Never write a letter full of spite

The consumer age is passing   with the dead
I tried to shop  again but Sainsburys have said
You can’t shop twice a week or twice a day
We will have to learn once more to play

Learn another language,read good books
Help another,  teach them how to cook
Go outside and  breathe the   purer air
Write a poem and then write one with flair

Walk around the street when it is clear
Drink from cans  filled up with   freezing beer
Take a photo of a tree you   like
Never write a letter full of spite

Surely we can gradually adapt
If we survive the madness and the traps

Men will love you more

woman in black and white striped short sleeve shirt and blue denim jeans
Photo by Olenka Sergienko on Pexels.com

Oh,woman  it is not your   long gold hair
That draws the man  into  your welcome lair
It is your independence and your mind
Your morals and your dignity so fine

Never worry if your looks are plain
Do not suffer anguish,mental pain
For if you know the ten commandments well
You know men cannot  worship you  and tell

If your hair is thin and full of grease
Men will come to you on bended knees
For they fear too much beauty  will engross
Illusion binds the heart  and mind once foes

Do  not be so anxious to be fair
Men will love you more the less you wear

Shame is bitter, wrecks our feeling heart

I see  down in  the  valley of the Lea
Tower blocks  and numerous tiny homes
Here the Vikings came, oh, savagery
The valley is so ugly it alarms

As I look at  my books, it’s unfair
I feel sad for children who have none 
Our average reading age  grows lower  every year
I   feel angry at our leaders nothing  done

During Lockdown where shall  children play?
Those who have no gardens  shut indoors
The  end point of  such suffering is dismay
Humiliation grows   right in a  heart’s deep core

Shame is bitter, wrecks our feeling heart
A home for Satan made with   thoughtless art

We learn to see in part

 

The sun has gone and jaundiced is the sky
The silence  of the empty roads is good
For from my garden birds are  flying high
In this  precious green   we grew a wood

No holiday in Venice or Dubai
Lockdown  keeps us in   what do we sigh
 I want to  see  the   village of old Cley
The still small voice  shall speak before we die

No more  shall  rich  possesions make us high
Nor shall buying cream and caviare
We are judged by God’s incisive  eye
Stand up,  live,  despite that  all’s awry

The Sacred World  behind our little one
We learn to see in part though we are dumb