Why are you not narrow minded?

Mike Flemming 2020 copyright

 

 

 

Why are you paranoid
Well, my mother was.

Why are you Paranoid?
I was born there

Why are you not paranoid?
I have a trust fund

Why are  you sceptical?
I was poisoned

Why are you not  Voting?
I was born in Pakistan   though my dad was Voting.

Why are you Anxious?
My mother lived  with  an Anxy for ages

Am I French?
No,I want to leave.

In my  absence, posts will be written by ghosts
Are they writers?
Well, they  learned to  print well  enough
Can anyone print?
If they have a hand
Well, they can’t have mine
How mean
That’s not a sentence
Alright you can  go to jail for a  year.
Where is it?
Next you’ll be asking for sheets
What else can I print on?
Not my Egyptian cotton,for sure.
I prefer paper
How come?
I  can  offer the back of my hand
But we can’t sell that.
You can put me in a  Gallery
It pays
But please feed me.
You’re on  FB.
Take me down
Order,order

Why do they stamp on my feet?
They want to post you on a blog
I prefer letterboxes
Or pillar boxes
If they are not salt

 

Take me in your  hands ,  give me a soul

From  my fragments, what can be retrieved?
Is  my story finished and untold?
Am I real or have I been deceived?

Is there goodness,   will my pain recede?
On the art of life must one be bold
From  my fragments, what can be retrieved?

I am proud, and I shall never plead
Though my heart is saddened and grows cold
Am I real or have I been deceived?

What has any worth, what are my deeds?
Into whose heart might my heart unfold?
From  my fragments, what can be retrieved?

I did not suffer from the sin of greed
I posses no silver and no gold
Am I real or have I been deceived?

Oh God in whose name many goods are sold
Take me in your  hands ,  give me a soul
Of  my fragments, what can you retrieve?
Am I real and here,  are You  deceived?

 

 

 

La belle dame sans merci

Garrya-elliptica-2020-1

https://poets.org/poem/la-belle-dame-sans-merci

 

 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

John Keats – 1795-1821

 

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
  And the harvest’s done.

I see a lilly on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
  Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
  A faery’s song.

I made a garland for her head,
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
  And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
  I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
  And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
  So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
  And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
  On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried—”La belle Dame sans merci
  Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
  With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
  On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.