Day: March 18, 2018

We are all unstable  till we’re dead

How d’ you start writing? I don’t know.
Once I was by Lidl’s in the snow
A song-line came uncalled into my throat
Oh,Lord, I saw an ink blot on my coat

Rorsach is a name we all  can hear
If we are unstable in our fear.
Yet seeing visions in a blob of ink
Would make me a psychotic in a blink

We are all unstable  till we’re dead
If you are a statue, don’t see red!
I get angry with my muse at night
She sends me thoughts when I turn off the light

The one I got by Lidl’s made me hunt
I had to create ten more to put in front
And then I had to write the bitter end
For cliches are so useless round the bend

And when it happens at 11 pm
I feel like saying, can’t you come again?
I don’t know what some parts might really mean
If they come to me when I am wrapt in dream.

I write the ideas down on bags of flour
On novels which to read I then aspire
I write them on my wrist in my own blood
But only when I’m feeling I’ve gone mad

If I search the house for paper scraps
I find some with the ordnance survey maps
Those precious maps we bought for holidays
Not knowing we’d no time left in our Play.

I find scraps on my bed or in the hall
Some take flight and end up on the wall
If I glued them onto a large card
I’d have a collage with a message shared

Oh,start where e’er you want, like Coleridge
Or admire Hopkins and his saviour Robert Bridge
Maybe it is Bridges,I forget,
Entertaining daffodils I met.

Things I used to like included stiles

Things I used to like included stiles
Dry stone walls and  greedy half tamed sheep
Now I like to see a friend who smiles
And in my heart I store the love that keeps

Things I liked were making little fires
Boiling water from a nearby stream
Boys were friends and  helped girls through the mire
And got our muddy shoes to look quite clean

I liked making cakes and sausage rolls
Helping mother with these female arts
With my academic mind I was not whole
So  the female arts  informed my heart

I would like to walk the heather moors
But I am sad for my folk are no more.

Suddenly smiling broke out

When we’re wrapped up warm  and snug in bed
We remember mother and her arms so dear
Otherwise we feel a lonely dread
A hollowness  that soon fills up with fear

When we live alone ,we miss  love’s touch
A kiss, a hand on arm, a kindly glance
A sinking feeling gets us in its clutch
Though we may  be touched by happenstance

“Being touched”  meant  somebody was mad
Touched by demons, touched and set aside
Labelling is unkind,indeed it’s bad
And many lonely people try to hide

Let’s touch  the other’s heart by  sudden smiles
Without the wish to conquer  or beguile

 

 

Memory and invisible people

You know you are getting old when you begin an email.go to the bathroom.forget about the email and imagine you have sent it.Then you wake up at 3 am shouting,why does nobody care about me  anymore

Why does thinking about an email  seem equivalent to sending it?

Why did They not tell me about the Drafts folder?Whoever They are!

There seem to be other people living invisibly in your home who throw pens and batteries onto the floor and leave plates on the armchairs and mugs on the floor just where you can’t see them except on June 21st