But don’t go nude and blame it all on me!


If you want to wear the same clothes all year round
Corduroy is best, so I have found
A skirt of olive green  with a bralet
Will take you through the summer ever hot
And worn with wool in winter it suits all
Underneath a duffel coat and shawl
Similarly trousers  of fine cord
Are in season, thank you, praise the Lord
So what you wear on your top half  is key
But don’t go nude and blame it all on me!
Especially if you go commando too
What will all  the knicker makers do?

O peoples of the world I like to see

I love the rich variety of folk
I see when I go out for daily walks
The British lassies show their midriffs bare
Arabs saunter in their desert wear.

The Hasidim come up from N16
They go in TKMaxx and faces beam.
The Doctor who repaired my sickly nose
In the heat of Athens was well raised.

And many other people are discreet
Although through their big phones they sweetly speak
I bet they’re saying London’s really  fine
The shops sell everything apart from swine!

O peoples of the world I like to see,
That you are different yet the same as me

I hope the Jews of Europe will not leave

I hope the Jews of Europe will not leave
As already of their kind we’ve been bereaved
Since I’ve read their Bible   ardently
I hope to hear that still, small voice in me.

Shakespeare and the Bible are  our greats
True literature for any appetite.
Non -believers can enjoy the psalms
At 4 am calm nightmarish alarms.

Or see the myths and metaphors  designed
To share the parables of  greater minds
We do have ancient Greeks who also taught.
The Hebrew Bible’s longer, dense and taut.

I would  like to see  the Burning Bush
Yet I fear I’d die in flames of love

Is poetry  just a form we fill with words

Is poetry  just a form we fill with words
Or is it something deeper or absurd?
Hitler might have written villanelles
With words uttered by demons out of hell.

Demons are not real, it’s we who are
And hell is here on earth, I sadly say.
Heaven too  is found where love can grow
When it is not for grasping or for show,

What can make a man engage such power;
He took Europe through its worst years ever.
Men and women ran like robots steel;
Were made machines without  the will to feel.

The forms of  poetry may be  divine
But evil can parade through any lines.


Transit to autumn

How to make your wardrobe transit months
Of heat and rain and cold felt all at once.
Underneath a frock, wear leggings gay
Remove them when the sun comes put to play.
Try a camisole of radiant hue
If it shows, well all the better too.
Bring out that old cardigan  of wool;
Not red in case you pass a Papal bull.
Try a long one down to ankles blue
It will gain attention, no taboo.
Or how about a hat like mother wore?
A hot head helps to warm the central core.
A   pair of thermal underpants will warm
The parts that no one ever wants to name
So layer by layer, we build that summer dress
Into a wardrobe only folk like us access.
But if you want the men to stick to you
Wear some trainers  and a little glue.

One of those days


First, the glass of my new watch had cracked
Then my credit card had disappeared.
This caused me an alarm like a great smack
And home I came. before new devils leered.

Inside the wallet ,where I keep some notes,
This credit card had found a peaceful rest
My pen though dry decided it would write
Though what I write is nowhere near my best

I wonder if I need a watch at all.
The mobile phone is accurate and clear.
Yet watches have significance past call.
And this one is to my heart rather dear.

On a day when sensing vertigo,
Stay at home, put polish on your toes!



Poetry can heal



“Arguably, it may be the refusal to create one’s art that causes distress in the first place. John Keats, a licensed apothecary, as was Dante, trained unhappily as a doctor and experienced depression accordingly: his brother feared that if John didn’t become a poet he would kill himself. An unanswered calling can take its revenge, and Gwyneth Lewis’s memoir of depression, Sunbathing in the Rain, notes that it was her resistance to writing poetry that made her ill: “If you don’t do what your poetry wants you to, it will be out to get you. Unwritten poems are a force to be feared.””

I doubt if everyone is like Gwyneth Lewis but I agree unused capacity can make people ill.That’s why Evening Classes were so beneficial to ordinary people with a desire to learn.Very few are left now thanks to Mrs Thatcher.


Ta ta

Thanks for phoning.I have a nasty cough and can’t talk.
You have reached Katherine.Please leave a comment.
I am a poet and don’t I know it!
Thanks for asking me out.I have a box of dates right here.
No, I am not getting married again, even to you, my angel.
I can’t answer the phone as it never speaks
Unless you are Leonard Cohen please hang up now.
This is a robotic answering machine.I don’t take messages kindly.Please leave the kiosk as you found it
Yes,I did have a nice day and that is why I’m not ruining it by answering the phone.Ta ta.

And my talent is a hostage of my temper.

أملى أكبر من جهدى .. وجهدي أكبر من موهبتي .. وموهبتى سجينة طبعي .. ولكنى أقاوم

My ambition is greater than my effort. My effort is greater than my talent. And my talent is a hostage of my temper. But I persist

Tawfīq al-Ḥakīm (1898-1987) – An Egyptian writer & playwright. Born to an Egyptian father and a Turkish mother, he had an insight into the lives of both the Egyptian peasants and Turkish elite. He contributed to evolution of a distinctly Arab Egyptian drama. In addition to his plays, he is best known for his 1933 novel ʿAwdat al-Rūḥ [Return of the Spirit]; a light-hearted depiction of the 1919 revolution from the point of view of an Egyptian teen. (via arabicquotes)