While I was ill recently with a UTI I heard a cat running then jumping onto my bed and resting against me
for a minute or two.I thought it was real,Whatever it was it fled after 2 minutes and I am missing the dear animal,I had heard a loud noise rather like the army helicopters we have flying over us today
Is it preparation for the Funeral on Saturday?

My mobile phone has been a trial
The other could not hear me
I could have run a million miles
Carrying tote bags filled with files
My mobile phone has been on trial
It seemed ok what e’re I dialled
I bought a plastic case,you see
It covered up the microphone
And turned all humans into stone
Hardware problems it cannot be
My mobile phone has been a trial
No foe or friend could hear me

Oh who can see into our hearts
And make them safe in grief
Catch all our tears in rivers dark
Oh you who see into our hearts
Let love be shared in vital sparks
In golden flames that burn no leaf
Oh you who see into our hearts
Oh make them wise with grief

The first triolets were devotional I believe.

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2014/may/26/misjudged-counselling-psychological-therapy-harmful-study-reveals

After a trauma it often makes the person relive and be retraumised
One week after my husband died I shed a tear and was advised to have counselling but is it bad to cry?
And you can do a six week course and get a certificate to become a bereavement counsellor so beware.Always ask your friends and contacts for their views
I spoke to a psychoanalyst who advised me not to see a counsellor.Crying helps us.Surely we can comfort each other?

United Kingdom sever ties that bind
Wales and Scotland never were our kind
If England leaves that might well pacify
The violence in the Northern land of Ire

Build a wall round England with no gates
The United Kingdom fragments with great pain
We English are so stupid, fit for jail
Then we will have this problem done and nailed

Hadrain’s Wall is still there, I have been
Imagined Roman Soldiers I have seen
Then the drop to Scotland’s in my gaze
The Romans went no further through the haze

Le Royaume – Uni is a shattered glass
Help the poor, abolish social class

e

We’ll need a passport if we go to Wales
Snowdon is not English,I bewail
One can reach the summit on a train
To see old England and the Labour pains

We’ll have to go to Cumbria, is it ours?
There is no border yet,no Northern Powers
Hellvellyn and Great Gable are not small
The Cumbrian folk might link them by a wall

The banks and braes of Scotland are not ours
It’s cold and wet up there,don’t be coward
A foreign trip will need no aeroplane
There is not yet a Motorway to Spain

Wales and Scotland sundered from our land
Foreign travel there will give no tans

Katherine poetry, reflections, Thinkings and poems, villanelle  November 20, 2019

Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves
That come and go on beaches , wet the  sand
The sea is always moving  as is love

The unconscious is a language dark engraved
We cannot read unless we can descend
To rhythms as natural  as   the  rippling waves

Rich and strange   so different from above
What we find is  not what we intend
The sea is always moving  as is love

What’s   in authentic nature  that should save
As colours interact, by brush  to  blend?
Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves

Yet ,in a poem, what  part of us  can bathe
The mind , the heart, the soul, the writing hand
The sea is always moving  as is love

The  golden seas, the oceans can command
The ships that sail, the   whale, the hidden ends
Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves
The inner sea is  moving , tender love

I like cheese pudding very much
When I beat eggs with a crutch

Plum tomatoes are the best
For human beings and for pests

We must eat fruit and salad green
Steak and kidney in our dreams

A cat is spying from the shed
I wish I had it in my bed

Lock the door, its pudding time
Don’t pour cream on my design

Water, water, give me help!
I have got a burning scalp

I cut my hair all by myself
Unless it was a gnome or elf

Underneath the arches,I sit and scheme with you
Underneath the larches, the birds are feeling blue

The BBC is flooded by complaints
People missed their favourite shows last night
Prince Philip died, “they” say he was no Saint

Much appreciation he had earned
When lesser men might well have taken flight
The BBC is flooded by complaints

The Queen will ache like every widow aches
This weeping will not show itself in sight
Prince Philip died, he was her much loved mate

Her tears might well if all the childen spoke
Keeping her new mask on will denote
The BBC is flooded by complaints

This is not the time to hurl out cruel taunts
Get your pen and write as I have wrote
Prince Philip died, “they” say he was no Saint

The children of Victoria caused much hate
The Kaiser and the Tsar in the same boat
The BBC is flooded by complaints
Prince Philip died, “they” say he was no Saint

To the depths

The trees’ roots wind beneath the grass
So green and perfect,neatly mown
.The roots entangled,serpents mass,
the fruit trees which now groan.
Another,richer world beneath,
Where the roots stark homes do give
To tiny creatures which yet seethe,
And all our darkest shadows live.
From here a serpent malice took
From our neglect of what we hate.
We see the surface , do not look
At what lies deeper ,till too late.
And so we live, so often blind
To the depths of our own minds

Adam,Eve, the apple and the snake
We know the story well,we are quite smart
Their children filled the earth with crude mistakes
Adam,Eve, the apple and the snake
God is not in charge of what we take
With the nuclear bomb, the earth will break
Particles light nightmares,man awake
Where are our little souls and human hearts
Adam,Eve, the apple and the snake
We know the story well,we are so smart

“Ironically the covid-19 virus has managed to unite the people of the world

By making us stay as far away from each other as possible”

Near illiterate, they watch TV
Not Nigella not the BBC
They ask the educated to sink down
Come Dancing ,Benny Hill. the maddened clown

No more does learning merit due respect
Nor do they treat the erudite with tact
They do not wish to study or discuss
So any leader vicious wins the toss

Does it matter much if sights are lowered?
They felt shame at school and were ignored
They do not think they’ll benefit from books
But watch the behaviour of an errant Duke

The lack of cash,the shame, the rage, the crash
No surprise some vote for sociopaths

Decide with me
Past walls of heaving lies.
Past politicians who shall be the Bride?
Decisions fly like demons on the tide.
Grab Satan”s tail and take a free and evil ride.

I fear no pill
Can help the poor and reft.
All of their payments
Are to be
Put to the cracked Test.
We do not help
For passive is our state.
Send us to Bedlam for we are adrift.

Post modernism
Says all stories are good
But we must sift them
With our heads of wood.
I fear no evil
For soon I think I`ll be
Driven to seek asylum
Where the angels swim at sea

I will always love Hugh, though John gave me his home
We married very hastily,but were by chance in Rome

There’s no place lacks combs
There’s no grace in Rome

Come to Jakarta or send me a bone
I wanted a mere threesome, though I feel best alone

Life is what happens when we are busy making puns
Come now to supper but don’t eat any guns

Imagine all the people living life in grief
Imagine there’s no laughing, imagine nothing feels
Don’t read a comic, only books have leafs
Then in the Autumn they fall out unsealed

So you want the Loons to play with
Cirque du soleil to swing away with
They’ll come if you don’t lie

Success is like a swinging rope
Up and down, the monsters joke

I decided to be a graduate but never learned to read
Thinking is of little use especially at speed

Do something useful,sweep the floor
Have some coffee,clean the door

I voted Labour all my life
I got married for the strife
Now he’s dead, I am quite lost
Noone warned me what it cost

Haarold Willson our PM
Very clever decent man
I will drink a toast to him
Though maybe not one for old Jim

;s

The family tapestry is full of holes
I want to mend them, will I be believed?
Maybe a few pleats and then a fold
The family tapestry has got huge holes
And places where we scorched it with hot coal
The cat has got her claws in, an own goal
Oh,Lord, I think the ghosts are here like thieves
The family tapestry has got huge holes
I want to mend them now before I leave

Now my birthday comes again
Send me paper and a pen
I think a villanelle is good
When the trees burst into bud
Though its form is never fluid
Love alone will never do it
But grief is what will damp my eyes
Tears and ink produce new lines.
I love to feel the pen in hand
My old friends will understand
The ink once made from powder dry
Mixed with water for supply
We had a monitor it’s true
But like a prefect tasks to do
The old brass jug stands full and proud
Now then children, two’s a crowd

Stan woke up with a sore throat.

He had to write his wife a note.

He could not speak without much pain.

Oh,dear,he’s got a bug again!

Mary made him lemon tea.

He listened to the BBC.

He read the  paper front to back;

Did Su doku,called the quack!

This is Dr Browne right here,

but only gurgles could he hear!

He drove straight round to visit Stan,

He felt concern for this old man!

Stan was lying in the hall.

Dr.Browne asked,Did you fall?

No,said Stan,I hate my bed.

I thought I’d lie down here instead.

It may be draughty,never mind.

Dr Browne is very kind.

What about this long settee?

It looks quite like a bed to me.

I hope you are not feeling gay!

Oh,my my!.What did you say?

I mean it seems a trifle odd

To compare a sofa with a bed.

I wonder if you love me, Stan?

Stan said,Doctor you’re a man!

I only love the sweeter sex!

Dr Browne looked very vexed.

Doctor I never knew before.

You are gay.,Oh,zut alors!

Yes,but I am very chaste.

I never go below the waist

So you just hold hands and kiss?

Yes,my man,it’s utter bliss.

But were do you meet your lovers gay?

I find them mainly on E-bay!

I place small adverts in the Times.

I joined a club for tasting wines.

Some I meet by chance alone.

Can’t you settle on just one?

But you are unfaithful to your wife?

You do not lead a saintly life!

Oh,Mary is not keen on sex,

She sits in bed and sends out texts.

Once our Lyra had been born,

She treated me with utter scorn!

I’m not God, I do not judge.

He gave Stan‘s arm a little nudge.

Don’t you want a tiny hug?

It really may scare off that bug

So Stan and Dr Browne embraced.

I assure you it was completely chaste.

Stan went off to make hot drinks

While Dr Browne admired his Quinks.

Do you use a fountain pen?

I use my Shaeffer now and then.

I got it when I went to college.

Through that pen has passed much knowledge.

But now my mind has gone quite blank.

I’d like to be completely frank.

Was  all my learning utter waste?

Not at all,it kept you chaste.

While you had your head in books,

It kept attention from your looks.

But now you’re   empty,Je t’adore.

With that he made for Stan’s front door.

Stan was gobsmacked by this visit.

He called to Emile:Oh,what is it?

Even though I’m 93

All I meet want to love me!

The English are mainly very queer.

Oh,said Emile,Oh,dear,dear!

Cats  don’t have much time for hugs

They chase the frogs and sleep on rugs

Katherines tory, Thinkings and poems, villanelle  September 3, 2019 1 Minute

Life is movement life is song and word
We try to capture life in all its forms
Life is wild as tigers,sweet as birds

Life is what we get yet don’t deserve
The birth of infants and the  food of worms
Life is movement life is song and word

Life is not what’s said but what we heard
Grace comes down like leaves as Autumn turns
Life is wild as tigers,small as birds

Like a boiling pot that must be stirred
We need to watch  for only then we learn
Life is movement life is song and word

Love comes to the empty, is not earned
The heart   like Joan of Arc  is made to burn
Life archaic , everlasting curves

Of our empty fantasy we’re shorn
Like the fields of wheat and barley corn
Life is movement life is song and word
Life is a wild melody   lovelorn

“You mean you’re comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it? Yes. Mrs. Whatsit said. You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.”
― Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time: With Related Readings