Month: July 2018

Doctor,I’m running up the walls

Doctor,I’m running up the walls
That’s good.Keep going and you’ll be fit as a fiddle

Doctor,I can’t stand it
I can’t understand it.
Who can overstand it?

Doctor,I’m at the end of my tether.
I’ll give you a prescription for a longer one

Doctor, I can’t go on
Well turn round the corner

Doctor,I have no appetite
Try soft porn
What, for my dinner?
No,  have an egg whipped in  brandy
That sounds like porn too.

Doctor,I can’t sleep.
Where is your bed?
My husband has his mistress in it
Tell him to buy a bigger bed then.
I don’t believe my ears
Shall I write it down?
OK

Doctor,I can’t walk
How did you get here?
I ran

Doctor,I am depressed
When you get better you’ll be amazed how good the world is
If I get better it won’t make any difference to Syria or the Yemen
You can donate money
What, and have nothing to spend on cigarettes and gambling?
Well, it won’t bother you so much
But some things we need to be bothered about!
Too many, that;s the trouble.Just pick two and do your best

Doctor, my neighbour is too  noisy.
For what?
It upsets my cat
Get another cat and make them yowl.
Can I get a cat on prescription
Not yet

 

The Oxfam error

pinkcatandsun

A little black cat was staring into Mary’s kitchen through the glass door but when Mary went across the cat ran away

I wonder if that is Emile#s girlfriend .she thought to herself. Then she saw Annie  crossing the garden wearing a lovely purple jumpsuit and black patent leather high heeled shoes.

My goodness Annie you look really amazing full stop where did you buy that jumpsuit?

I got it in the Oxfam shop said Annie it was only £3

Down in the Oxfam shop there was Big Trouble .A lady cold Molly Dolly had been inside a cubicle trying on a dress And her jumpsuit had mistakenly been hung on a nearby rack by one of the staff.
What will I do , she cried. I can’t go naked….. don’t worry said the manager I’ll give you three free dresses instead;the previous day a lady had been in and donated 10 dresses and 10 leather handbags.

Alright Molly Dolly  said. I’ll cope. she put on a blue silk dress and put a  red one and a yellow one in her carrier bag. That jumpsuit was quite old anyway

So Molly went off in a completely different outfit from what she had arrived in

I wish they had stolen my underwear as well she thought…. now there’s an idea!

Back in Mary’s kitchen Annie had put her hands into the pockets of the jumpsuit and found a letter from Mary to somebody called Molly

Dear Molly, I am very fed up with my neighbour Annie because she had an affair with my late husband and even though he is dead she still comes around three times a day Mind you she is very nice but even so I can’t help sometimes feeling a bit cross
bye bye for now  Mary

Good grief Annie called, did you write this letter ,it looks like your handwriting

Oh no it can’t be me I’ll never write with a pen anymore

It is written with a pencil and  her friend retorted

  Stop nitpicking, Mary told her. you are not the only Alnie in the world  and I am not the only Mary. in fact they are very common names in a statistical sense.

I suppose so  Said Annie. would you like some coffee I thought I would go to that new shop at the end of the Market Place

it would be a  change

She opened her  red handbag where she had a powder compact with Max Factor  cream puff written on it

She powdered her nose as it was rather shiny.

Not many women bother to powder rheir noses these days, but men like to watch them doing it.So I have observed.

Valentines

Please be my Valentine
I love you so much
I’m also quite influenced
By knowing you’re rich.

I am anonymous
I bear you no animus
I love you  but I’m shy like the Queen

 

I loved you till my cataracts were done
Now I see you look like Mrs Thatch
She   is now long gone
And you are no man’s catch

 

I saw you looking in the mirror  now and late
Look at me instead and we can mate.

 

I loved you more than Weetabix with cream
You did wonders for my self esteem
Now I’m feeling better
I’m writing you a letter
To  say you’re still my love and my sunbeam.

A rare interview with Philip Pullman

Autumn 2013 064 I recommend this  interview very strongly.

https://aeon.co/essays/a-rare-interview-with-philip-pullman-the-religious-atheist

 

 

“‘I like to say I’m a complete materialist but…’ Pullman allows himself an English teacher’s dramatic pause, ‘matter is conscious. How do I know that? Because I’m matter and I’m conscious.’ Once again, Pullman opts for complexity and nuance, and you can hear the same dislike of hierarchies in his critique of some popular science. ‘What you often get in people of this stripe (and Brian Cox — the TV physicist — goes in for it as well), is a sentence of the formula “X is no more than/just/merely/nothing but Y.” For example: “The world is nothing but the action of molecules” or “Love is merely the movement of electrons in the brains.” Sentences of that sort are nearly always mistaken,’ says Pullman. ‘I would prefer they were put in the form of “Love is a movement of electrons in the brain, among other things.”’

‘Among other things’ would be a great motto for Pullman’s ambivalence (or should that be multivalence?) about matters of belief, fiction and science. He is of the old school of secularism which holds that faith should be kept out of the public sphere, but still refuses the kind of inquisition that seeks to root out mistaken beliefs: ‘What you feel and believe are private to you and belong to nobody else,’ he counters. ‘What you do in the public sphere is what’s important.’

Yet on one thing, Pullman’s faith is profound and unshakeable. He’s now in his mid-60s, and though he thinks about death occasionally, it never wakes him up in a sweat at night. ‘I’m quite calm about life, about myself, my fate. Because I knew without doubt I’d be successful at what I was doing.’ I double-take at this, a little astounded, but he’s unwavering. ‘I had no doubt at all. I thought to myself, my talent is so great. There’s no choice but to reward it. If you measure your capacities, in a realistic sense, you know what you can do.’”

Poems are caught  like music in the air

Poems are caught  like music in the air
Passing by ,they float on a light breeze
To land upon a mountain side  afar
Or in a desert hot and very bare
Written  in stranger’s dreams with seeming ease
They do not come here in a motor car
Nor ride upon a motor bike like man
But on their way to earth they love to  tease
They do  not answer on their way to where
Who knows if they want to talk or can
Oh, lines bizarre

 

Is it hard to write clearly

photo0112https://lithub.com/francine-prose-its-harder-than-it-looks-to-write-clearly/

Francine Prose: It’s Harder Than It Looks to Write Clearly

ASK YOURSELF, WOULD I SAY THIS?

By  Francine Prose

If we are hoping to communicate something—anything—nothing is more important than clarity. The dangers of not being clear are obvious. Is that driver approaching the intersection signaling right or left? Is the brain surgeon asking for a scalpel or a clamp? One could argue that the consequences of writing an unintelligible sentence are not nearly so drastic as a car wreck or a botched operation. But it’s a slippery slope. Which one of the rungs in the ladder were we warned to watch out for? Was it the basement or the bathtub that Auntie Em told us to take shelter in when the tornado hit Kansas?

Explaining what it means to be clear should, in theory, be easy. But in fact it’s surprisingly difficult to define this deceptively obvious concept. The simplest definition may be best: To write clearly means that another person can understand what we mean. Someone (not us) can figure out what we are trying to say.

Of course, an intelligent seven-year-old could point out the problems with this. Maybe some people will understand what we mean, but some people never will, and inevitably someone will think we meant something entirely different from whatever we had in mind. Endless variables can affect what, and how, and how much we understand: age, class, language, culture, gender, history, and so forth. And perfect communication can occur without one word being spoken.

But let’s say that you have written something, and it turns out that no one has the faintest idea what in the world you could possibly mean—no one but you, the writer. And in the absence of clarity even the writer may forget the formerly obvious purpose that has somehow managed to burrow and hide beneath a fuzzy blanket of language. On the other end of the spectrum is the sentence or paragraph that the reader cannot only comprehend instantly but see straight through to the writer’s intention, so that reader and writer are communicating directly, brain to brain, like aliens in science fiction.

Obviously, it is easier to write a short clear sentence than a long clear one. One sentence that I (and I think most people) would agree is clear is the opening of Albert Camus’s novel The Stranger: “Mother died today.”

A more recent translation by Matthew Ward begins “Maman died today.” In a preface, Ward argues that Maman, more affectionate than Mother, better expresses the narrator’s feelings. “No sentence in French literature in English translation is better known than the opening sentence of The Stranger. It has become a sacred cow of sorts, and I have changed it. In his notebooks Camus recorded the observation that ‘the curious feeling a son has for his mother constitutes all his sensibility.’ And Sartre went out of his way to point out Meursault’s use of the child’s word “Maman” when speaking of his mother.”

Maybe we should venture deeper into colloquial English and say, Mom died today. Not according to the New Yorker blog post in which Ryan Bloom argues that Ward’s use of the French word may be helpful to younger readers unaware that The Stranger is set in French colonial Algeria. Maman, Bloom claims, somewhat contradictorily, is also preferable because the American reader will “understand it with ease, but it will carry no baggage.” So it won’t affect our opinion about Meursault’s response to the death of his mother. But, Bloom goes on, the translation of “Aujourd’hui Maman est morte” really should be “Today Maman died.” Beginning the sentence with today signals that “Meursault is a character who, first and foremost, lives for the moment.”

Click link for more

Political possiblities

another-insect-bite-3

So I took myself off a writing schedule and just trusted that the poems would come. As I did this, my artistic concerns changed; I was able to approach all the notes I had taken at and about work and use them, judiciously, for new poems. And although there are plenty of strictly formal poems in Proprietary, I have, I hope, a growing sense of ease and trust in my work; I want to employ devices, such as rhyme, as appropriate, but always in order to move the poem as close as possible to the “lineament or character,” to quote Wallace Stevens, of the thing described.

ES: A poem like “Fashion” eschews some of your characteristic formalism. “Order,” too, though it recalls the mirrored form of “Poem Beginning with a Line by John Ashbery” from your first book, and “Fantasy Suite” from Straight Razor. Is such a move a result or a root cause of this relaxing of those formal, lyric restrictions?

RM: It turns out the airtight lyric, all association and inference, is not always now the right vehicle for my narrative; I found too much tension to be, at times, armor against feeling. The poem “Order” is a form, sure—a line-based palindrome, as a reviewer once called it—but the poem, in its mirroring, undoes itself (I hope) carefully, gently, the speaker admitting about his father, “we almost laughed / but not for years.” And “Fashion” is a sort-of-list of grievances against ex’s; I wanted the almost rhyming, almost playful accrual of damning details—damning for the complicit speaker, too—as clear as possible in meaning, but the ensuing pain suggestive, like bitters swirled in a glass.

ES: Undoing, undermining, take down—if the book has a thesis, is this dismantling (of a self, of a city, of a language) it?

The mystical poet who can help you lead a better life

http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20170109-the-mystical-poet-who-can-help-you-lead-a-better-life

  • By Daniel Ladinsky

9 January 2017

Shams-ud-din Muhammad Hafiz (c. 1320-1389) is one of the most beloved poets of the Persians, and is considered by many – from different cultures – to be one of the seven literary wonders of the world. Ralph Waldo Emerson and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe both agreed. As Emerson said of Hafiz: “He fears nothing. He sees too far, he sees throughout; such is the only man I wish to see or be.” And Emerson gave Hafiz that grand and famous compliment, “Hafiz is a poet for poets.”

Hafiz has no peer – Goethe

Both Goethe and Emerson translated Hafiz. And after Geothe’s deep study of him, simply – though remarkably – stated, “Hafiz has no peer.”

Hafiz poems were also admired by such diverse notables as Nietzsche and Arthur Conan Doyle, whose wonderful character Sherlock Holmes quotes Hafiz. Garcia Lorca praised the Sufi poet. Johannes Brahms was so touched by his verse he used several in his compositions. And even Queen Victoria was said to have consulted Hafiz in times of need – which has been a custom in the Middle East for centuries.  The Fal-e Hafiz, is an ancient tradition in which a reader asks Hafiz for advice when facing a difficulty or at an important juncture in their life – treating his books as an oracle and opening them with a deep wish from their soul for guidance.

Read more by clicking on the link

For cards

You are the sweetest girl in Britain
I am  totally smitten
Love me, my kitten

Handsome,fun and keen
No better man has been
In my arms before
Love me some more

I wish you the best birthday possible
For someone so irascible
Why did I marry you?
I must have been overdue.

To the sweetest little sister in the world

Oh,my dear cousin
You are worth a dozen
You’re a genius at art
And you love  folk so smart

Sorry  about the missing ” ly”

I  send you this card today
As otherwise I’d have to pay
My brother was walking past
I said, put it in  fast

No other woman in the land
Has got a sense of humour
I send you an elastic band
To play with  when you’re gloomier

Diminishing verse

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Photo by my sister EFLim of Lavenham,Suffolk UK
So in  school it is good to be  real keen and smart
Like I am   when I go to the Mart
I’m so smart,it’s an art.

Later we need to  know how to start
How to tell a   steak pie from a tart
I shall start, smash my art!

Women in fur were said to look slink
But my mum said we looked  like that damn missing link
I said, put that in ink!

Babies will die if they do not  grow
Runner  beans don’t  like to stand in a row
When the doc pricked me, I cried Ow!Ow,Oh!

Can someone count how many times babies blink?
Can I put my poem at the end of a link?
My printer wants ink!

My father said girls should never be frank
Weeds that grow thickly are said to smell rank
In America, doubtless ,some men are called ‘Ank

I started my senility as a new blogger
As I was weak I could not be a logger
Now I’m an ogre.

I’m getting to have an addiction to swearing
My boy friend complains  he finds me  too wearing
An r  makes an earring,

The induction hob cooks  herbs and hot spices
What a shame there’s  no s, pisces!
But it thaws out the ices.
I see  a strawberry, oh what a device,hey!

Disguised

A noise unheard for weeks rushed to my ear
Puzzled and disturbed I looked outside
Where heavy rain was washing cars of dust
And tramps in  demons’ coats from holes black leered

The weather  man called sun, and so had lied
I see the general method and the thrust
The sword back in its scabbard ,so unused,
As gently as a virgin made forced bride
The hierarchy, choice of the august,
Disguised

The peat rich moors by fire were over-run

focus photo of brown sheep under blue sky
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

The sound of thunder rain rapped on my ears
After arid dryness, what relief
To hear the sucking sound   from dried up lawns
Though deserts  of the heart are our worst fear

For  Northern Britain, dryer than belief
The  space  for the Inferno’s  ghosts had yawned
The peat rich moors by fire  were over-run
Through mould of heather dry, and decayed leaf
No fear of rotting,under ripened corn
Yet still we ask, has Armageddon  come?
What is its form?

Bullies, by Robert Lee Brewer

war-gas-2-3
Art by Katherine 2018

This is called diminishing verse

The many children in my neighborhood are glad
when all the adults chase around a certain lad
who acts the bad guy of an anti-bully ad,

but it’s ironic that any child who might stray
be knocked around like a cafeteria tray
when children only want to shine like a sun’s ray.

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

Your vocabulary shrinks daily

There are many different types of poems.In some metre is important  whereas in others it is the number of syllables in the line.The first sort are more similar to songs like the poetry/lyrics of Leonard Cohen.In recent times  the main forms of poetry  have been less used in favour of free verse.This may be because if they are bad they remind us of those sentimental rhymes in birthday cards.Why not try free verse instead

On this day a very special day
A very special person was born
But it was not you

One day you will find your own  metier
Till then,stay out of my way
You are hopeless with words
Your vocabulary shrinks daily
What crap, I think when I read it
Try to see it my way

I’

Bonfire, by Robert Lee Brewer

A dizain

We talked briskly by the light of the fire
with our hands flying about like embers
using Shakespeare to disguise our desire
burning through the soft chill of December.
If there were others, I don’t remember–
lost in the flames flickering off your eyes,
my only passion was to memorize
every word and each quirky turn of phrase
leading me through a labyrinth of sighs–
to recall racing through a love-cast maze.

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

Poetic Forms

Codonopsis-clematidea_2018http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/list-of-50-poetic-forms-for-poets

 

Here are a few:

Freudian endings

  • animal pet cute fur
    Photo by Inge Wallumru00f8d on Pexels.com

    Live all ways
    Ever tours
    Love appals
    Hours since Ely
    Yours fatefully
    Good light always
    Never abuse
    Ending hours as  ever
    Gotta woe now
    Bee line for yours
    Tease phone me
    Glazed ever.
    I long to be you
    Yours within reason
    Yours as the bees sting
    Ants ate the letter.
    I adore few forever
    What did you say your  game was?

Caritas

SPB-Frit_Somerford-Jun-92
Photo by Mike Flemming

 

https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/caritas

Synonyms
goodwill, compassion, consideration, concern, kindness, kindliness, kind-heartedness, tenderness, tender-heartedness, warm-heartedness, brotherly love, love, sympathy, understanding, fellow feeling, thoughtfulness, indulgence, tolerance, liberality, decency, nobility, graciousness, lenience, leniency

View synonyms

  • ‘Simone Weil is writing about love as caritas when she defines it: ‘Belief in the existence of other human beings as such is love’.’

Extract:

This photo is Prince William in a Holocaust Memorial Centre in Jerusalem.I can’t recall where I saw it but it was a newspaper

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  • THESE ARE EXAMPLE SENTENCES from the above site
  •  though that the speaker, while identifying caritas in familiar, Christian terms, actually downplays its rich, religious significance.’
  • ‘Democracy, so understood, arises out of mutual need, and finally points to the overarching necessity of a shared sense of democratic caritas, or charity.’
  • ‘And there’s a long tradition that’s talked about this using the word caritas or mutuality, and, this is within the Christian tradition.’
  • ‘Verwindung is not the repudiation of religious faith, Christianity in particular, but the response best correlated to Christian caritas.’
  • ‘For Cicero, friendship involves genuine, deeply felt affection, which he repeatedly calls ‘love,’ using the Latin caritas and amor.’
  • ‘They did this primarily by promoting new devotions, such as that to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, which celebrated a very medieval idea of love or caritas.’
  • ‘The spiritual disciplines, like the Christian ideal of caritas, that lift human relationships out of the realm of the utilitarian seemed to have no place in the new world that commerce was bringing into being.’
  • ‘Simone Weil is writing about love as caritas when she defines it: ‘Belief in the existence of other human beings as such is love’.’
  • ‘Exploration of such issues as ritual, dietary codes, cleansing, communion, caritas and compassionate fasting are complemented by specific ‘spiritual meal guidelines’ exercises for readers to practice.’
  • ‘Hospitality – caritas – became a duty for all Christians, whether the one to whom aid was proffered or from whom it was received was a family or tribal member, or a stranger.’
Synonyms

Just one letter

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

How to write bitter
How to read quacker
How to undersand men
I want a wireless louse
I want a fireless house
I can read very past
How to happy when live
I am not a deceiver any more
She said she was my bother and always would br
How to seep better
I  danced all  tight
Why to change your bid weekly
How to gimble
How to spill gyre
How to  look meat and too veg
How to mow the laws
How to cow lawns
Learn to like hating
Ride a  bake quickly
How to light  your limp  after  a fuse blows
How to use a sowing machine for men
Hygiene and its rusks
English is  my tongle
What is a dongle fur?

Preventative War

“I think every big town should contain artificial waterfalls that people could descend in very fragile canoes, and they should contain bathing pools full of mechanical sharks. Any person found advocating a preventive war should be condemned to two hours a day with these ingenious monsters.”
Author: Bertrand Russell
Source: What Desires Are Politically Important? Russell’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech. (1950)
More Info: 

Meaning in the madness


animal cat domestic cat eyes
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com


The musician of disordered sound, the poet of decomposed language, the painter and sculptor of the fragmented visual and tactile world: they all portray the break up of the self and, through the rearrangement and reassemble of the fragments, try to create new structures that possess wholeness, perfection, new meaning.

Heinz Kohut

Things people probably don’t know about University and Teachers

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1,Many people who teach are postgraduate students being paid very little.They may account for half of your tutors in some universities.They may be good at teaching  but they are not experienced nor given any training or help; the  full time staff  have to  produce  a book a year, or thereabouts  to keep their jobs.That means a lot of rubbish is published and research is judged by the number of citations not by academic evaluation as that is expensive and time consuming
I imagine doctors are unable to read all the new research coming out and maybe a lot is useless anyway
2.Some former polytechnics hired at high wages people with a good research record and then paid part-time staff  on lowe wages to do the actual teaching…. and keep them hanging on till October not knowing if they will be hired again or for  how many hours
So having someone famous in the Department does not mean you will ever see them or hear them
3 My niece had 3 hours a week teaching in her final year  of an English Literature degree at a well known University.And she was paying full fees and now has a huge debt
Is three hours a week sufficient for  full time students.Yes, they have to read but given all the mental health problems we hear about they could be very lonely and lose motivation
4 Is it true they expanded universities to reduce the dole queue? Probably…..

Why no  love for Jesus’ human face?

Punctured by the uselessness of love
Shrunken by the grief that comes again
My heart has shrivelled.has no love to give

Worn out by the world and all its strife
Destroyed by visions  of such proud display
Punctured by the uselessness of love

What did a fig tree do to lose its life?
What the ransom Jesus wished it pay?
My heart has shrivelled  underneath  his knife

Down below or sky high thus above
Nothing seems worthwhile nor even gay
Dragged down by the uselessness of love

 

If there is a ransom,who’ll pay half?
Shall I die while I feel this disgrace?
My heart has shrivelled and destroyed my life

Why do refugees crawl,die displaced?
Why no  love for Jesus’ human face?
Tortured by the uselessness of strife
My heart blew up and  killed me like a knife

Good night

I lost my  pass for travelling on the bus
I kept it with my keys and by my purse
So now it’s fastened on a chain  with clip
I look for lobster fasteners and  a whip
I need a shade of grey for my  red eyes
And a list of ways I can tell lies
My purse is heavy with the  evidence
The goods and booklets I  have so well spent
My comb is clean for it is never used
I use the toothbrush mostly on my shoes
I use the GNT for frightening ghosts
Pain is killed by uttering rude long words
I cannot write them down as  it is sin
To draw my readers  into hell’s own twin
And now I feel  my time to dream  has come
Goodnight,I say, to each and every one

The landscape loved

I  first found  reverie  through  picture books
Safe in bed, and safe from mother’s looks
Then I used to gaze at magazines-
Advice on what to wear and how to seem.
Catalogues are free and I used them
To look at dresses sweet or handsome men.
Into a blissful dream of eyes  that gleam
I’d  be made one with all that is and seems
No vigilancy needed in my bed
Surrounded by the books I’ve  often read
I read my favourites  till they are absorbed
Their images all mingle till  they mate
To be transformed to   metaphors at night.
Before the rising sun brings its great light
Then my sleep is reverie indeed
I see the landscape s loved  once more unfreeze

Ode to the lock on the door

Oh,Yale lock on my  blue front door
Your ingenuity I adore.
You keep the thief from coming in
To steal the garbage from my bin.
To steal my husband’s radio
And other bits , I can’t say more.
I know we can have bolts as well.
We had a Chubb ,I can now tell.
And a giant front doorbell.
It played a dozen  different tunes
To frighten off that crescent moon.
So in my handbag I have keys
Asthma sprays for when I wheeze
GNT for heart attacks
And hankies in those dainty packs
Then , of course, I have my purse
Mobile phones which often curse.
I have lipstick, suncream,balm
A comb and toothpick  to add charm
So when I lock the big front door
I bow to Yale ,my key’s own whore.

Together alone

We were alone together

In this sitting room.

I would draw on my laptop,

While he had his camera on zoom.

 

We were alone together

Now I’m alone alone.

I am  studying poetry

Because he’s not on the phone.

 

We were alone together

As I sat by his bed.

He still didn’t speak but then he winked

As I laid my hand on his head.

 

I wish I could be with you

Together and not alone

I wish I could be with you

And you were not cold as stone.

On our hill, inferno, smoke and flames

Winter Hill’s  like hell with smoke and flames
People drive  to  view the garish glow
We need entertainment, it’s  sublime

What must we look forward to next time?
We are  kept well lulled by whiring shows
Winter Hill’s  like hell with smoke and flame

As we watch, we wonder who’s to blame
Who has ventured where noone should go
To get us entertainment, is it crime?

 

Scotchman’s Stump  where murder was on time~
I stood alone  there when I was down low
Winter Hill’s  like hell with smoke and flame

One  afternoon, we walked past that old Barn
A stile led to a meadow years ago
To give us Sunday outings was no crime

Now I  feel destruction like a blow
Rivington and Winter Hill,I know
On our hill, inferno, smoke and flames
Is it God or man that we should blame?

 

We miss the hand that held us

The loss  of those beloved
Can  we live without them
Where are you,love?
What are your intentions?

As on we go
We miss the hand that held us
Where are  you, love?
Where are your dear shoulders?

Down through the years
We seek and never find them
Where are you, love
Where are your inventions

On  old photographs
You move my heart to weeping
Where are you, love?
Soon I too shall be sleeping

Words that we made
Now are never spoken
Images will fade
But my heart is always open,

Come back, my love
I can’t live without you
With the white dove
I’d like  to find worlds novel

Where are you,love
Where are all the lost ones?
Where are you, love,
The children and the last ones?

Last  ones shall be first
The wealthy  all rejected
Loved ones are not  cursed
Nor to  ills subjected

Come back,dear  love
Come back,sweet love
As the white dove
Flies still above
Oh, where are you, my love?