Month: June 2019

And we find it,shall we say,satisfactory

6636107_f520
I see a haze of hair on your head
like the softness of just opening leaf buds in spring.
The chemo is over,and you wait relieved and letting that
take you for a while before you start to face the next stage.
Will your Spring turn to a warm enchanting Summer
or has the cancer,as they say “spread.”
Just for now,you’re in that lull
so in three weeks time you will not be
arriving for another session of drugs
and days of sickness.I see the light fuzz which reminds me
of how the cat’s fur grew back after her surgery
and she,being unable to reflect or question,
leapt from the fence top onto next door’s kitchen roof;
no thought in her mind of stitches breaking.
How beautifully the patterned fur returned
and the vulnerable skin was covered again.
Oh,to look into those eyes and see you dream
about mice that live behind the shed
and how you sat watching for hours
and how you were alive till the very last moment.
Then , all of a sudden,you were gone.

Pray it will not be so for ,the fragile,loving human
now waiting and living,hoping for what you took for granted…
a  “normal” life span Or maybe just three quarters of one
would be satisfactory;would be a beneficence
such as trees feel when the sap turns and begins to flow back.
bringing life out of the darkness of earth and soil.
And another Summer comes at the right time
and we find it,shall we say,satisfactory.

If this is summer, let the winter come

If this is summer, let the winter come
My  tears  run dry, my soul  is cold and damp
Where is  the High Noon of the summer sun
If this is summer, let the winter come
What evil  traps us, as our leaders sin?
When will   our  country’s wreck be done?
What Fuehrer will emerge , who runs the Camps?
If this is summer, let the winter come
Here I weep , my  heart feel cold and  cramped

They’ll steal what you don’t own

Have no possessions,  give  your stuff away
But don’t go outside naked  when in= town
It’s not religion, just simplicity

Happy  are those people  free to play
Who may be sunk in dreams or study brown
Have no possessions,  gave   their stuff away

Sing and  dance and let yourself be gay
Remember that a verb is not a noun
It’s not  high learning, just simplicity

If  you see   evil, do not go astray
Help the neighbours,   give them all your gowns
Have no possessions,  give  your stuff away

In Commerce, there is much duplicity
Be aware they’ll steal what you don’t own
All you lose is mere complicity

The lips of wealthy  men speak  vicious  tones
Corbyn  makes them fearful, do they owe?
Have no pride in   virtue,  rather pray
It’s not an error, God may die today.

Shall I my life of evil start?

7222830_f260-1

When true love’s gone and doom hangs over head
When life runs  like a river to the sea
Then shall I take new lovers to my bed
And with their carnal touch consoled be?

When my love lies and  breaks my tender heart.
When life  is grey and rocks bestrew my path.
Then, shall I my life of evil start,
And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?

When true love lies and wrecks all loyalty.
When puzzlement makes all my world seem mad.
Then I shall upend causality
And let myself do deeds which make me glad.

For I have love’s  own child inside my soul
And I shall tend her till at last she’s whole

If he stood on his head and sang Jerusalem

  • CatsStan 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

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

12373243_647033108769904_7426608511503873995_n (1)

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

Upend…. the meaning

64406214_10217149919073512_6037183327507578880_n

Photo 20 19 copyright
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/upend#synonyms

Synonyms & Antonyms for upend

Synonyms

beat, best, conquer, defeat, dispatch, do down [British], get, get around, lick, master,overbear, overcome, overmatch, prevail (over), skunk, stop, subdue, surmount, take,trim, triumph (over), win (against), worst

Antonyms

lose (to)

Photo copyright E.  Limbrey

 

 

 

 

Candles

Candle light at Christmas or great Feasts
Softens  all our troubles in its peace
Reminds us of the soothing  kindly light
Protecting us from darkness in the night

Yet candles may fall over over and ignite
Burn down our homes and fill our souls with spite
Nothing is entirely good or bad
This  is true yet it has made me sad

As I lie in reverie in  my bed
I see the long loved faces of souls dead
I smile as these sweet images pass by
Then sleep and dream on with a grateful sigh

Will I one day be passing through your mind?
May all your dreams and reveries be kind

And BTW why are you using Tide?

Would you be more gentle,dear,I cried
She pushed my head as if  it were a stone
I only want my hair washed not to die

And BTW why are you using Tide
Shampoo is much kinder,on I moaned~
Could you be more gentle,dear,I cried

I ‘m glad you don’t  use Ariel,  suicide
She wrote about the Moon, her  love and home
Did she want her hair washed not to die?

In Spain she  bought sardines so she could fry
In the wilds of Devon left alone
Ted was  getting famous, not his wife

I re-enter time ,I let  her dye
My hair is purple when  rinsed  from  the foam
Did Plath want her hair  dyed not to die?

Marriage holds a  breeze but not a storm
The  rose had pricked her finger with its thorn
Could we be more gentle if we tried?
We all need human love or we will die

 

 

 

Where is the world?

The boundary of my self is my own skin
Fragile, and so sensitive,  yet home
Most of what I call me dwells within

Some may have it thicker, some too thin
Some are cautious, some  have heavier bones
The boundary of my self is  my own skin

We  lose the  most beloved of our kin,
We who lose  a lover, still feel torn
Is what I call my self all   held within?

Unconscious feelings lead us  into sin
For  these malicious feelings  let’s atone
The boundary of my self is merely skin

Losing love’s  akin   to losing   limbs
No more around the wild woods may  we roam
Is what I call my self  just held within?

Unwilling, from our mother’s womb we’re thrown
She suffers as  we  leave our  perfect home
If the boundary of my self is my own skin
Where is the world when we call it within?

 

 

Poetry and painting

 

blue and red illustration
Photo by João Jesus on Pexels.com

https://hazlitt.net/feature/why-we-should-treat-poetry-painting

 

Extract:

“Perhaps because poetry is art made of words rather than pictures, readers expect it to communicate more directly. And certainly, some poems are fairly straightforward, in the same way that some paintings are clearly of horses, so that even the title “Horses” is unnecessary. But some poems would certainly gain aesthetically if they were freed from the burden of explanation. Poets themselves, I find, can be resistant to the idea of including notes or epigraphs, feeling that a poem should be self-contained and include all the necessary information. There are plenty of poets who neither provide notes nor contort their poems into self-explanatory shapes—these are some of my favourites, but I have to read them with one eye on the poem and one eye on Google. Who’s Count Westwest? What’s nanofluff? Who’s Joe Sakic? Curatorial text that takes care of some of these immediate questions, and that also provides some interpretative remarks about the poem and how it fits into the poetic tradition, might help new readers appreciate what they’re looking at.”

Once my hand wrote , thoughtless  as a gnome

My punctuation kept me sane and well
But question marks appear and  give me hell
Do I put it here? or at the end?
How can I   calm my mind  yet be on trend?

My spelling too has  driven me insane
Once my hand wrote , thoughtless  as a gnome
I’ve confused its and it’s  and  so much more
I ask my self  if I  can read a score

I cannot add  up money in accounts
And feel  such relativity devout
The phone calls, the utilities, the  noise
My cat won’t  purr  when I feel so  annoyed

I think I’ll leave out all the little signs
Enemies must read between the lines

The parting

My intellect has parted from my heart
Two now dwell within one person’s frame
I am double, I cannot restart

Like a weary horse with heavy cart
I do not want to play  for little gains
My intellect has parted from my heart

My eyes are sad although my tongue is tart
I am the object  of my own disdain
I am double, I  will not restart

Is this the journey with no  written chart?
SatNav  bears no solace for my pain
My intellect deserted this poor heart

Google Maps have missed this savage shark
Which bites and bites but will not kill   the flame
I am  two, dissociated, stark

 

Did I make an error  I can’t name?
Hold me in your arms,love keeps us sane
My intellect has parted from my heart
I am   cut in  two, who wrought this harm?

 

 

 

 

The British turn to verse

administration architecture attractions big ben
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/brexit-britons-poetry-writeapoemaboutbrexit_n_576f87dae4b0dbb1bbbad011

 

Jo Duffy@JoDuffy91

Bigotry hijacked the vote
Unleashing real dangers
Now we’re strangers in a country
That doesnt’ welcome strangers

The bus was cancelled so we had to walk
They blamed Eastern Europe   for the pain
I listened to the idle,foolish thought
I fear  it’s Jesus crucified  again.

Is that leap unjustified, my friends?
It seems God’s punishment will never end
He made us  leave the Garden of Delight
Even though we’re English and quite white
We blamed the blacks and women  and the Jews
Yet mother’s breast was emptied and abject
Look upon the world we may have wrecked
Get to work and sweat and toil  all day
Mathematics, war and bombs  shall prey
To gain salvation we must  love and work
Life is hard and often it will hurt
Acceptance is  survival   and remorse
Jesus came  without the use of force

Play with our doubts

Fear of chaos stopped me looking  out
I could not see its value   nor its  gifts
To see new sights we need to live in doubt

So I  travelled on established routes
I got to places happily and swift
Fear of chaos stopped me looking  out

We often wonder what life’s all  about
Then we hurt our kin, oh love, oh rifts
New wisdom   comes from  fine creative doubt

Forgetting  this we find life full of threats
We swallow drugs and wallow as we drift
Fear of chaos stopped me looking  out

We suffer all  to find what will enchant
Then we are raised high by all we’ve missed
To see new sights we need to  feel our wants

Alert yet indolent   the  wild flowers wish
To  entice honey bees with honeyed flesh
From the Void, God’s word made mountains shout
To see new sights we must play with our doubts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lights go out

And the pure of heart  will see right to
The beginning of the end of me and you
There are no men, the women look again
There’s something in the fire looks like my pen
But who can write when  all the the lights go out?
The women are not women,  the men are  not about
The shadows dance with winds  on lighted walls
The fire burns  redder and the devils  call
It’s hell in here, baby , keeping  living just for you
Who knows what  to do
With the pointed dancing shoe
Half a pair and the women cannot bear
Labour’s lost
Tell  us what it cost

t

I could see the Pennines

I’m looking for a pavement cracked and worn
But now the council put some tarmac down
I make my images from  objects scorned

Artweaver and Pixlr have been warned
I  use  their tools, their feathers,  and their down
I’m looking for a pavement cracked and worn

My hands are full of lines,my nails are torn
My eyes are narrowed,I  intend to frown
I seek my images in objects scorned

I want  the dead, I want our old brick home
I want to dwell  on  moors near Darwen Town
I’m sure their   features  will be cracked and worn

I remember bilberries  and limestone
I  remember larks,  birds free from   bounds
I make my images from  what love scorned

If I  could see  the Pennine Hills  I ‘d drown
To Anglezarke the water’s rippling down
I’m  looking for the place where I was born
The  cobblestones,the kerb ,the  marbled halls

 

 

 

The future

The enemy we  need  is close at hand
Like a secret lover  right next door
We’re always ready with an army band

Today, it is the husband who’s condemned
For dropping baby’s rattle on the floor
The enemy we  love is close at hand

The wife too is quite useful, here she stands
Her pinafore is torn, her heart is sore
She’s turned the sound down on that bloody band

Cain and Abel, was the killing planned?
Look down O God as we  your  skills deplore
The enemy we   want  is close at hand

We have no  theatre, war  is  on demand
And always it is just and it is fair~
We singalong  and wave our bloody hands

An enemy,a scapegoat, a caged  bear
Absorb the torment  we have just prepared
The enemy we  need  is close at hand~
Don’t kill them all at once, the future’s planned

Peace and War

birds flying near body of water
Photo by SamIro on Pexels.com

 

http://www.teachforpeace.org/PEACETEACHWEB/WarPeacePoetry/POETRYWARPEACE.htm

Today is Not a Good Day for War

Today is not a good day for war,
Not when the sun is shining,
And leaves are trembling in the breeze.
Today is not a good day for bombs to fall,
Not when clouds hang on the horizon
And drift above the sea.
Today is not a good day for young men to die,
Not when they have so many dreams
And so much still to do.
Today is not a good day to send missiles flying,
Not when the fog rolls in
And the rain is falling hard.
Today is not a good day for launching attacks,
Not when families gather
And hold on to one another.
Today is not a good day for collateral damage,
Not when children are restless
Daydreaming of frogs and creeks.
Today is not a good day for war,
Not when birds are soaring,
Filling the sky with grace.
No matter what they tell us about the other,
Nor how bold their patriotic calls,
Today is not a good day for war.

-David Krieger, March 2003
USA

The fragile voice

 
bonfire surrounded with green grass field
Photo by Vlad Bagacian on Pexels.com






The still, small voice no longer can be heard.
The  sacred, silent space  unoccupied
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

We centre our   whole self on the absurd
For iPads cannot pass through any eye
The still, small voice no longer can be heard.

God no longer feels inclined to share.
The golden cloud  of angels  cannot fly
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

The altar’s stripped,  the rituals are nightmares.
The ancient priest says Mass and wonders why
The still, small voice no longer can be heard.

A  virtual wall stops grace from being shared.
Jesus is made flesh and  silent dies
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

No one is an island, John Donne cried
But now there is no truth to satisfy
The still ,small voice no longer can be heard
.No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word

Love is often near us

Love must be so pliant ,
like a blade of grass,

Bowing to the wind,
till the storm has passed.

Love is enigmatic
Like the sphinx’s smile.

Waiting for an answer,
Nothing is on file.

Love is often near us
Yet we do not see.

Sometimes where we are
Is just the place to be

New mental illnesses.

7985150_f260-2

Art by Katherine

1,Passenger Rage Disorder

This is worse in aeroplanes especially when  they have left the ground.Someone gets upset  and no-one can get out.A few bottles are drunk and then used as weapons
Murder on the Orient Airline

In the worst cases.some passengers stay enraged for ever or  are tried for manslaughter

2.Omnibus psychosis  brought on by  hearing bus  stops or traffic lights speak to you when you are very tired and weary.

3.Brexit-phobia

You  keep passing out whenever you hear the words, Brexit ,foreigners, immigrants referendum,Michael Gove  or Boris.Even  the word cocaine might  bring on panic attacks

4.Hysterical blindness
Stopping an aircraft taking off by mistaking the exit chute door for a toilet door.BTW wait till the aircraft takes off so your wee will evaporate before it reaches the heads of the general public under your flight path

5,May Madness
Calling  for Elections night and day.Refusal to appear on TV when it is a job requirement

6. Paranoia and Fear  of foreigners caused by being cut off from your own Shadow which may be far worse than any European immigrant ever was.

7,Entitlement Psychosis caused by  reading P.P. E  at Oxford and writing essays   after using cocaine instead of tea.