can  cancel any thing ordered
My lace and coloured wish, is wish no more
Sweet lingerie embroidered,  hors d’oeuvre.

I used my phone so much I’m turning grey
To think  for all this waiting I must pay.

 

 

Why not visit Mike’s butterfly blog?

http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/phpBB//viewtopic.php?t=7459&start=780#p122680

I liked these two images very much.I imagine it is difficult to get an image of two butterflies at once.The second image showing the beautiful underside of the wings is beautiful.

These photos were taken just yesterday so if you live anywhere near a site where butterflies  are common take a trip out to see  them

Bucknell2Valesina

Copyright Mike Flemming 2017

http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/phpBB//viewtopic.php?t=7459&start=780#p122680

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The wonder of these flying flowers
We enjoy in daylight hours
Natural beauty, touch my soul
We pray then to be more whole

The emotions of grief

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http://www.griefandsympathy.com/emotionsofgrief.html

 

“During the bereavement process, normal everyday mood swings reacting to all of the external problems of life still exist. On top of this you have to deal with the emotions of grief.

For this reason the mood swings and emotions of grief can be likened to being on a roller coaster ride, there are so many fast highs and lows. You can experience such a frenzy of changed moods, that some people think they must be going mad.

“You mean you’re comparing our lives to a sonnet?

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“You mean you’re comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it? Yes. Mrs. Whatsit said. You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.”
― Madeleine L’EngleA Wrinkle in Time: With Related Readings

A history without suffering

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54864/a-history-without-suffering-

 

A History Without Suffering

In this poem there is no suffering.
It spans hundreds of years and records
no deaths, connecting when it can,
those moments where people are healthy
and happy, content to be alive. A Chapter,
maybe a Volume, shorn of violence
consists of an adult reading aimlessly.
This line is the length of a full life
smuggled in while no one was plotting
against a neighbour, except in jest.
Then, after a gap, comes Nellie. She
is in a drought-fisted field
 with a hoe. This is her twelfth year
on the land, and today her back
doesn’t hurt. Catechisms of self-pity
and of murder have declared a day’s truce
in the Civil War within her. So today,
we can bring Nellie, content with herself,
with the world, into our History.
For a day. In the next generation
we find a suitable subject camping
near the border of a divided country:
for a while no one knows how near. For these
few lines she is ours. But how about
the lovers? you ask, the freshly-washed
body close to yours; sounds, smells, tastes;
anticipation of the young, the edited memory
of the rest of us? How about thoughts
higher than their thinkers?…Yes, yes.
Give them half a line and a mass of footnotes:
they have their own privileged history,
like inherited income beside our husbandry.
We bring our History up to date
in a city like London: someone’s just paid
the mortgage, is free of guilt
and not dying of cancer; and going
past the news-stand, doesn’t see a headline
advertising torture. This is all
recommended reading, but in small doses.
It shows you can avoid suffering, if you try.
E. A. Markham, “A History Without Suffering” from Human Rites: Selected Poems 1970-1982. Copyright © 1984 by E. A. Markham.  Reprinted by permission of Anvil Press Poetry, Ltd..
Source: Human Rites: Selected Poems 1970-1982 (Anvil Press Poetry Ltd., 1984)