Day: March 5, 2018

The broken lamp

I cannot mend the lamp that we both chose
The top and bottom split when  he fell down
But I can make it look as if it glows

The candle burns with fragrances of rose
That takes away my sadness and my frown
I cannot mend the lamp that we both chose

I find it hard to  bear the pain of loss
The concept is  more verbal than it’s noun
But in my room  the candle  brightly glows

In Blythburgh church, a lighted candle  bless
See, the painted saints wear golden crowns!
I  will bear this breakage and its cost

I will get the strength to bear my cross
Oh,haul me, holy one, if I fall down.
Beyond  these lights we sense  the Light of God

Bless the hand that points us past the known
Where each of us must travel,all alone
I cannot mend the lamp that we both chose
I  stumble in my grief amongst the low

Maybe grace

Distant sparrows faint but musical
The rasp of the  papery pages when I closed my book
Click of the keys
A faint humming in the air
A blackbird
The boiler comes on with a jolt
I see the lamp and it shadow  on the wall
The blue glass bottles
A book I thought I’d lost
My sewing basket
The other lamp is lit.
My nose sniffles
My back is aching
I dreamed my husband was here and we were packing to go away in a hurry
I feel good when I get into bed in cold weather
My husband still looks the same.He wants me to move but it’s too late.I have forgotten something
I wake up with a happy heart
The hot water feels good on my skin
I drink tea in mug after mug
This chair may be too high
I smell the candle burning
Smell  air coming through a crack in the frame
I feel my skin calling out
My feet on the floor
Gravity
And maybe grace

Take care of the Pence

The mail men were tagging my head as I am much wanted

I make a hack  bleat

Take care of the Pence and the hounds will take care of themselves

Wake a leg or two

Make love  tracks

Shake the wit on Hampstead Heath

Fake a cake using rubber and glue

Take the guilt off the winger’s bed

Take  your upper hand off

Take umbrage as a gift  if invited to tea in the UK

Take with a rain of salt water on ice

They married but he has taken  her back

 He has  the walk of a Devil

Stalk the talk

Talk through one’s cat

Talk to the right hand

Not at all gory

There’s no such thing as a free hunch

Lazy  old sayings

That seems tawdry

It’s not a crime and it’s not a sin but it hurts

nearby-salisbury-stonehengeWhat  name do we give to an action by another person that hurts us badly and yet they have not broken the law?
Like they ring up and say we should have put a comment on their blog when  they know we’ve been very busy at work… then we have not visited their
FB page this week… or some other complaint.There is a disparity sometimes between how we are and how others see us.We may be depressed and hardly able to function,they are cross we didn’t phone them for a chat
[ie  they moan for 36 minutes whilst we listen..}

Maybe it is a sin.Nowadays we don’t use that word.But if we do not use our imagination to understand another person’s life and trials then we are  lacking in some way if this happens a lot.

In psychoanalysis it seems that people do such things because of an identification with an archaic mother image or because they were punished for wetting the bed… there is no personal responsibility..

Some of us go the other way and are over-responsible even in some cases people think they have caused the Gaza conflict or another war when they are actually mentally unwell.They are tormented.

We need to be in the middle.We need to learn to not respond to other’s excess demands and if we start to think we caused the trouble in Palestine we need to visit the doctor and take a friend for support

The alphabet by Karl Shapiro

Photo0224 rty.jpg

The letters of the Jews as strict as flames
Or little terrible flowers lean
Stubbornly upwards through the perfect ages,
Singing through solid stone the sacred names.
The letters of the Jews are black and clean
And lie in chain-line over Christian pages.
The chosen letters bristle like barbed wire
That hedge the flesh of man,
Twisting and tightening the book that warns.
These words, this burning bush, this flickering pyre
Unsacrifices the bled son of man
Yet plaits his crown of thorns.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-alphabet-5/

Where go the tipsy idols of the Roman
Past synagogues of patient time,
Where go the sisters of the Gothic rose,
Where go the blue eyes of the Polish women
Past the almost natural crime,
Past the still speaking embers of ghettos,
There rise the tinder flowers of the Jews.
The letters of the Jews are dancing knives
That carve the heart of darkness seven ways.
These are the letters that all men refuse
And will refuse until the king arrives
And will refuse until the death of time
And all is rolled back in the book of days.

Will any human see?

This change of life means I am never me
The  me I was when you lived by my side
Who I am now,  nobody can see

We walked on long white  beaches edging sea
Where horses cantered in the spacious wide
But changing life means I am not  your me

If you were here I know you would agree
That losing half our soul makes us afraid
Who I am ,  will any human see?

 

I live  and feel like  lost, cold refugee
Even as the memories pale and fade
For changing life means I don’t feel like   me

I  love and cherish your  red maple tree
The sun gleams through those twigs and sparrows play
Who I am ,  will any human see?

We take for granted what’s a normal state
The world seems solid,human, will not break
This change of life means I am never me
Who I am now, even I can’t see