Mary and her woollen underwear

 

white sheep on plant field
Photo by julie aagaard on Pexels.com

Annie the nubile ex-mistress of Stan   and colour fancying neighbour  of Mary has persuaded Mary that as Stan has run away she should find someone else.Mary is doubtful
First of all,Annie cried,you need some brand  new  delicate shoes.No man will be charmed by those chunky ,comfy flatties.Nor do your socks show sophistication.

Though a farmer might be happy with them
She herself wore a pink tweed suit and some high heeled boots in purple patent leather over a blue silk  pair of socks.
Well,Mary,answered,I thought I should be myself because they might be annoyed being tricked.I would be.
That’s their  problem said Annie,  somewhat rudely.
Well.where do I get the sort of socks a man would like,if indeed all men are the same in that way?
I’d stick with silky black ones,said Annie kindly.Then some smart black pumps.That simplifies  life.
But if I look at Soul-mates online the men will not know what shoes I have got on nor socks
That’s true,said Annie.At least until you meet one if you ever do.
Anyway if it is called Soul-mates,why does my body matter?
Don’t be so literal,dear.You know it’s just a way of indicating they want a lover.
Well.in that case it’s my lingerie that matters more than my shoes.
See here,said Annie bossily.With those shoes and socks nobody will want to see your lingerie
Just as well ,said Mary calmly.I don’t have any.
Are you telling me  you have no  underwear on,Annie cried with shock in her tone.Your trousers will need washing more often!!
I am wearing some woollen vests and underpants I got for Stan,Mary said shyly.I like wool.
What do you think a man will assume if you wear that?

That I can’t afford to have the fire on,Mary  queried timidly.
He might think you are transgender.
I have heard of transcendence but not transgender,Mary admitted ruefully.I did used to have  a purple bra, she continued distractedly.
Anyway, what about my learning and job  as a maths professor?
Don’t put  anything about maths on the form.They hate clever women.
Surely they are not all the same,Mary answered.Mary Archer is very clever and she’s been married 50 years
You can’t generalise from one example ,Annie informed her statistically
How about my love of Wittgenstein?Shall I mention that?
If you wear men’s woollen underwear and love a  dead, gay philosopher it will cut down the pool of men available.
I don’t think I’ll bother,Mary whispered.I don’t like fishing.I’d rather have a cup of tea.
Really.said Annie.I don’t know why you decided to try this.
I never did it was you.I am quite happy as I am given the dangers of this world.
And so say most of us.Amen.

I  wish there were no numbers and no dates

I  wish there were no numbers and no dates
I forget them all , yet memory is like   glue
With counting, with remembrance, with  lost mate

There’s  our sorrow and its seas to navigate
The waves rise up and drop, so old so new
I  wish there were no numbers and no dates

Why are modern  hearts so separate?
The seas of knowledge, all are one in  truth
With counting, with remembrance, with   no trace

Oh,universe, why do you have such space
With patterns in the stars, that might us soothe?
If there were no numbers and no dates

Why are we  self labelled as a race?
Slowly, surely we will  dig up truths
With anguish, with remembrance, oh, lost face

When will grace remake a soul so bruised
  Struggling with  the time scale, still bemused
I  wish there were no numbers and no dates
Nor counting, nor remembrance,  nor lost face

 

Now I’ve lost the kettle,it’s alive

I said I’d make a cup of tea at 5
Now I’ve lost the kettle,it’s alive
It must have little feet which I can’t see
When I come here the kettle seems to flee

I feel like  ginger biscuits , angel cakes
Alas my mother wanted me to bake
We mad shortbread, almond  drops  so sweet
They made the men go mad and that’s a feat

Eat  roast beef on Sunday  with these sprouts
Add potatoes then be hit by doubt
Scruples make me ill and I shall die
Wondering if I really killed that fly

We’ll end the world by global trade and flights
Use the petrol well, it may ignite
Why not stay at home and write a poem
Sitting in the garden while bats roam

 After reading sonnets I have vowed
To read a special poem a day outloud
Sylvia Plath  made her  late poems for this
Writing well,  her agony, her bliss

So we reach the end of life on earth
Those who find the ruins won’t feel  much mirth
We died because expansion can’t go on
The balloon explodes, the clever science,  the don