by Katherine
Day: April 24, 2020
What we do depends on what we see.
What we do depends on what we see.
By writing, I can change my own fixed view
Gain perspective, focus less on me
And to others, make an simple plea
We can look again and see anew
What we do depends on what we see.
How the world is, how it ought to be
In my writing, I make my own review
Gain perspective, focus less on me.
Replace the “ought” by “possibility.”
A little change beats crying, feeling blue
What we do depends on what we see.
If God exists, will she with me agree?
No doubt she’d have a wider, higher view
And share perception with someone like you
Would our world be shared by love, virtue.
A willingness to wish ,desire the true
What we do depends on what we see.
Perspective, focus, possibility
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Weaving
The world is woven in such different ways
Struts the vertical, the flat below
Oh God who weaves me shall by me be praised
Oh, shall the mystic reach what she may crave
When all the strings release and she falls low
The world is woven in its different ways
Timed by ritual Lady Lazarus rose
And all the eyes that gazed were burning slow
Yes, God who weaves me shall by me be praised
There is a hollow only Ariel knows
As horse and rider as one being flow
The world is sensed in wholly different ways
The body ,home of mind, will run astray
Oh, what seams of evidence forego
Fallen God who unacknowledged knows
Beneath the sea of green the undertow,
Spirits sidle deep like melting snow
The world is woven in such different ways
That God who weaves me shall by me be praised
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Questions in my mind
Photo by kind permission of Mike Flemming 2020
Why?
Why don’t hens boil the eggs before laying them?
Why are eggs oval?
Why are there holes in doughnuts?
Why is our bread usually rectangular?I suppose elliptical loaf tins
have not been invented,Now is my chance to make a million!
Double entendre , as the Polish might have said.
Why do men like pies so much?
Or is it tarts?
Why has the sun set when I’ve not washed my hair?
I am not the sun,I guess.
I am not G-d
Good Night
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Like swallows
Homesick for the home I used to have
The two of us and friends who were much loved
The parents who had never had a car
We took them out to Essex near and far
We went to Henry Moore’s home,saw his shed
Collections of old seashells,spiders’webs
The monumental scuptures touched my soul
The grass so green, the lawns precisely mown
We went to Whipsnade Zoo which Ma much liked
A tiger and her cub were a great sight
Then we went to Berkhamsted then home
Graham Greene grew up there, Chilterns roamed
Now all but I like swallows have flown high
Migrating to far lands where earth meets sky
