Deep roots

When we drove to Cornwall in the spring
The wild flowers in the lane burst into song
We stopped in Weymouth,saw the curving shore
Love seeped even deeper to our cores
The peninsula of Roseland washed our souls
The higher sun shone widely over all
Yet Cornwall is not English,I am sure
Though noone on our isle is truly pure
Hereford and Worcester home of larks
Their green inlands such orchards of the heart
The love that blossoms must gain deep,deep roots
As far below the ground as upper shoots
In that hidden world where beetles creep
Roots grow strong and tangled while we sleep
On the marriage bed we two were one
Now I am alone for you have gone
Yet underneath all vision we are coiled
Your roots and mine live mingled and unspoiled

My husband has a rubber face



My husband has a rubber face,
Is he ofthe 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

So you want the stars to play with

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.

What,meaning?

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

I’m chased by signs,equations and cats’ eyes

Cats by Katherine

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

The cat

Photo by Marko Blazevic on Pexels.com

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



Dried flowers

Unconscious of our cruelty, we sin
Yet pride ourselves as worthy and refined
Those who know themselves are modest souls
Who do to those around them little harm

Blinded to our our faults we strut about
Causing pain to others, oh what charm
If we break the rules,we have no doubts
From our errors we can never learn

So I look on your insults and smile
Self image admits nothing makes a change
I shall not keep your sentences in files
Unlike dried flowers in vases well arranged

Yet though you now evade a little pain
Your company will never be the same

Old friends

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

On forgetting we are using metaphors

KatherinereflectionsThinkings and poems  March 24, 2016 4 Minutes

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The most obvious confusion between metaphor and reality is when society labels emotional/interpersonal problems/divergence from norms of society as mental illnesses.I
n the USA childdhood disobedience is now a mental illness and there are many similar crazy notions.Homosexuality was labelled as a mental illness for years but no longer.
Now if you are suffering terrible anguish in various forms it may help to be told it is an illness… or it may make you worse.I am sure that often excess fatigue,personal characteristics like overworking constantly,not eating well,being distressed by the state of the world are very common but there are no blood tests nor any other tests to identify such as being illnesses.Though often physical illnesses casuse mental distress and depression either directly or because of shame and anxiety and other reactions to being ill for a long time.
The writer Thomas Szasz identified this confusion many years ago.If you disagree and say how can medication help unless a person is ill then I’d say that the placebo effect is one reason and another is that if someone is exhausted and needs to rest then medication maybe helpful to give them a little peace.
Gerard Manley Hopkins,A Jesuit priest and a poet seemed to be given a job in an Irish University which was exhausting and debilitating but owing to his vow of obedience to his superiors in the Jesuit Order he could not change his life except by dying… so he thought.
The poet Gwyneth Lewis who has been the National Poet for wales wrote a book[Sunbathing in the rain] about her severe bout of depression.In the book she seems to be claiming that there were personal mistakes and decisions in her lifestyle and job which led her into depression.She saw it as necessary for change.However she did use medication in spite of feeling it was a spiritual turning poimt which she needed to get back onto her true path or vocation in life.
Her mother had been depressed frequently when she was a child and so she would have learned this as a way of problem solving.
Also despite her immense intelligence she had failed to realise that abandoning her strong hopes to have a child [given the age of her husband and the need to earn a living] was going to cause her huge distress.In fact marrying someone who has been sterilised seems unusual for a young woman who wants children.But it is sometimes reversible and maybe she didn’t think so far ahead.
This blindness to our own feelings seems to lead many of us astray.
We sometimes get clues to our hidden feelings in dreams or we could find someone to talk to when going through a major life decision.
Some people don’t know that grief and mourning exist and are stunned when they feel sad and often their families criticise them for “not coping well” Coping here seems to mean remaining happy and calm all the time;this is a selfish demand on a bereaved person or anyone really.
I also noticed over the years that many famous people suffered from depression but when you examine their lives they seem to demand too much from themselves and be afraid to ask for help
.Poor Sylvia Plath wanted to be famous which she is now but alas she is dead. It’s hard to know why she felt the need to work so hard except her upbringing was one where acadenic excellence was valued and why she married someone with no obvious way of providing support either financial or emotional… when it got tough he ran off… but who knows why? The point that interests me is that she was compulsively driven to achieve… and she did so much in her short life… but was it worth it?
We all need to examine our life to see if we are acting stupidly.
But when worn out mentally it seems thinking is a mistake whereas simple manual work is beneficial as is being outdoors or being with kind undemanding friends…. and if a person has few friends coping with emotional trauma is much harder.This affects people who move to another state or country.And older people moving house even can bring on mental confusion.
And if we are people who find friendship and intimacy hard then it’s likely that we will suffer more from any problem we run into.
Finally,is the idea of a vocation for each of us of value?We each have unique gifts plus a need to earn a living.It depends on many factors outside our control whether we can find a job that combines these.Many poets and writers work in menial jobs to earn a living and then they write at night.[Teaching seems to sap creative energy.]
Other people don’t feel they have a calling but train for something they feel will earn a living in a way that suits them.Electricians and plumbers are in great demand…
And apart from finding our own true needs we need to contribute to society in some way.And to have a feeling of enjoying being alive which is perhaps denied those millions in Asia who make our clothes,i phones and other goods.

Worrying en masse

Photo by Daniel Lee on Pexels.com

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

Writ with wrath

My own hand by Katherine

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

My own photo

We know our little hearts were not deceived

Kingfisher_Kinabatangan.jpg

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

Don’t leave the tip that kills , nor money gnaw

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

Now there is no road

No rought beast shall slouch to Bethlehem
There is no track or pattern to our fate
Once Jesus’ feet were bathed by Magdalen
Now communities of love disintegrate.

The world does fall apart, the centre’s gone
There is no named War, but armies kill
Or single, abject men who carry guns
On other nearby folk will shoot at will

There seem to be no ” better” sort of men
But all lack much conviction,common good
They follow gold with bent accountant’s pen
Calvin’s “way to heaven”, Noah’s flood

Now there is no road nor path nor beast
Confusion,chaos,populism will feast