Buy shoe laces in a weird colour

Buy cheap jewellery

A new scarf?

Do some alterations… make a mini maxi

Wear your bra over your sweater

Buy a fake leather handbag [ lighter too]

Wear masses of eye makeup

Wear lots of moist lipstick

Wear your nightgown as a dress.

Or indeed wear a dress in bed [ washable only]

1.

With a dogstooth checked pleated wool skirt 34 inch long [  more since I have lost weight]

Wear bright green trainers,red tights and a yellow  and orange sweater

And an oversized down coat in  a strangely indescribable colour with my husband’s  hat if needed

2.
With some beige coloured trousers

Smart loafers in blue, a purple polo neck and a green and black anorak with hood in case I enter a monastery

3

With some very wide legged jeans
A giant size  Arran sweater in impure new wool and a loose denim coat and  striped scarf in brown and orange

Shame and guilt are noble emotions essential in the maintenance of civilized society, and vital for the development of some of the most refined and elegant qualities of human potential.

https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/11/what-is-a-poem/281835/

Extract

“There is at least one kind of utility that a poem can embody: ambiguity. Ambiguity is not what school or society wants to instill. You don’t want an ambiguous answer as to which side of the road you should drive on, or whether or not pilots should put down the flaps before take-off. That said, day-to-day living—unlike sentence-to-sentence reading—is filled with ambiguity: Does she love me enough to marry? Should I fuck him one more time before I dump him?

But such observations still don’t tell us much about what a poem really is. Try crowd-sourcing for an answer. If you search Wikipedia for “poem,” it redirects to “poetry”: “a form of literary art which uses aesthetic and rhythmic qualities of language—such as phonoaesthetics, sound symbolism, etc.” Fine English-professor speak, but it belies the origins of the word. “Poem” comes from the Greek poíēma, meaning a “thing made,” and a poet is defined in ancient terms as “a maker of things.” So if a poem is a thing made, what kind of thing is it?

I’ve heard other poets define poems in organic terms: wild animals—natural, untamable, unpredictable, raw. But the metaphor quickly falls apart. Such animals live on their own, utterly unconcerned with the names humans put upon them. In inorganic terms, the poet William Carlos Williams called poems “little machines,” as he treated them as mechanical, human-engineered, and precise. But here too, the metaphor breaks down. A worn-out part on an automobile can be switched out with a nearly identical part and run as it did before. In a poem, a word exchanged for another word (even a close synonym) can alter the entire functioning of the poem.”

https://archive.org/details/openmind_ep536

https://archive.org/details/openmind_ep541

I saw some mobile foam coming out of the bathroom.Then I knew

She said, what a tart phone

She sai,d  about thy lines

I have a war in  my bed robe

I got some kosher vitamin D today.So then it might be my far wits are……

I have my own Tablet so all I need is God.

Can we have  more athletics free with our newspaper?

I forgot we need washing but I ironed my soul today ready for the knight

So we bathed in the River Mersey  and oil came free.

I  can’t bare to turn off my phone in town

I have been smart myself at rhymes.

So  we all have cameras,  who looks at the world? Is there any?

My IQ is like infinity… it gets bigger and bigger and suddenly is infinite before coming back to zero from the negative  side.

You say I’m unbalanced.Yet I have smashed the wide hopes of  the Langdale Bites

We are all human.But not Gods. We are Gods’.

Travelling down these sentences we find
Unknown,unsought, unthought, but always real
A home where we can rest our  fragile minds

The people  dropped,the habits left behind.
The good, the mediocre, what we steal
While travelling with the sentences we find

The hate that frees,the love that too close binds
The heart, the soul, the body, how we feel
For homes where we can rest our  fragile minds

The touch that chills, the distances unkind
Unwished for yet demanding all the soul.
Unravelling are our sentences unblind.

The freezing looks,the glories undermined
Ill timed,ill gotten, ills both new and  old,
Hedge homes where we could rest our  fragile minds

I have never dwelt in realms of gold;
But there are many stories never told.
Suffering our own sentences we find
A  home that welcomes, our more liberal minds.

Image by Katherine

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/jun/18/the-future-of-

Extract:

“The simplest and best answer I got at the event in Oxford was “for paying attention”. Judith Palmer, director of the Poetry Society, echoes that phrase. “One of the things poetry gives all of us is a way of developing an attentiveness to life, a way of observing the world, of noticing things and seeing them differently,” she says. A good poem looks closely at the world; does that Martian thing of trying to see it for the first time. Everything else – the emotional charge, the lyrical delight, the intellectual pleasure – is secondary.

The Hungarian-born poet George Szirtes, who teaches poetry at the University of East Anglia, says poems try to capture a reality that is deeper than language. “You’re trying to say: I know what this thing is called,” he says. “It’s called a chair, and that thing is a table. I’ve got this word ‘chair’ and I’ve got this word ‘table’, but there’s something peculiar about this chair and table which using the words chair and table will not actually convey.” Readers, he says, may race through novels because they want to know what happens, but they should look to inhabit poems. “Nobody reads a poem to find out what happens in the last line. They read the poem for the experience of travelling through it.””

The  doctor  took my blood and said
Are you alive or are you dead?
I answered boldly,I don’t  know
See what the tests and samples show

Meantime give me food and drink
I like milk and apples pink
I need protein,I need wine
I  need cigarettes divine

Then the undertaker asked
When he could begin his task
I said I can’t pay in advance
So now I’m  in a deep dark trance

Surely someone else should pay
I was still alive today
But now I wait  enchanted here
Drinking guinness, that black beer

I ate beans and then  they grew
I see one has attacked my shoe
Sausages and steak are meat
I am feeling indiscreet

The little  words invented as we loved
Now have no other  speaker but myself.
Lost, unique, the husband, so beloved,
These humorous  words came from our deep, sweet love.
In my tongue , these words no longer live
I  cannot  use  our words, our loving  wealth.
The chosen  words  invented as we loved
Now have no other   listener but myself

As all set out,storms set in,then we all fell out 

if you see what I dream.

I   am mean

You are as truthful as as a chorus of wrongs

 in rites of the Church choir

Don't leave me in the lurch.I'm a liar.

He’s as tense as a mournful frog in a bog in Ireland in wintery discontentll

It's all meant

As far as the wife can throw,I flew.

I shall  sue Sue.

I was flooded as a whole.

My emotions welled up and ran all over me like fairies’ hands..

Like elastic bands

I am honest as the day is wrong.

Give me a song

He was torn in three by tomcats with balls of steel

They will appeal

I have lost a whole stone and still no moss will grow on me.It grew on the stone!

Now I feel so alone

As Gluck would have it, music is heavenly singing by invisible choirs of cats.

He was bats

I sought him here,I sought him there.

I sought him with angelic flair.

But noone catches Tony Blair.

I am as snug as a lapdog in a bog

 with a brick on its head

Can I sleep on your bed?

She was as tender as an apple tart is round.

 and quite sound

As the crow flew,I had to fly as well 

to avoid it escaping me..I leave no crow alone

They usually get stoned but they won't share their drugs

https://m.poets.org/poetsorg/text/poems-times-turmoil

Always forgive your enemies.Nothing annoys them so much

Oscar Wilde