Being obese might be one way of surviving this plague.
Or as someone said to a cancer sutvivor: At least you have lost weight or was it ” at last”
You would lose weight after death if you kept turning over in your grave…
Jesus never mentioned weight:Go thou and weigh no more.Double entendre.
Who invented the word “sin” and why?
Weight is like savings in the several banks.You can’t lose it all at once
I thought I was flat once.It was because clothes are.Yet chair covers are not.
Don’t know where, don’t know when, we’ll meet and hoard our funny days
Day: March 21, 2020
Sailing like a flower across the sky
I spent my life on books on how to live
Then when death was near I really did
I saw the little smile on my friend’s face
I saw the shining eyes, the lost embrace
I gathered up these books and threw them out
I wasted time in thought and curious doubt
Let’s leave our heads alone and use our sense
To hear a bird sing to enthrall his spouse
To see a swallow dip and fly away\
To see a little orange butterfly
Sailing like a flower across the sky
The silken skin of children and their glee
When father stops to show them the cat’s flea
The smile of mother, her security
Containing all their woe transformed and free
To gather in sweet memories of joy
Noone else can know what our life ‘s for
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Abbey Steps
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
See the Abbey ruins on the cliff
I can’t climb those steep steps any more
The whip of salty sea, the shells, the lore
The old town with its alleys and its fish
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
We heard the seagulls shrieking, Jesus rose
We were in a cottage but in fact
I won’t climb those abbey steps no more
In my mind I find an unmarked door
A dream comes by, who whipped my tender flesh?
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
Fish don’t die like sheep in abbatoirs
But yet it must gruesome so to thrash
I can’t climb those steep steps any more
I don’t like eating fish,I hate their whiff
It makes me conscious of my father’s death
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
Who can’t climb those Abbey steps no more?
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I wish we were on Sutton Bank again
I wish we were on Sutton Bank again
The Cleveland Hills with heather and bright bees
We lay down in the heather in the sun
We hitched a lift, Osmotherley, a van
Another day was Whitby and the sea
I wish we were on Sutton Bank again
I wish that you were near, my loving one
Your suffering face was very sad to see
We lay in purple heather in the sun
What shall I do, what am I to become?
I waken up too early, make my tea
I wish we lay on Sutton Bank again
Our backs ,warm earth , our faces smiled as one
The heather a warm bed, no shady tree
We once lay in the heather in the sun
I miss your face, your eyes, their loving plea
The sun above, the windswept leafless tree
I wish we were on Sutton Bank again
We ‘d lay down in the heather ,where’ve you gone?
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This treasure
Absenting ourselves from presence in this life
Glued onto the pictures in our minds
It neither matters if we wish for strife
Or whether they fill needs of better kind.
We know that wish fulfilment comes in dreams
And also in our fantasies by day
When anxious worry fills our mind with schemes
Guilt and shame impede us from our play.
Creative thought requires the loss of self,
And needs our empty soil to plant its gifts
So throw out selfish fancies for this wealth
We’ll let ourselves go slow, so minds can shift
To waste our days in suffering or false pleasure
Will lose for us this vital, vivid treasure
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Pure presence
Pure presence is a gift without demands
No intrusion, no monopoly
Within its light our withered self expands
Those who had to sit before may stand
Beside the waves, the gentle rippling sea
Pure presence is a gift without demands
A quiet place, a friend to hold our hand
Helps us to make bold our heresy
Within the light our withered self expands
A gift of grace, as humble as an ant
Where can we be present you and me ?
Pure presence is a gift without demands
Is there more than human empathy?
The flowers so small and wild have sympathy
Pure presence is a gift we understand
Within its light our withered selves expands
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No map
The more I write, the more I feel the gap
From the immense, the real of skin and eye
To what I write or draw upon a map
When you lay still, my skin around you wrapped
I touched you with my nerves but made no cry
The more I write, the more I feel the gap
We can hold a baby on our lap
But not a husband who needs space to die
What could I write or show upon a map?
Words like little wires, a rabbit trap,
Catch a moving moment as it flies
The more I write, the more I feel that gap
There is a silence, music is surpassed
A puzzled truth and not wordly lie
What to write or show upon a map?
Can we close the lids, the lover’s eyes
Sorrow follows couples like a spy
The more the words, the more I feel the gap
The real hides as I write, there is no map
