Oh,  Oh,ginger cat you make your parents wince
As they watch you from the window  of their home
Why not go inside and eat their mince?

These  humans who have let you stay a dunce
And let you sleep upon  a cushion foam
Oh,Ginger you are making Mike and his wife wince

You sensed their home was warm and smelled of quince
And yet you hunt for birds and often roam
Why not go  and purr and eat sweet mince?

Adoption is a treasure fit for prince
And yet you  never write them a short poem
Oh, ginger cat you make your parents wince

Do not wash your whiskers and not rinse,
Conditioner makes your coat  get a good shine
So why not go inside and eat cat mince?

It’s hard to  draw correct cross species lines
And though you are a cat, you seem to  reign,
Oh, ginger cat, you give your parents  angst
Why not go to  town and rob a bank?

As useful as a nail without a head
As  stunning as a handbag full of lead
As loving as a man who seems quite dead
As tasty as a worm on  mouldy bread

These similes will indicate  to you
My bills arrive and I am getting through
As soon our morals will  be  fried in glue
Love itself will find no avenue.

As loving as a god who died for you
As  acid as a lemon when you’ve  flu
As  powerful as a tiger trapped in  zoo
Love will come and nobody  is true.

The metaphors and similes fly through
The minds of all the children who once knew
That meaning is a story writ by you
Imagination slowly saves the  few

His mission is to have a nuclear war
Then he would be appear in history books
The only questions , what  this war for?

Nuclear bombs  to him  are shiney   toy
Although  no  future author will be left to look.
For his vocation is to start the  final war

The death instinct is stronger than we know
For suffering humans and for legal crooks
The only questions  what  this war for

How the sins,  like fish, shall  leap and glow
Until the decent are untimely hooked
So opening the gates with Nazi heirs

On  tweet all the liars and their whores
On come ghosts and Satan’s  well trained cooks
The only question, what  this war  is for.

Oh, there will be no mourners  with their rites
As millions fry  without  long drawn out fights
His destiny, to have a nuclear war
The only question , what  this world is for.

Lightness,brighntess,sunshine make us smile
We wish for summer every single day
Yet seeds are tested in the winter  soil

In the planting many men must toil
As men must work while children learn in play
Lightness,brightness,sunshine make us smile

And many seeds are fried in olive oil
To sweeten and make spicy meaty prey
Lightness,brightness,sunshine make us smile

Like human beings ,seeds  must suffers trials
Be tested by the heat and by  disgrace
Lightness,brightness,sunshine make us smile

A moment comes when seeds burst from their vials
They grow with fervour and  enlarge,embrace
Lightness,brightness,sunshine make us smile

We all alike must wait on love and grace
Suffer and be tested by the fates
But in the end the darkness is our friend
As down its deep stair we will  each descend

I can see a gentle winter sun
Setting like a softness of pink down
As if a gentle wind made sunset come

The watercolour  mauve has overrun
Wishing to play love to winter’s frown
I can see how  winter  hurts the sun

Overhead  it’s soft grey tinged with plum
This is no right garment for a clown
But  gentle winter winds made sunset come

A blueness planetary makes  our dome
As if a verb is subtly changed to noun
I can see how  night clouds flirt with sun

All the pink is falling,falling ,gone
The sun is just a monarch with no crown
As if a low dark wind made nightfall come

My heart is watered as the colours run
Combining,dying,falling,night has won
I still see a  shadow of the sun
As if a mother wind at night fall came

https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4738/t-s-eliot-the-art-of-poetry-no-1-t-s-eliot

“You began to write poetry in St. Louis when you were a boy?

T.S. ELIOT

I began I think about the age of fourteen, under the inspiration of Fitzgerald’s Omar Khayyam, to write a number of very gloomy and atheistical and despairing quatrains in the same style, which fortunately I suppressed completely—so completely that they don’t exist. I never showed them to anybody. The first poem that shows is one which appeared first in the Smith Academy Record, and later in The Harvard Advocate, which was written as an exercise for my English teacher and was an imitation of Ben Jonson. He thought it very good for a boy of fifteen or sixteen. Then I wrote a few at Harvard, just enough to qualify for election to an editorship on The Harvard Advocate, which I enjoyed. Then I had an outburst during my junior and senior years. I became much more prolific, under the influence first of Baudelaire and then of Jules Laforgue, whom I discovered I think in my junior year at Harvard.

INTERVIEWER

Did anyone in particular introduce you to the French poets? Not Irving Babbitt, I suppose.

ELIOT

No, Babbitt would be the last person! The one poem that Babbitt always held up for admiration was Gray’s Elegy. And that’s a fine poem but I think this shows certain limitations on Babbitt’s part, God bless him. I have advertised my source, I think; it’s Arthur Symons’s book on French poetry*, which I came across in the Harvard Union. In those days the Harvard Union was a meeting place for any undergraduate who chose to belong to it. They had a very nice little library, like the libraries in many Harvard houses now. I liked his quotations and I went to a foreign bookshop somewhere in Boston (I’ve forgotten the name and I don’t know whether it still exists) which specialized in French and German and other foreign books and found Laforgue, and other poets. I can’t imagine why that bookshop should have had a few poets like Laforgue in stock. Goodness knows how long they’d had them or whether there were any other demands for them.”

http://www.encyclopedia.com/psychology/dictionaries-thesauruses-pictures-and-press-releases/learning-experience

A symbol is a well  with water sweet
Like the Bedouin  wells in deserts  harsh
Never drained,  with wisdom it’s  replete

Wisdom rises up from layers deep
Not like salty words from shallow marsh
A symbol is a well  with water sweet

What we  learn is ours to live and keep
Life is saved for those who’re overparched
Never drained,  with wisdom still  replete

Keep  a guard upon the treasure heaped
Where jewels decorate the Moorish arch
A symbol is a well  with water sweet

Confident in love we take the leap
We must not ever keep a lover harsh
For  we’ll be drained, our life blood  he’ll  deplete.

What we get, we have in no way earned
But in our feelings, we have love well learned
A symbol is a well  with water  fleet
Never drained,  with wisdom it’s  replete

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/symbol

Extract:

The tender words invented as we loved
Now have no other speaker but myself.
Lost, unique, the husband, so beloved
And special words called forth by touch and love-
In my speech , these words no longer live
I cannot use our words, our loving wealth.
The chosen words invented as we loved
Now have no other listener but myself

The weary Britons saddened  and dismayed
Thought isolation would bring peace and calm
So they opted to leave Europe Voting Day~

Alas,the act was real and not a Play
The Normans and the Anglo-Saxons warned
The weary Britons saddened  and dismayed

Is God not coming down   to cut  away
The  chains that tie us to the French alarms
We raved to leave old Europe Voting Day~

Britons are a mixture  strange and fey
Some of us are Celts with Viking arms
Oh. angry Britons saddened  and dismayed

The arms of God have broken as we preyed
Let refugees drown and our own  poor burn
We opted to leave Europe Voting Day

It seems   our average reading age is nine
The government,  considerate, post on line
The British poor,  inebriate, must pay
For not knowing what the EU  was that Day