If he stood on his head and sang Jerusalem

Stan was wearing his best suit,topped by a denim apron, and wad polishing the big windows with a microfibre cloth ,as he waited breathlessly for his stunning wife
.Mary entered the room wearing a long purple and mauve dress which clung somewhat tightly to the curvaceous contours of her beautifully rounded body.
On her feet she had some smart pewter ballet slippers and in her elegant hand she carried a huge pewter clutch bag which contained some of her many medications.She addressed Stan,
“I think I can leave my handbag behind if I put my mouth spray into my bra.”
“That somehow detracts from the romance of the evening.” Stan pronounced openly.
“Well,you know,I never had a cleavage until lately and I fell I ought to make the most of it.”
“Surely I should be the one make the most of it,” he riposted jocosely.
“Of course you may, my angel,but not in the restaurant,”she answered back sweetly
“I’ll put your spray in my pocket then,shall I?”
Suddenly the doorbell rang.
”Who’s this?”
It was Annie,their next door neighbour.
She was wearing a coral velvet track suit with matching Reeboks and sun hat.
“Hi,I just came in with a little prezzie,”She declaimed.In her hand was a huge box of chocolates.
“Gosh,Mary you look lovely in that beautiful long dress but you’re not
going on your bike,are you?”
“No,we are having a cab,but it’s not come as yet.”
“Well,never mind.I’ll ring 999 and get them to send an emergency ambulance for you!”
Fortunately,as luck would have it the minicab appeared and it was only as they were entering the restaurant that Stan realised he was still wearing his old denim apron.
“Shall I take it off?” he pondered.
On the pro side I will look smarter on the con side I might spill some soup down my front.I wish I’d done more logic at college.
So he kept it on.Mary didn’t seem to notice.She just took him for granted.~
If he stood on his head and sang”Jerusalem” she probably wouldn’t pay any attention.
Then he noticed that Mary was wearing an apron too.It was the same colour as her dress.What a brilliant idea,he thought.
“There may be money in this.” He could start a small business,
“Aprons R You” selling lovely aprons in all colours of the rainbow.
Suddenly he heard noises;he awoke and heard Mary shouting
“How can you go to sleep when you are out with me?”
“Would you prefer me to recite the Periodic Table?” he snapped gently.
“I’d prefer a poem,” she cried…
All right,Petal,I’ll think of one soon.In the meantime would you like a fool?”
“No.I’ve got you,” she responded handsomely.
“I mean for a pudding?”
“Oh,yes please.A Rubik fool would be lovely.It will pass the time.You know I get so bored.”
“Well,I do my best but it’s hard keeping up with you.would you like to read a few truth tables whilst I finish my mea.?”
He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small leather bound book.
“Truth tables and levitation for geniuses,” by Bertha Russell.
“Oh,Stan,this looks interesting .I’ve always wanted to fly like an angel or an owl.”
“It’s never too late to say never.” he responded.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I don’t know.Just because a sentence is grammatically correct doesn’t imply that it means something.”
“Yes, quite right.And conversely a sentence can mean something even when it’s not grammatically correct.”“Isn’t thinking exciting!”
“Yes,indeed.I was thinking how exciting it will be to go to bed with you.”
“Wow,good grammar and full of meaning.I am yours.I am like a ripe plum ready to drop off the tree.I am a cat ready to mate.I am a song waiting to be sung.”
“Gosh,are metaphors your bete noir?”
“Je ne parle pas Francais.”
“Aimez vous ein Nederlander?”
“Sprechen sie Deutsche?”
Ist sein mutter immer krank?”
Lehitraot, auf weidersehen,au revoir,
Je suis un parallel line

Cocky Tories

woman holding a blunt — Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Pexels.com

Which person standing for the Tory leadership has not taken Cocaine,LSD , magic mushrooms or other mind altering substances

We try to be alive, despite the pain

Underneath the shallow pools lies sand
Where shells are fractured by the ocean’s blows
We soon learn what being alive demands

To bare feet on sunny days beckoned
The warm wet trickles in between the toes
Underneath the shallow pools lies sand

In whose sums is our living reckoned?
Calculation, not so bleak it shows
We learn by pain, true living makes demands

God allows the abacus unchained
To sum us up as if we are unknown
Underneath the pools, are these his hands?

Who will be allowed and who detained?
Like refugees, we come to love alone
We try to be alive, despite the pain

Our hearts are fragile shells, not heavy stones
We, soft flesh enraptured by framed bones.
Darkly on the beach we humans stand
The fretting waves cry out with love’s demands

God is a fragile voice, still as a bone

God is a place we rarely find alone
His spirit guides us past the demons wild
God is a fragile voice, still as a bone

God gave his prophets sweet dark honeycombs
By his word they were struck, beguiled
God is a place we rarely find alone

The Reed Sea parted should she risk its foam,
The woman heavy with an unborn child?
God is a fragile voice, still as a bone

The spirit called a dove by Leonard Cohen
Caught, entrapped endangered and then sold
God is a place where we kneel, atone

Shall he leave us bread or graven stone?
When we feel afraid, his love enfolds
God is a place we rarely find alone

On we wander, hear the whisper frail
If we listen well we will not fail
God is a place we rarely find alone
God is a fragile voice, still as a bone

To you my villanelle I plight my troth

To you my villanelle I plight my troth
A poem both  dignified  and full of play
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

In your form I’ll never insert oaths
Neither will I boast  of making hay
To you, my villanelle, I plight my troth

I’ll take you in my boat to the North Coast
From you I expect  no  greay reward nor pay
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

You are a welcome visitor to host
Though you look both diffident and fey
To you,dear villanelle, I plight my troth

And when my friends come round we’ll drink a toast
To wordsmiths and to poets  on their way
We love your form and elegance ,oh both

On my bed at night I gently rest
Knowing that I wander  as your guest
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
I love your form and elegance ,oh both