Month: January 2021

We are not God

How my heart sings

Poetry and lovely images

Katherine Thinkings and poems  

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Václav Havel

The relativization of all moral norms, the crisis of authority, the reduction of life to the pursuit of immediate material gain without regard for its general consequences—the very things Western democracy is most criticized for–do not originate in democracy but in that which modern man has lost: his transcendental anchor, and along with it the only genuine source of his responsibility and self-respect . . . . Given its fatal incorrigibility, humanity probably will have to go through many more Rwandas and Chernobyls before it understands how unbelievably shortsighted a human being can be who has forgotten that he is not God.

The pillars of the Western Mind have cracked

The end of values, kindness, earned respect
The loss of wisdom,history and truth
The pillars of democracy are cracked.

The centre of the heart,who can protect?
Conspiracy and madness unseat proof
An end of values, kindness, earned respect

Violence is admired though lives are wrecked
The lasting triumph of the folk uncouth
The pillars of the Western Mind have cracked

Their minds unfurnished seem bereft of tact
They tread on others words like horses’ hooves
The end of values, kindness, earned respect

How can such opponents make a pact?
The calculating crucify our youth
The pillars of the Western Mind have cracked


Yet Western Empire builders had no ruth
They tortured those they conquered group by group
On such ground just madmen earn respect
The altars of the Western Mind have cracked

The Messiah is a cat

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com



  • Stan awoke feeling very thirsty.My, this bed is much  too hard,he thought.He put out his hand and felt some wood not far away.It was his desk.
    Emile was lying on his stomach purring.
    You fell out of bed,the little cat miaowed.Luckily I clung on with my claws and I am ok sleeping down here….I can see any mice better.
    Well,it’s not ok with me,Stan informed him gently.How can I get up from here?
    He picked up the Cambridge Companion to Sylvia’ Plath and banged on his desk softly.
    Mary was awake and heard a strange sound.She got up and found Stan lying on the floor with his head by his desk.
    Emile wanted to sleep by the wall,you see.,he told her.
    Then he rolled over and I fell out.
    That is logically and scientifically unsensible,Mary told him. Surely Emile is not so big that his weight was enough to knock you out of the bed?It is against the law of gravityAnyway,why don’t you get up?
    I like it  down here,the old man lied to her.
    OK Mary said,then she picked up the phone and rang 999.
    Hello,she said.My cat is very upset as he feels guilty for pushing my husband out of bed.
    How terrible for you,the man answered.I’ll send an ambulance right away.
    Mary opened the front door and left it unlatched whilst she lit the electric lights with a match.
    How do you feel Stan,she enquired.
    I am thirsty,give me so brandy,he ordered her politely as he was very full of kindness.
    They said not to let you or Emile drink or eat.
    Blooming ridiculous,he told her in a manly fashion
    Soon the ambulance arrived and the paramedics were running up the stairs to seee the poor cat.
    Mary fainted so they laid her on the bed whilst they comforted Emile and cleaned his paws.
    Then they picked up Stan and laid him right next to Mary,his wife.
    Why don’t you have a bigger bed,one asked Stan.
    Bigger than what,he responded academically.
    Well,if you were any fatter you’d not be able to get laid with your wife.
    True,he replied but I am 96 you know.I have erectile malefaction already  and am unwilling to have more mistresses and lovers or even concubines.
    I shall make you some tea the female paramedic told them forcefully
    Well,you don’t seem to be hurt,the other one told Stan, but the cat may need therapy or counselling because of the guilt he will feel.
    He’s not  a Catholic I hope.
    No, he’s Jewish,Stan shouted  nervously.
    That’s alright then.He can have concubines if he chooses.How do cats get to be Jewish anyhow/
    It’s their souls,Mary said…they are all waiting up there for a suitable place to be reborn and some choose to be cats.
    But how can you tell? he asked wonderingly.They have no prayer shawls
    They miaow in Hebrew,Mary said loftily.And they like to sing the psalms before bed.
    But how do you  know it’s Hebrew,he replied.Do you speak it?
    No, it’s just he hates bacon and peperoni and always wears a hat so it seems he must be one of Jesus’s friends,but not Judas of course.I suppose Jesus wore a hat but it’s never been found as yet.Not even being sold as relics.
    Well,that’s intriguing.Do you think Emile might be the Messiah?
    Oh,dear.We never thought of that.Will he have to go to Galilee and catch fish and walk on water?
    No, he can go to Rome and tell the Pope that the Church is not what God planned.
    I hope they don’t kill him,Mary cried…
    God will not be very happy.
    I didn’t know God had moods,Stan said.
    He has post-creative depressive disorder….no wonder when we look round he world.
    Still they did try,I’ll say that for him or her.
    And so say all of us
    For he’s a very good yeller,he’s a very good yeller
    A cat’s life is a fuss.Miaow

Kind or human?

Donald said he’s coming back somehow
In a different form, perhaps a cow!
He made an error, ruining the States
If he is a worm then he’ll be bait
If he is a dog and bites a child
He will be put down like those reviled
So many on Death Row he ordered killed
The only benefit is to remind
Not all humans are quite human-kind

I wish that I had kissed you ten more times

Katherine villanelle  August 11, 2016 1 Minute

I wish that I had kissed you ten more times
I didn’t know  how soon you had to leave
I’d   draw upon your lips my best design

I tell my love in words,  which is no crime.
I didn’t show you all you might receive
I wish that I had kissed you ten more times

If I had  bought you  bottles of best wine
Would you have stayed and  kept me unbereaved?
I’d   draw upon your lips my best design.

I know you were perceptive and read signs
Eyes a-crinkle   green as sun washed  leaves
I wish that I had kissed you ten more times

I’d  hold your  mind and  weave  your thoughts to rhymes
Until  the  truest love poem  arrived
I’d   draw upon your lips my best design.

I’d write  you letters ,much love I would leave
With my mind and body I perceive.
I wish that I had kissed you ten more times
I’d   draw upon your lips our own design

To be loved alone


Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have;
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.”
― W. H. Auden, Collected Poems

Happy New Tier


I wish you a low Tier
Happy New Leer
Happy, need beer
Hippy New Flair
Happy, Loo near!
Aptly New Here.
Happy New Beer
Unhappy with Lear?
Snappy New Year
Cherry Xmas
Happy Mums R Us
We kiss you and say it’s Xmas, so happy you’re dear
Very Xmas to view.
Very Xmas with flu
Make a post of it.
Flay the dust out.
Hope to flee you soon
I can’t mate to go home.
Sorry I’ve not been in clutch.
Sorry not to sweep my promises.
We must be, this year.
Be good but impure
Have emotions in the flesh
Let’s get together with a SIM
I’ll see you with the Creator.
Are you any good with tarts
Flap both your ears
.Well, we were born with no lore.
I see men gnaw more.
Happy Low Tier
I feel I am queer

I have studied and I’ve got my last degree

I started to write villanelles because after 2 years I was still suffering intensely
I decided to learn something new.I’ve written many villanelles now. I learn new things as often
as I need to.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Villanelle

 March 14, 2018

I have studied  and I’ve got my new degree
My heart has learned its lessons one by one.
I’m a graduate of the grief academy

I didn’t know how anguished one would be
When the man you love is here and then is gone
I’ve been studied, oh  I got the third degree

The tears I wept  could fill up the Dead Sea
Add more salt and scour the shore till done
I’m a graduate of the grief academy

I know now I must die,we cannot flee
We turn to dust and that is not much fun
I have studied  and I’ve got my last degree

It’s no  News, nothing for the BBC
Unless you’re Stephen Hawkings, that great man
We’re graduates of the grief academy

We can’t control life with a self made plan
God is gone though prayer  might well begin
I have suffered till I got my Ph.D
I’m a graduate of the grief academy

On the shore

The face that was familiar is no more
Yet in my dreams he  is alive again
Without his presence, I feel lost and sore

The truth of loss, no human can ignore
It tears our  heart  to pieces with its pain
The face that was familiar is no more

Yet sentimental offerings I abbhor
When parted from the love with whom I’d lain
Without his presence, I feel lost and sore

No give and take of love, the shore is bare
The tide is out  so far the waves complain
The face that was familiar is no more

On the sea’s edge, we would walk and stare
Now I walk alone is this  my shame?
Without his presence, I feel lost and  bare

By my write the inner rhythm’s regained
The art of losing well  may be attained
The face that was familiar is no more
With him I   found sweet sea shells on  the shore

Corruption

I’m in my cashmere hoodie
And I’m wearing cashmaere track pants
Polly Wolly Doodle, life’s a lay
I’ve got a folding Samsung
I think it has a stylus
Polly Wolly Doodle. life’s E bay
My sheets are very cotton
Like they were when slaves were pickin’
Polly Wolly Doodle’s in decay
So we lay on slaves’ productions
But we did not want to meet them
Polly Wolly Doodle, Jesus waves.
We were praying to the Devil
Dancing with the demons
Polly Wolly Doodle, we will pay
We imitate work clothing
But ours are fur and satin
Polly Wolly Doodle, who can pray?
The priests abusing children
The nuns hide babies dying
That was for Lord Jesus
They must all be unbelievers
Horror is the feeling I declare

Win them back

I saw a book called Split:how to win your husband back.I wonder if it works when they are
dead?
Hey,Lord,I want my husband back.I’m sad by myself
Help some other sad people then
But I will still be alone at night
I know the feeling only too well
Oh,Lord.I’m sorry for being so egocentric
Everybody seems to be nowadays and even in the past Eve stole that apple
Yes, you’ve seen it all
There’s a lot more to life than that.The beauty and the terror
I suppose you also have felt the terror
No doubt, I did.
So you know how people feel when they are homeless and despised
I know some of it.
I hope I didn’t interrupt you.
I have plenty of time
Good night
Good night

My husband has a rubber face













My husband has a rubber face,
He’s from a subset of the human race.
Some men have faces fixed and set;
My husband’s face is not like that.

He imitates our politicians,
Just like Rory Bremner can.
Though he has no wig or hair piece,
He can look like anyone.

Some nights I waken for I am laughing
While I am quite sound asleep.
I am dreaming of his mobile features,
Contorted to a different shape.

He is skilled at telling jokes.
And he loves a good cartoon.
If I am feeling flu style blueness
I he can get me up again.

He has a rather noble visage.
He gets attention he abbhors.
In the bar on King’s Cross Station—
I was asked was he a Lord!

He’s a Lord of Fun and Humour.
He’s a Lord at Listening Well.
He’s unique, but so are you,
And all creatures that on earth do dwell

	


	



			
				


			

			
Ferrets are popular now
		
	
	

		

Ferrets are the   latest  thing in pets
They need less food than any pussy cat
But if you have a rabbit  hole nearby
A ferret will run down there like a spy
Their faces look adorable and sweet
But don’t let one run up a lady’s feet
Very soon they’ll reach   her private parts
That will be the end for all sweethearts
On second thoughts I’d get yourself a snake
Or why not live alone and  bake a  cake?

	


	



			
				


			
				


			

			
My arm was paralysed
		
	
	

		

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

	


	



			
				


			

			
Mute again
		
	
	

		

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

	


	



			
				


			

			
With good will
		
	
	

		











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 hated once but that is not an end
		
	
	

		






Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com










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

	


	



			
				


			

			
Bee hives in the sun
		
	
	

		

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

	


	



			
				


			

			
He likes to tease
		
	
	

		

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






	


	



			
				


			
				


			

			
The words evoked what no-one could conceive
		
	
	

		

With the Mass in Latin,I believed.
The words evoked what no-one could conceive
The women in their hats  looked like proud queens
What was, what is,  and what once might have been

The men came late,hung over, full of dreams
They took no Wafer, drunk from living streams
I did not mind confessing made up sins.
Nor did I mind  beans found in small tins.





Religion gives fresh  themes  to those obsessed
Guilt and sin,but scruples are the best
I went  to church and told God I was through
He said, hang on,I’ll send my Light to you.





Thus it was that I was saved from death
I had worshipped Satan in duress.
After that I  took a job   for health
I am rich in love, though not in wealth





To me there is a White House of the Soul
We shall meet again there when we’re whole
A place of beauty, space and coloured light
God  won’t  boast, and neither will the mice








	


	



			
				


			

			
Enigmatic  like a midday dream
		
	
	

		

The fallen sun makes black the trees that lean
Its liquid centre thrown up wild and bright
Enigmatic  like a midday dream





The  pinky edges shift in  sun’s bent beams
Do they convey the aura of the light?
The fallen sun makes black the trees that lean





I wonder where my haunted eyes have been
In the forests deeper than the night
Enigmatic  like a midday dream





Schizoid, lacking affect,  a  slit scream
Destroying what is left of love and sight
The fallen sun makes black the trees that lean





Here we saw wild primrose by the stream
The castle of the Tudors soft in  blight
Enigmatic  like a midday dream





Bewildered people  kill their own insight
Toss their fears , into the weak to bite
The failing sun as pure as  boiling screams
Enigmatic  are our midnight dreams

	


	



			
				


			

			
The personality of trees
		
	
	

		






Trees lean over, watchful as we meet
The tall ones do not shiver in the breeze
Trees can hear the torment in our speech

We have flowering cherry in our street
But mine died like my lover with great ease
Trees lean over listening as we meet





The tree won’t bend too close, it will not reach
As panic,worry, horror,nightmares squeeze
Trees discern the music in our squeaks





Alas, no tree has mastered human speech
But when they can, they coax the honey bees
Trees lean over sweetly as we meet





The leaves will rustle,wrestle and may tease
Smile for selfies,what’s the word, it’s cheese
Trees lean over, wonder, and conceive
Yet trees hate noone, nor do they believe

	


	



			
				


			

			
Trees can’t walk
		
	
	

		

Trees are deeply rooted,trees can’t walk
They don’t sleep nor do  they stay awake
Trees can’t  sin  because they cannot talk
Trees are deeply rooted,trees can’t walk
Can’t exclaim when they espy a hawk
Trees will bend  and so they do not break
Trees are deeply rooted,trees can’t walk
They don’t sleep nor do they stay awake

	


	



			
				


			
				


			

			
In this city
		
	
	

		

Photo by Peter Laskowski on Pexels.com





Searching in this city I may find you
Then you will desire to  come back home
In my  savaged heart I feel  this true
Seeking in this city I may find you
I’m searching all  the  places that we  knew
From Greenwich up to Amersham I  roam
There is nowhere in this city I can find you
I grieve for you will  never come back home

	


	



			
				


			

			
My curly headed baby
		
	
	

		










I sang this to my husband when he was dying.I  did not consciously know he was dying
My mouth opened  by itself and I began singing ,unwittingly giving  a  performance to all the other
people in A & E
When I was little my dad sang it to me when he put me to bed.
I seem to have inherited his habit of humming or singing  a great deal….