He  woke and cried for hills to relocate.

I watch the television with no sound
A  nervous looking man has read the News
Boris Johnson’s getting  out of bounds
The Western wind will get into his troos.

Now there is a football match on grass
The players move like birds fly round about
A man has slipped and landed on his arse
Another one just gave himself a clout

An alien being from another  world
Would be concerned at humans chasing balls.
We should be asking what is  pi when  squared
Or up in Teesdale, visiting High Force.

My loved one wept as  he needed the Sea
To walk along the shore and look for shells.
But  it was much too late and could not be
His heart was failing, punishing his cells.

He  woke and cried for hills to relocate.
The Cleveland Hills  to be in Hertfordshire.
But as I’m only human I could not make
The world amend to fulfil  his desire.

He woke again and told me of his rage
I was the cause because I was his mate
I was too brilliant when we were engaged
And still I am not apt to wash a plate.

Then he whispered, how will you get home?
What will you do when you are all alone?
How will you live when I’m completely gone
Who will make you laugh, my love, my hun?

I said I’d call a cab and get some sleep
Or maybe sit  in silence for a weep
I had to push him off, so he could leap
Into the boat to make that final trip.

I felt another person come to life
Inside of me because I was his wife.
This person knew what I should do that day
I must sing as he  passed clean away.

 

I

 

 

Just war, the shadow answered, that’s my task.

 

Anything to declare, they  bluntly asked
Gold or silver, drugs stuffed up your ass?
Just war, the shadow answered, that’s my task.

Do you believe a  just war can exist?
You’ll find that out when you have let me pass
Anything  else,  they bluntly, coldly, asked

No, nothing, you can search me if you must.
My declaration,  reason has surpassed
More wars, the figure ranted, that’s my task.

I declare the world is  done and bust
Though Jesus died and  we’ve just been to Mass
What did that do for Hitler, the guards asked?

What we choose has existential risk
As if we  live enclosed in walls of glass
Bombs, the figures chanted, they’re our task.

Shall we let these strange, black figures pass?
War is coming, guns and poison gas
Anything to declare,  the guards  just asked?
Another war and starting it’s unjust

Apostrophes and how to cope with them

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http://www.dictionary.com/e/apostrophes-101/

 

“The apostrophe causes so much strife in part because it’s the culprit in two of the most commonly confused pairs in English: you’re/your and it’s/its. Possessive pronouns (like your and its) never take apostrophes, but their soundalike friends are contractions that require apostrophes. We all struggle with these when writing and proofreading our work, but here’s a quick trick: try replacing the ’re or ’s with are or is. If the syntax works, then you need the apostrophe; if not, it’s a possessive pronoun. For example, “It’s Sunday” can be written “It is Sunday,” while “The school locked its doors” can’t be written “The school locked it is doors.” Likewise, “You’re late” can be written “You are late,” while “I saw your note” cannot be written “I saw you are note.”

The apostrophe has a number of other lesser-known uses. It can replace omitted numbers (e.g. the class of ’72the ’20s, etc.) and letters in written pronunciation slang e.g. gone fishin’. It can also be used to indicate plural letters, as in p’s and q’stwo A’s and four B’s, etc.”

Let us  bless the water and the bread

Can they not return,those much loved dead
Who leave such empty spaces in our hearts
Which like the hearts of mothers,fathers  bleed?

“Ash to ash” is what the Priests have said
But there is still a soul, a living part
Can they not return,those much loved dead?

 

Why will I not walk into the dread
Without a map or any kind of chart?
Why not trust the Word when all was said?

And so I linger late, without my  bed
Hoping  for a vision,for a start.
Can you not return,oh, needed dead?

Let us  bless the water and the bread
Bless us all before we too depart.
Why not trust the Word and what was said?

Now the holy banquet is prepared
The vital clue is  all our food is shared.
Can they not return,those much loved dead.
Ease the hearts of  humans as they bleed?

With this poem I thee truly read

With this poem I thee  truly read

With all my skilful blight I thee endow

I know not what your other lovers said

But will they lend you horses or a cow?

Without a handshake ,we are nearly dead

With all my mercies, joy ,I thee endow.

I know not what the judging angels said

We will get to heaven, some other how.

With this promise, I thee  truly take

To be my lawful and unlawful mate.

And after all, it’s for thy  kitty’s sake

I consent to eat my dinner from your plate.

For prayers and vows confused  have made me wild

But soon God’s mercy makes all  lovers mild

Hail glorious St Brexit.so  bad for our isle.

 

The Pope sings along.Or is it the poet?
Thank you for the rude remark.I have got you in my sights.
My husband heated my words
I made myself happy by studying a live sentence
Where are the men when we feel them?
They are waiting for our partitions.
It’s Purgatory.It’s cool
What did you say your game was?
Hail glorious St Brexit.so  bad for our isle.

Screen Shot 2017-09-06 at 10.30.11

Still,tarry a while…maybe you will tone down
Will Brexit convect it?
She got a master’s degree in  packing insults for export.
Did you get lit?
Say but the word and my sole shall be heeled
Who mends shoes nowadays?
Popes  don’t polish.No,they heal
And  says God ,thou shalt Remain.
Is God in Europe still?That is surprise.
England needs  a sovereign vagrant.
To God’s fear we will say naught.
My identity is being human.
I will wash your  torn bare feet.
Jesus wants  me to Remain here,
Far from Brexits so displayed.
Hail glorious St Spastic..dear saint for the Isle
That’s not pc.
How ironic can one get?
If I need to spend a penny ,
I agree  that I  have paid
Satire is dead.
And I  tell you in this country
You are free to get  eggs laid.
St Brexit, vexed it.
The Remains  are away.Just for the Day
We like St Elastic best.St George was a Turkish Jew or Roman
.Jesus was a Jew too. 160% or so.
What, a coincidence?
I have paranoia now.Is there a vaccine?
Hi,Maxine.Come on in, we are eating our words and our swords and anything else we can grab.

Elastic

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I will love you like a big elastic band would,
Holding you but not constraining,
I will be like a giant paper clip
Keeping all your bits connected.
I will be a sheet of paper
On which you write your  thoughts.
I will be a curtain on your window
To shade you from the glare.
I will be a briefcase that you hold in your hand.
But I refuse to be a wastepaper basket.
To hold your garbage.
I do have my limits
Though they are elastic.
But even elastic is not infinitely stretchy.
And neither am I

She let his presence, alien, interrupt

A child was howling in the Coffee Shop
No-one looked  and no-one intervened
His mother let the hope he had be cropped.

In a cliche, she looked fit to drop;
Demented by the second child, who screamed
A child was howling in the Coffee Shop

The mother seemed about to  fall or flip
Until her friend came with a joyful beam
She  let him make  more noise , yet hoped he’d stop

Gesticulating with  both hands and lips
Her sentences  flowed out  like mountain streams.
A child was wailing in the Coffee Shop

The tears spread wide, until a mop
Was wielded by a waiter sent to clean.
She let his presence,  alien,  interrupt

 

Unrelenting is the care that women warps.
In such lives we  may turn mean and sharp.
A child was moaning in the Coffee Shop.
His mother  wiped his eyes,caressed  his lips.

 

Can anyone write poetry?

TS Eliot said that the greatest difficulty for a poet is to distinguish between “what one really feels and what one would like to feel”...

How to write poetry: Poet Wendy Cope explains what makes a really superb poem

The best poets read widely, says Wendy Cope. Of course this will influence their work – but how else are they going to find out what makes a really superb poem?

He was an elderly man and he had queued up with the people who were waiting for me to sign their books. When his turn came, he announced unapologetically, “I don’t read poetry. I write it. I’ve brought you a copy of my book.”

If he had been younger, I might not have been so polite. I smiled, took the book and thanked him. Later on a quick glance through the self-published volume confirmed what I already knew: the poems were no good. People who never read poetry don’t write poems that are worth reading.

It’s a free country, of course, and anyone can write whatever they like. However, if you are interested in writing well, in working at being a better poet, then the most important piece of advice that anyone can give you is that you have to read both recent poetry and the poetry of past centuries. That’s how you learn. The elderly gentleman must have come across some poems at some point in order to have a concept of what a poem is. But vague memories of a few things you read at school are not enough.

It seems odd to me that anyone who hates reading poetry should want to write it at all. Are there amateur painters who never go to an art gallery? Or amateur musicians who never listen to music? Sometimes non-reading poets explain that they are afraid of being influenced. They don’t understand that being influenced is part of the learning process. Some of my earliest (and unpublished) poems read like poor imitations of Sylvia Plath. Others read like poor imitations of TS Eliot.