Day: August 19, 2017

Will my tale be written on a leaf?

I have walked the silent paths of grief
Sunless,dreary,cold and all alone.
I have slept on beds of winter leaves.

I feel that death’s a cruel,mysterious  thief.
Although my heart weeps and my joy has gone,
I have never felt I was deceived.

I have learned that human life is brief.
I have learned by sorrow we’re undone.
I  have sifted earth and what’s beneath.

I have felt my dark emotions seethe
While I'm cruelly mocked by glaring sun.
I have learned the geography of grief.

I wait in patience for my life to cease.
Will  I know when my last supper's  come?
Will my tale be written on a leaf?
Unconsoled  grief  can make   us dumb
Into  our  hearts, we drag the ice  that numbs
I have walked the silent paths of grief
I have made my bed on winter leaves

Virtue or vice,it’s all part of the spice

MAGGIE-S-WALKER-Maternity-Clothing-Top-Fashion-Maternity-font-b-Clothes-b-font-Summer-Batwing-Sleeve

An idle mind is  a poet’s playground. especially if it’s someone else’s

To be indecisive is a great advantage to the artist,but not to the cook

To be totally well is a disadvantage to the philosopher, as a bed is known to generate  more than babies.

A full mind keeps out the intrusive.So does a crash helmet.Divide by three and Bob’s your uncle

So that  is where babies come from…. poor you!

A rich uncle is best kept warm.Unless he’s dead.

I’ll keep going my way… that is a tautology,dear.Wow,mum,did you go to Oxford?Yes, we went on a  take your chance coach trip to the Bodleian Library and I stole all these books.

What’s yours is thine and what’s me is divine

It’s better to lose gracefully than to be disgraced.

How you see yourself may have nothing to do with who you are in reality.

When in doubt,go to bed.By yourself.

When glum keep mum.

If you hate someone do not do evil.

An idle mind is busy with your dreams.

If you have nothing to do,do nothing

If you can’t stop thinking, feed the ducks.

One dear husband is enough

Oh,steam iron how I love your heat
And how you make my clothes so neat.
A flat iron is no use to me
For  no open fire is here,you see.
And thought I liked the flickering coals
I feared those faces that looked droll.
They were in the flames and peered
At anyone who ventured near.
I wonder how the people past
Kept their trousers neat and pressed.
Now I’ve bought a hand steamer
To keep the germs  off my femurs
I didn’t like to say,my crotch
In case the devil is on watch.
I never ever used to think
My body perfume was distinct.
And yet it may appeal to men
I don’t want to try again.
One dear husband is enough
Though he did enjoy a cough
He had asthma and bad eyes
Looking out with wild surmise.
He saw my golden hair float by
As by his window it did fly
All at once he fell  for me
And we sat by an apple tree.
His clothes were wrinkled so I thought
I would iron them for a start.
He could darn and polish floors
Cook lamb chops and apple cores.
So my steam iron sees much use
I wonder if it’s self abuse
For  as a woman feminist
I’m not meant to iron vests
I’m not meant to  boil  mens’ socks
Nor their pants of interlock
I’m not meant to make them tea.
What a naughty person,me!
I must  confess these wicked sins
Then I’ll polish my cake tins.
Satan wants me down in hell
Don’t say he needs my  iron as well
As he was an angel proud
I’ll save him into One Drive Cloud.