Day: September 23, 2017

I miss your hand

I
” A poem about memories of love ”

Photo0915
I miss your hand that used to hold my hand
I miss your eyes that used to smile at me
The needs of love don’t feel like a demand
I miss the hand that caressed my held hand
I miss your love and miss you as a friend.
When you gazed, your eyes lit what you’d see.
I miss the hand that used to warm my hand
I miss the eyes that used smile at me.

I miss your arms around me in the dark
I miss the morning when we rarely spoke
On Purbeck Hills, we heard the singing lark
I miss your arms around me in the park
Poole Harbour’s beauty was a living spark
Sharing silent glances as we walked
I miss your arms around me in the dark
I miss the mornings, though we rarely spoke

Silent sharing; company in love.
With strangers; oh,that manufactured talk.
To be silent; dome of sky above
To be silent; spaciousness of love.
Strangers, how their talk can jolt and shove
I held your hand; caressing as we walked
Silent caring; sympathy of love.
No stranger, blindly snatching in the dark.

He apologised to the loaf when he cut the bread

 

Dr Adams was a very kind man

He never fried sprats when they were soaked in jam

He apologised to the loaf when he cut the bread

And he wept many tears when his ants were found  all dead..

He was enamoured of spiders because he liked their webs

And even let them build one in between his ribs

He loved his wife and allowed her to be free

So she met a jolly sailor and they went out to sea.

Suddenly he realised, altruism’s bad

Unless it’s given to those folk who truly are sad.

So he made a resolution to be a bit more stern

And gave up putting dinner out for the earthworms.

He met a kind fair lady and he began to hope

She would marry him and raise some antelopes.

He said she must be free but not quite totally;

Loving other men was not permitted, you see.

Some folk can live with a marriage and affairs

Some men even keep both concubines and bears.

But he and his new lady decided to be chaste

As loving any other folk was a sorry waste.

They had many offspring of whom I am one

I look like the pussy cat , when all is said and done..

And I like being groomed and sitting on folks’ knees

Think whate’er you like but it’s fun running up trees.

My father was black and my mother is white

So I am rather mixed ,except in a good light.

I have many patches in different shades of grey

I only wish my whiskers didn’t look like hay.

I am hoping to marry when the corn and barley’s ripe

Oh, what fun we’ll have in the middle of the night.

We’ll make love in the haystack and beside the pond.

And that will leave good memories  for those who here belong

Is thought now something to eradicate?

I’m wondering how much more our world will change
Out of Europe, gambling with the knaves
While North Korea flaunts missiles near the stage

Donald Trump seems mad in his exchange.
He spends his nights on Twiller in a rage
I’m wondering how much more our world will change

What nasty horror’s waiting off the page
When stupid people choose to immolate?
Has North Korea got missiles just off stage?

Have all the wise gone off, are they estranged?
Is thought now something to eradicate?
I’m wondering how much more our world will change

Where’s Nigel and his Huguenot Garage?
Where’s the careful mind so delicate?
Will North Korea let missiles be our fate?

Where is  the Father who can confiscate
Where is Mother and her grip on fate?
I’m wondering how much more our world can change
North Korea flaunts missiles, Trump ‘s upstaged

 

 

 

The minds of Europe tolerate no pain

The parasol to shield friends from the sun
Has fallen backwards in the autumn winds
Goodness flew away and  Europe’s done

There is no birdsong, thieves  have been and gone
An autumn gold has fallen on my mind
I live here like an ancient, tied to none.

Yet I must declaim the harm we’ve done
The referendum’s fruits  leave  blight behind
Cordial neighbours scorn us, where’s the plum?

I see some little weeds  make up a crown
I must enjoy their  greenness, love of mine
Before  machines  shall trample all  growth down

I still admire the  blades of grass in towns,
Between the flagstones, there they have their reign.
Civil life has flown, the sun falls down.

As Oracle, disaster I proclaim
The minds of Europe tolerate no pain
The parasol did shield us from some sun.
Summer’s  died and   Brexit is no fun

To narrow is to do what Satan knew

The first poet was the one who found the new
Perception without wish to change what’s seen
With wider focus showing different views

Mostly we see what we wish to do
A goal, a task, expectation not a dream
The first poet was the one who saw anew

And having started kept their minds unglued
So played around in sunlight’s happy beams
A wider focus shows us different views

Life can be a  broader avenue
Like rivers are combined from little streams
The first poet was the one who saw anew

To narrow is to do what Satan knew
To follow just one path to an extreme
A wider focus shows us many views

 

The poet shall not judge  not ever blame
All the bored who cast off their deep shame
For poets are the ones who find the new,
With wider focus, welcoming  such views

 

 

 

The silence underneath the silence comes

A silence rich with love and full of joy;
The silence after waking at the dawn,
May be both an anchor and a buoy.

Yet often we don’t know what we seek for:
The latest dress, the perfect English lawn?
We forget this marvellous essence, full of joy

We murder by ignoring  love’s own core
We do not see the buds which are new born.
We want an anchor yet we want our toys.

What is most arresting is the awe
We feel when we survive deep grief again
Find  silence rich with love and full of joy

Out of Nature, its Creator calls
Taking in her arms what caused us pain.
Being both an anchor and a buoy.

The silence underneath the silence calms,
Stills our breathing with reviving balm
Perfect silence rich with love and  joy
Shall be our an anchor and shall be our buoy.

 

 

 

 

Watercolor love

Like watercolor pictures left out in the rain
Our colors have mingled,yet the originals still remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colors blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colors intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor picture painted by the rain,
We shall go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain

How writing began 3,000 years ago

http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/themes/writing/historic_writing.aspx

 

“The earliest form of writing

The earliest writing we know of dates back to around 3,000 BC and was probably invented by the Sumerians, living in major cities with centralised economies in what is now southern Iraq. Temple officials needed to keep records of the grain, sheep and cattle entering or leaving their stores and farms and it became impossible to rely on memory. So, an alternative method was required and the very earliest texts were pictures of the items scribes needed to record (known as pictographs).

These texts were drawn on damp clay tablets using a pointed tool. It seems the scribes realised it was quicker and easier to produce representations of such things as animals, rather than naturalistic impressions of them. They began to draw marks in the clay to make up signs, which were standardised so they could be recognised by many people.

A wedge-shaped instrument (usually a cut reed) was used to press the signs into soft clay. This gave the writing system its name, ‘cuneiform’, meaning wedge-shaped.”