Stained glass in the rain

So then you went away,

A soft  September day.

Our love disappeared-

you suddenly weren’t here.

Losing you was not

An experience to forget.

Earthquakes in my heart

Since we were torn apart.

My heart in fragments then.

A jigsaw to begin

Now I am fresh born.

A stained glass window formed.

From fragments stuck with glue.

A pattern came anew.

My heart is so sad now.

A strength within me grew.

The way I had to go……..

My life’s deep river flowed

Only now I know

Earthquakes in my heart

Will forever be a part

Of life which comes anew

Since I’m not bound to you.

New patterns can be made

From life’s colours and shades.

Not what I first chose.

I was one of those

Who planned my thoughts ahead;

But what I got instead,

Feelings newly born

When my own soul was harmed.

Cracks let in the rain,

And I broke up again.

Not what I had planned

When this life had begun.

I don’t know where you are

But though you’re gone, I care.

I don’t hold on to hate,

As a permanent life state.

I saw the ground split wide.

As I broke up deep inside.

What is in or out?

In pain we sadly doubt.

From that fragmented state,

My new self  was made

Earthquake in my heart,

Love had made a start.

But patterns can be wrong.

So love did not stay long,

The pattern was destroyed.

Hate by love employed

Made patterns subtly new.

I was sad that I lost you, but

Earthquake in my heart,

Gave me another start.

Stained glass window panes

Look through in the rain.

Stained glass colours glow

My eyes gleam as I know.

Stained glass in the rain

I will love again.

Stained glass colours glow

Inner light will show.

Earthquake in my heart

I’ll make another start.

Drowning in the rain

Soaked right through with pain.

Colours will now blend

And my heart will mend.

Earthquake in my heart

When my true lover went

Earthquake in my soul

One day I’ll be whole.

Stained glass mirrors gleam

Life’s not what I dreamed.

Symbols in the rain.

Symbols of shared pain.

Mirrors of my heart

Shattered into parts.

Bleeding wounds will heal.

This is how life feels.

Earthquakes in my heart

When my love departs.

Postmodernism, says all stories are good

Decide with me
Past walls of heaving lies.
Past politicians, who shall be the Bride?
Decisions fly like demons on the tide.
Grab Satan”s tail and take a free and evil ride.

I fear no pill
Can help the poor and reft.
All of their payments
Are to be
Put to the cracked Test.
We do not help
For passive is our state.
Send us to Bedlam for we are adrift.

Postmodernism
Says all stories are good
But we must sift them
With our heads of wood.
I fear no evil
For soon I think I`ll be
Driven to seek asylum
By the cold and Northern sea

O mother

Things my mother used to say, come back
Oh,Lord love a duck, she seems to quack
This caused me much confusion and deep thought
As  on  her words,  my mind seems to be caught

“I’m in the doldrums,I am stuck, bemused”
Hearing this made children feel confused
Since she lost her mother when so young
Dejection, like a garment, on her hung.

When I was unhappy with my dress
She made me feel much worse by her address
“The king won’t  look at you ,you little pest”
I used to long  eternally for   rest

Sometimes she would open the front door
Push me out,”don’t come back anymore”
I see the power and not the love she claimed
Although I do not judge, I feel ashamed

No separation,self or boundary
The only escape I found was to flee
But still, I do recall her homemade bread
And how she called,”I wish that I was dead”

I lay in bed and could not get to sleep
O mother, mother, how you make me weep

Is a phone a particle or wave?

Would you choose your phone or your  own mate
Which old object would you like to trash?
With a phone, it’s hard to procreate

With a human, one might recreate;
Enjoy the wonder of the precious flesh.
Would you like a phone put in your grave?

Hermaphroditic was my kettle late
As on the fire, it  boiled the tea to  bless
A phone is  sexless, neither loves nor hates

Phone in hand the crowd perambulates.
Avaricious, as they eye the press
Would you choose a phone or human mate?

I doubt if the   new tax man gives rebates
So we need  to question then  address
Is a phone a particle or wave?

All in all, I think that I can guess
We are schizoid, wanting to regress
Would you choose your phone or a real mate
Will a phone connect or stimulate?

 

Why so unsure?

Briidge swirl.jpgWhy do we need to be told what to do? A  magazine agony aunt column had a question from 55-year-old divorcee asking was it now expected that women go to bed on a first date?
Why could she not decide herself? Is it fear of not being wanted? I think it might be dangerous unless you already know the person.On the other hand, Freud might say it is she who wants sex immediately and she projects it onto the man who is seen as rapacious.
Why again can’t we think for ourselves? A man could be thrilled at easy access to sex but where will it lead? It is harder to lose someone anyway and after getting so close it would be even more painful.

The end of taste

Pandora’s box has opened, I perceive
Sex and violence, lovelessness and hate
Which man or woman can we now believe?

At home, the wedded wife  has been deceived
Maybe she is old and has no taste
Pandora’s box has opened, I perceive.

And is there any good that’s been conceived
Or merely human life that’s laid to waste?
Which man or woman can we now believe?

A tipping point eventually’s achieved
Women  furious at their  common fate
Pandora’s box has opened, I perceive.

For a world of love, we all will grieve
Is it now and always much too late
Which man or woman can we now believe?

No wonder we prefer our phones to mates
And women fear when they go on a date
Pandora’s box has opened, I perceive
Is there nothing good we can retrieve?

 

Why not polish the step?

 

DSCF0003.jpgStan was outside polishing the brass doorstep.”My, these microfibre cloths are wonderful” he thought.Mary ,his stunning wife, was out taking a load of stuff to the Oxfam Shop.
Suddenly he heard a loud cry., then he felt a pair of hands fondling the top of his bald head.
”Eeh, no rest for the wicked, even at 91,” he screamed.He staggered to his feet and rubbed his knees.”Just give me a hand”, he said,”‘l have to stretch my hamstrings.They tighten up so.”
“I’ll stretch them for you!” Annie whispered roguishly.
Stan leaned forward to touch his toes and she could not resist the temptation to give his bottom a hearty slap.
”For Pete’s sake, Annie” he shouted faintly.”Someone might see that.
””Don’t worry, there’s no-one around at this time of the day” she tittered.
“Oh, yes there is!”
It was Dave, the paramedic.He had been lying behind the wheelie bins, all three bins standing plaintively in the tiny front garden.
”I’m an MI5 spy, and I’ve been reading your blog, Mr Brown.”
“I’m not called Brown”, said Stan nerdishly.
”Refuses to accept reality, “Dave wrote in his little notepad with some blood he had taken from himself earlier,
”Jesus Christ!”, said Stan.
”Now, now, ” said Dave,”that’s not your name,
”No my name is Tan, not Brown, you’ve been reading the wrong blog!” “Stan Tan!”
Dave appeared crestfallen,
” Any chairs need mending today?”
“My what beautiful ears you have,sweetheart,” he said to Annie,
“They look like sea shells.”
“Your eyes are like shallow pools in Lake Windermere during a thunderstorm.”Annie replied womanfully.
”Are you still a transvestite?” she faltered incoherently.
“Yes, I had a mystical experience and now I’m a Zen Buddhist as well”
“How did that happen? ” demanded Stan querulously.
“Well, I was knitting myself a Shetland lace sweater in pale blue mohair, and I suddenly had the feeling that everything was interwoven.Going forward or backwards, sideways or straight ahead, it is all part of the warp and weft of life.”” Mistakes don’t matter” he continued idly.
”Oh,yes,they do,”Annie said pouting her full lips., coated in cherry pink lipstick by courtesy of L’oreal of Paris and New York,lip balm by Yves St Laurent, peach foundation by Lancome also of Paris,toning smokey grey mascara by Max Factor,handbag Annie’s own,deep burgundy 70 denier tights by M&S, Grey pointed ballet slippers by Bally of Switzerland.[also available in black, red and teal].Raspberry lingerie by M&S.
“As I was saying..,”
Dave dived back behind the wheelie bin.
Stan polished the brass and Annie disappeared in a puff of smoke.
It was Mary’s famous imitation of a bicycle bell that had alerted them to her imminent return from the Charity shop.
“Don’t they make bike bells anymore?” Dave boringly wondered as he carried on reading the new life of Emily Dickinson
“A loaded gun.”
He thought it was an army training manual but, hey, mistakes don’t matter! Or do they? Read more at your local newsagent.Free to first 100 callers

magic tree 2.jpg

O loss divine 2

From the mangled chaos of the lines
Emerge strange forms and all too telling tales
O life satanic and O loss divine

Faces will make then themselves, define
From the compost and the deathly rail
And the mangled chaos of the lines

There is never reason nor a rhyme
As Jonah found when sucked in by a whale
O life satanic and o loss divine

What is living but a life of crime?
Whether trained in Borstal or at Yale
Feel the mangled chaos of the lines

We wander, having leaders well outgrown
Some days it is hell and we just crawl
O life satanic and o loss divine

I believe, in bitterness and gall,
We must hold our spirits as they fall
Dark the mangled chaos of our lives
O love satanic and O loss divine

She then arrested me

The stranger told me many secret thoughts
I might have been a spy for  malign powers
She did come over as a  human fraught

She asked  me what provisions I had brought.
For what imagined journey did she lure?
The stranger told me strange yet  mournless thoughts

I told her I’d no fish ,for none would bite
As for frogs, my count was even fewer
She did  incense me,warmed by numbers fraught

She asked to see a  priest for the last  rites
Or for an editor whose work were pure
The stranger told me  free,once hidden, thoughts

On purity and  need ,she  said, it’s naught
Perhaps  for mystics,  0 is what allures
She did come over , take my arm and bite

As a child I loved to write  with chalk
But being bitten I cannot endure
The stranger gave me plans,handwritten, typed.

Will she get a chance to drop shells here
Or is it wise to fathom Southend Pier?
The stranger told me many  deviant thoughts
She  then  arrested me as well she might

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