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

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

Questions in my mind

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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

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