How should we remember those we’ve lost?

How should we remember those we’ve lost
The husband, the miscarried child, the dreams
The date they died, or where we loved them first?

The place in time, the lists we make, the ghost
Or should we reimagine  much loved scenes
Should we cling to  memories of the lost?

Who is it that we shall miss the most
The husband or the children unrevealed
The date they disappeared, the last, the first

I do not laugh or cry when all alone
Emotions have no message,nothing mean
When noone  knows  or shares the  space between

While I live, my body and my bones
Prefer the sensuous scents of ripe cornfields
The place he slept, his tenderness ,his arms

I  still feel the  grief  from child stillborn
The Saxon cliffs of Kent,with smoke adorned
How should we remember husbands  gone
When they leave no child and all is done?

Cud yew walk a little faster?

10423980_553244238148792_4594114838931514474_n.jpg

Why did the cow chew the could?
What cud we have for tea?
He said he’d come if he cud but he’s working the late shift
Cud you call the manager,please?
I wood if I cud
You can be persecuted for dumping rubbish or giving tips to flies.By order.
Are the Christians expecting to be prosecuted for  not being Hindhu?
Strange how all the Abrahamic religions are violent compaired to other ones
Children,pare off for the dancing lesson
He almost paired my skin off.
Do not pare off for sexual or romantic love under sixteen  yares.
Your smart watch is really watching you!

Google, hordes and you

pexels-photo-97317.jpeg

 

“It doesn’t actually send any of this data outside of its own four walls. Instead, Google hordes it all so it can learn more about you, and better target the adverts you see and the services you use.” Houghpost UK

I horded lots of batteries and I had already horded pens for years
The  hoards of barbarians defeated Rome
He was in a hoard when he got claustrophobia.
We are different people when we are in a hoard

They were all on bored a ship when it sank killing the entired family
Where is the bread bored?
In the oven?
I am feeling so board this afernoon.
I wood too .
Wood you marry me if I arsked you?
He said the teacher was board so she showed them some rude photos from Holy Rude Palace  in Edinburgh
My teacher boared a hole in the blackbored then was sacked

 

Indigenous  hoards ran amok  in   the Square
He hordes bread in the sidebored. They have no frontbored
He pored over the  images all night
Why have you not pored the tea?Are blackheads large pours?
I have fine skin but still have pours in it.
It’s hard to b find whoreding round ear
She keeps on whoreding clothes,doctor
Whoreding  allowed   in your own rooms only.Are we all on bored yet?
The bird sored high above while  he threatened it with a soared he was carrying
I’ve got no cold soars so I am safe to kiss
Herpes, was he the postman in hell?
As for the Harpies, they never cleaned the lavator
Are you soar still?
My lip feels like a board ladybird.
Let me igknight your passion
Jesus Christ!

His hugs were sweet

I must walk down the garden but I weep
My bag of tears has burst,I run amok
We used to sit  outside to  read or eat

I dream of  him awake and when I sleep
He asks me to go with him,so I pack
I will walk down the garden but I weep

 

He  sees I  live in chaos and don’t cook
My active life by sadness  has been blocked
We used to sit  outside to  read or eat

I ask him when he comes to take a look
He smiles discreetly yet he seems to mock
I will walk down the garden then I’ll  weep

This is an awful setback,not defeat
For circumstances dire gave me a shock
We used to sit  outside to  read or eat

Life  will cause us suffering with is knocks
Time to wait and time to gather pluck
I must walk down the garden when I weep
We used to sit  outside,his hugs were sweet

Birthday

15253488_819206571552556_8037309440217100284_n.jpgHis birthday comes and I need make no cake
For he has gone to dust and my heart breaks
We have no  rituals, we must make our own
My heart is hard ;it feels like  heavy stone
His birthday follows mine and I am thrown
Too many losses make me weep and  moan
I gaze into the mirror of the lake
Trudge on down the path while my heart quakes

He makes me laugh and Q.E.D we’re kin.

 

He has a mobile face with rubber skin
He loved me much and soon I  much loved him
As proofs in mathematics wear minds thin
And doctrines of religion make us sin
He makes me laugh and Q.E.D we’re kin.
He touched me deeply where our souls begin
He has a mobile face with rubber skin
He loves me much , and so I much love him

The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less

Gerard Manley Hopkins1844 – 1889

The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less;  
The times are winter, watch, a world undone:  
They waste, they wither worse; they as they run  
Or bring more or more blazon man’s distress.  
And I not help. Nor word now of success:       
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—  
Work which to see scarce so much as begun  
Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness.  
  
Or what is else? There is your world within.  
There rid the dragons, root out there the sin.   
Your will is law in that small commonweal...

Poetry at times of turmoil

pexels-photo-784849.jpeghttps://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/poems-times-turmoil

I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone

Rainer Maria Rilke1875 – 1926

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone 
    enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small 
    enough
to be to you just object and thing, 
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying 
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions, 
where something is up, 
to be among those in the know, 
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, 
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection. 
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; 
for there I would be dishonest, untrue. 
I want my conscience to be 
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed 
for a long time, one close up, 
like a new word I learned and embraced, 
like the everday jug, 
like my mother’s face, 
like a ship that carried me along 
through the deadliest storm.
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