Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.

Like me,my dad sang a lot and at night he sang this to me.I have very few memories of him except for the singing.Celtic people often do love singing and talking too

Then when my husband was dying, my mouth opened by itself and I , or something inside me, sang this

My husband lifted his head and smiled, then he was gone like a bird.

Meaning can’t be carried in mere words
Only pity and the less absurd
Hitler was a Catholic I read
Was he redeemed by Christ,my conscience said?
Who am I to cast the stone at him
I’d shoot him with a bullet,Oh Martin
Luther hated Jews and wrote it out
Hitler destroyed Europe with his clout
The USA felled Japan with the bomb
Full of glee they dropped another one
Now the natural world is dying too
Wring your hands, the devil’s here for you
He seems to be inside the human mind
We are wicked blinded, and resigned
Yet love is still well present if we care
Create a meaning welcome if you dare

My nightmare lives in bed,  oh fire,burned bright
I’m chased by signs,equations and cats’ eyes
After  I’ve turned out  the bedside light

I am far too weary for a flight
I see  the art and love yet all’s awry
My nightmare  comes to  bed, oh heck,it might

Can you tell me  more about my sight?
I seem  no longer ept with eggs to fry
Before  I have put on  the bedside light

The Hebrew letters  make my heart turn white
Denoting  both infinities not pi
The nightmare re-occurs, obnoxious site

Then its almost  Grecian  at its height
The tragedy of theatre, does that lie?
Forget about the bed and its gold light

The cat  bemoans it’s eyelessness  and  sighs
We’re not in Gaza yet but  don’t say  die!
My nightmare lives in bed but I shall write
After  I’ve turned on my little light

My cat crouched in a shoebox,eyes of green
Amber, gold, and wide as summer sky
She had all the dignity of queens
My cat was in a shoebox,eyes of green
Alas we did not have a bowl of cream
She was still afraid but never mean
I was singing.feeling, rather high
My cat sat in a shoebox,eyes of green
Amber, gold,oh curl up now and dream

I dream at nights of my old friends
My husband and his loving hands
I dream of all the cats we had
Alfred who slept on the bed
He laid his head upon my foot
As I wrote a poem of love
Jimmy who was small and black
She bit my hand if I got upI
did not wish to wet the bed
She did not understand a word I said
The last night here she gazed at me
I think she knew she would not be
Lucky was the nervous one
Black and white , apartheid none
He liked my husband’s shoulder dear
He draped himself and lost all fear
Now the cats have all gone off
I am frightened by a cough
My husband comes to me at night
Fortunately he cannot bite
He touches me with tenderness
Smiles and wished me,God Bless.
When I waken I feel lost
So I have to wear a watch
I seem to have no solid selfI
feel nervous of an elf
I don’t mind an angel sweet
He could rub my aching feet
I will have no other man
They are frightened of women
They don’t like to lose at Chess
They don’t like to wash my dress
They will brush my winter coat
Never ask me what I wrote
I do not wish to anger men
They might shout and bawl again
I think maybe I will turn gay
Ask a lady, what to say?
They may not understand my needs
Killing flowers to help the weeds
Talking all the weary night
On the whole they’re parasites
Also they may menstruateI
can’t give them seeds to take
So they will leave and get a man
This is where it all began
Eve and Adam,God and man
Cain and Abel, apple flan
Noah and his Ark so fineI
wish had one in the rainI
wonder when the world will end?
I am old so be my friend

Men and dogs are worrying en masse
Boys inspired by porn attack young girls
Dogs have killed young children in their home
Now one’s maimed a seal, this shall not pass.

Horrified bystanders watch QC
Her dog was off the lead, down by the Thames
Where Freddy was sunbathing near the bank
Now he’s dead, while Lady Muck drinks tea

More and more reports of women raped
Or touched in private places while at work
Is it change of culture, is it true
No care is given to those more delicate?

Culture changes, smart phones access porn
Dogs are guards but may themselves do harm

https://youtu.be/mrM2HvZtsg4

I got sick and tired of doing maths
So I spend my time with tongue firm in my cheek
Appalled by comments in the Telegraph

We all have our vocations,c’est ne pas?
Even when our mouths and bladders leak
I got worn out doing advanced maths

I’ll put more boiling water in the bath
Otherwise the outlook is frantique
Pouring comments on the Telegraph

I know our country’s full of psychopaths
People mad wth rage are not unique
I shall reflect on doing what’s called maths

Rarely do we see each other laugh
Nor cast a glance that does not seem oblique
On crazy comments in the Telegraph

I feel the future may be dark and bleak
We’ll have our bedrooms without an en-suite
I got far too focussed on pure maths
Now I grin at comments writ with wrath

The pathways to the heart are made by love.
And those who truly seek will  never lose.
As virtue and her graces smile above
We see the hills ahead,the rocky views.

With willingness to cross the seas of mud,
To push our way through tangled briar-filled woods.
Our soul within shows us the highest good,
When trees that looked quite dead are now in bud.

When flowers so sweet spring up between our toes
Encouragement is ,with relief ,received
And as we smell the fragrance of the rose,
Then we know our hearts were not deceived.

For Virgil, fortune favours those with steadfast feet.
The journey may be long,the end is sweet.

Note:The saying “Fortune favours the brave” is attributed to several people..Virgil,Pascal,Montaigne…ete

The sky is yellowy pink but tinged with grey
The sun is gone and we feel stark dismay
We can’t meet friends in person any more
Only shout as we stand by the door

I think the source of Covid  is just cash
Money laundered less, the notes unwashed
The coins are black as coal in devil’s  claws
Don’t leave  the tip that kills , nor money gnaw

I used to suck a shilling while I worked
I  tapped my  fingers  where it would not hurt
But now the sight of pounds makes   me feel sick
Never use old notes nor lovers lick 

Throw your money into a black hole
You may starve but this will save your soul

• 

• 

The English are rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall.
The space between the frozen tears is small.
Vision is attenuated there.
Emotions tangle, stutter are appalled
Homo sapiens, why did they call?
Vision is restricted, eyes are bare
The space between the frozen tears is small.
The English are rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall.
No Scottish Muslims can cross England, oh, my dear.
Emotions jangle, stutter, are appalled
Historic acts return as do old brawls
Roman villas, altars, what is here?
Vision is restricted, eyes a shield
How about a girder round Whitehall?
Let’s wall off Wales, they asked for more
Emotions rise and angry are our calls
The Scots must raise new taxes, we’re the whores.
How about a war to fund all wars?
The English are rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall.
Feelings surge as anger grips us all

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50700/the-flower-56d22df9112c4

The Flower

BY GEORGE HERBERT



How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;
         To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
                      Grief melts away
                      Like snow in May,
         As if there were no such cold thing.

         Who would have thought my shriveled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
         Quite underground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown,
                      Where they together
                      All the hard weather,
         Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

         These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
         And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
                      We say amiss
                      This or that is:
         Thy word is all, if we could spell.

         Oh that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
         Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
                      Nor doth my flower
                      Want a spring shower,
         My sins and I joining together.

         But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
         Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
                      Where all things burn,
                      When thou dost turn,
         And the least frown of thine is shown?

         And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
         I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. Oh, my only light,
                      It cannot be
                      That I am he
         On whom thy tempests fell all night.

         These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
         Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;
                      Who would be more,
                      Swelling through store,
         Forfeit their Paradise by their pride

From ad on Amazon

Perfect for holding a variety of knives including pairing knife, vegetable knife, small cooks knife, bread knife, carving knife, utility knife, steak knife, etc.
Kitchen Ware

Send me a pairing knife,dear Lord
I’m feeling lonesome, life is hard
Will there be instructions
How to get some introductions
By cutting out the hard parts of my heart?

Pairing knives are new to me,oh God
I hope I wil not cut off my own head
Is ir a delusion
A psychiatrist’s confusion?
Maybe I just need to go to bed

I thought it would be useful to possess
The secret key to happiness,no less
But should we have to purchase
Pairing knives for courtship
I am very puzzled I confess

I think it’s over rated wiith 5 stars
Noone made a comment,noone shared
So where are all the knives?
Are they in the handsof wives
Don’t tell ne I’m sexist,I’m in tears

Noone wants to say they feel alone
Not even dogs come by for bones
I will paint this knife in gold
A fork will pair it, hold
Then the knife will send its spirit to` my phone

I’m in deep now,never been this deep before
The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door.
In so deep, the ocean has its own startled floor.
I’m down,down.down.never been so dark , so more

I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am
I think I had an accident,fell over, then I swam.
Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s a man.
I guess I only do it cos I know some folk can.

I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain
Would I choose to relive if, I was born again?
The deep joy is the amazing gain.
But the sorrow is  damn sad, let’s admit it plain.

I’m in deep and it’s over my head
What was I thinking of,when I fell  out of that bed?
I look up and  the sea’s so  turquoise like  that mist   is red
When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.

At first, it was all just black,black pain
But from the bottom of the  well, I looked up with awed love again.
That’s when I recalled,feelings are good and sane
Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep,deep zone.

I dunno if I’m  ever comin’ out.
We can’t control it,ain’t that what life’s all about?
I’ll never love with innocence again,nor not feel doubt.
But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.


I’m swimming and the ocean’s so   mysteriously bright
Down here we don’t have no day nor no night
Fish nudge me with  big grins  and teeth white
Sea flowers fondle me and whisper,turn off that light

She had accidental courage
He paid accidental homage
But the fingers pointed upwards as we passed
They got the seccret message
Paid dearly for the passage
Looking deep inside the looking glass
The world is mere appearance
We must gain the endurance
To tolerate the mess and all past trash
She saw an accidental mirage
By the Bedouins they had damaged
The little tents are torn up, what a crash.
Now the nuclear morals flourish
The freezer keeps things coolish
Got to go,I need to make a splash
Oh,the accident will happen
It will be quite sudden
Looking forward to the sausage and the Mass

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/mar/26/authors-secrets-writing

What makes a poem work and can a poem ever be willed into being?

Wendy Cope: You’ve got to have something to say, but you don’t always know what it is. It’s often just some words in your head that you think could be a line of a poem, so you write them down and see where it goes. One of the major misconceptions about poetry is that the poet has some kind of agenda and intentions, not just that some words come into their head and then they start playing with them and seeing where they go. Because sometimes I will try to write a poem and it just comes out dead because there isn’t really anything that’s deeply felt or worth saying. One thing that makes poems work is strong emotion, and I remember hearing James Berry, I think it was, saying that one characteristic of a good poet is that they feel things intensely, and he said: “Of course poets are not the only people who feel things intensely, but it is one of the qualities,” and I think that’s true


About Wendy Cope, see below

.https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wendy-copehttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wendy-cope

Use no superfluous word, no adjective, which does not reveal something. Don’t use such an expression as ‘dim land of peace.’ It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer’s not realising that the natural object is always the adequate symbol. Go in fear of abstractions. — Ezra Pou

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,


By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.

 

Kathryn Braithwaite

Art by author from photo of a Norman Church




In the above extract from my last post I seem to be saying that it is the rhythms of what we write
which in art would be patterns or shapes ,it is these rhythms which tame the spirits of our hearts which may be troubling us.It is not merely writing down how we feel or describing a situation, maybe grief, maybe anger, or any emotion ,it is the work we do to edit or shape what we are trying to convey into a form which will both express
and communicate to others what we are experiencing,
It is like a sculptor making the stone into a shape
which satisfied the creative urge and invites our attention
If there is no feeling in the creation it will not have any value,but the feeling alone is not enough.
It’s the editing,shaping and so on which seems to satisfy our mind and heart.That is my view today