When I wrote in a poem that my arm was paralysed when I planned to write
something hurtful about someone who had hurt me,it really happened
I wrote the beginning and middle but the revenge I could not write at all
So has my conscience got control ……I didn’t think,I just felt puzzled
I could not move my hand or arm until I decided I was not going to retaliate
After that I was able to finish the poem.
Unfortunately I usually have to work it out for myself

On Monday morning he was mad wih me
I asked him what I’d done to make him hurt
He said I thought too fast and talked too slow
Then he lay down flat and looked inert

So I try to think more slowly and talk quick
It makes me stutter ,stammer and go mute
My tongue got tied in knots I swallowed it
I can’t eat or speak,he thinks I’m cute

Best to stay with nature and your form
If men get angry that is their concern
Why does being a genius and a wife
Make men envy me until they burn?

I wonder if I should go mute again
Then my lovers will not suffer pain

h

At last my one ambition is fulfilled
I have a desk where I may write at will
No more the dining table or a board
A two desk family is safely moored
Men must have their study if they write
Though grandad was a coalminer at night
And Father was a writer in gold paint
Embellishing the Churches with quotes quaint
He also did The Stations of the Cross
Then he died, what torment ,oh what loss.
We went to see his grave and said a prayer
Jesus was so quiet,was hardly there.
But I believe in love and always will
Now I’ll write my poems with a quill

I meant to write a poem of revenge
To hurt the one who shot out glacial words
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Through the Oxford. my sharp eyes had lunged
My vile emotions then were further stirred
I meant to write a poem of revenge

First he wooed me , showed his cultured friends
Sweet the words and soft the voice I heard
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Would retaliation my heart rend?
Down the vultures rushed ,carnivorous birds
As he wooed me with the words he wrung

My arm was disengaged by unseen hand
I could not write, impossible cruel words
I meant to write a poem of revenge

Lady of Macbeth, who’d wash in blood
When evil can be overcome by good?
I meant to write a poem of revenge
I hated once but Good controlled my hand

He was good at acting not at sums
The Latin teacher hit him on the head
How can teachers hurt some mother’s son?
He was good at acting not at sums
Premature and fragile, yet he won
He was the only man who shared my bed
He smelled of honey, bee hives in the sun
The thought of mathematics hurt his head

B

My husband entertains me in the night
He pulls his face and grins with expertise
I shake with laughter at this funny sight
My husband entertains me in the night
While I sleep I dream he is alive
He sings and dances till I am at ease
My husband entertains me in the night
He pulls his face and grins, he likes to tease