On the ceiling

An Icy hands took hold of my poor heart

As if from something good I would soon part.

My neighbour sees the writing on the wall

Fears she has dementia is appalled

She sees words on the ceiling telling her

She will die and such bad thoughts will scare

She thinks I will not see her any more

Her fear comes out deluded and mishaped

She is is racked by love and then by hate

If you know that you are near the end.

Confide this anguish to your nearest friends

Love again

I want to see you one more time

I would endure that pain of loss again

Yes, I still am with you in my dreams

I’d like to know your thoughts before you died

You concentrated,focussed, that was playi

I have longed to see you one more time

I felt it was a Play we were inside

Then we’d come back home, where we have lain

We are still companions in my dreams

What of love is captured in a rhyme?

So much so called “poetry” seems inane

I still wish to see you one more time

Love is not a concept of the mind

qI need your comfort but I need in vain

We are still companions in my dreams

Now I walk alone on new terrain

I do not suffer torture, am not blamed.

I have longed to see you one

Stan feels down


cats and newspapers

Stan was feeling somewhat glum,nay even despairing,on Monday morning.
Mary had gone to work on her new folding 6 gear bicycle with own basket and an extra basket from Wells-next -the- Sea 1995
[the wicker basket now somewhat grey in hue.]
He was left at home sorting out all his art work and materials as well as doing the baking,cooking and bathing Emile,the delightful yet trying male cat.
Sunk in dark misery,Stan sat in an old uncomfortable chair in the darkest part of the room, while Emile snored on the rug by the bright French windows.Stan went through all the possible reasons for his state of mind.Was he guiltyabout his flings with his alluring next door neighbour Annie?
Could it be his failure to toilet train Emile? Or his omitting to carry out the penance given by Father Brown after Stan confessed to stealing sweets on the way to Confession in 1956?
The longer Stan brooded the more reasons he found for his depression.
He could hardly get up to make a cup of coffee ..even instant seemed too much trouble.Would he even clean his teeth which somehow he’d failed to do?
The doorbell rang… it was a new cord for his laptop as Emile had been chewing the current one ,and 29 books in a sack from Amazon which his wife must have ordered,as he had no recollection of any such foolish spending.How would they pay the bill on the credit card? he ruminated.
Later in the day.Annie peered through the window.She tapped on the glass with her well manicured blue finger nails.Let me in she cried.
I’m too tired for any hanky panky he murmured lovingly as he ran his fingers through her thick red tresses.What is this delightful perfume,beloved,he questioned her.
It’s Poison! she replied.Oh no,sorry it’s Iris and Jasmine Eau de toilette from the Bodyshop.
Despite his lowly sunken state Stan loved this perfume.He sniffed rabidly at her well rounded form.Well,shall we have some tea,she enquired.
Stan sat there hand on chest.I’ve been feeling a little gloomy,he muttered.She peered at him.You look terribly pale,Stan.Where’s your angina spray?I can’t recall,he said.Oh,here it is in my vest.
What a strange place to keep it,she responded.
Mary made pockets for all my vests.at one time you could buy vests with pockets
She’s good at sewing despite being so clever.In fact she loves doing things with her hands.
Annie got the GNT spray out and handed it to him.Have you got a pain?
Well,yes,now you mention it,I do,he replied verbosely.
Well,in the name of God, use the bloody thing,she whispered endearingly into his left ear.
He opened his mouth,raised his tongue and with his hand resting lightly on his chin he pressed the button with his forefinger.
His head began to throb.
Annie appeared with a cup of Earl Grey tea and a biscuit.Why,you look a little better.Do you need another dose?
No,I feel much better now.I’ve had it before.He drank the tea but didn’t eat the biscuit which he threw out later in crumbs for the field mice in the shed.
His spirits began to rise.Why did he always forget that physical ailments can worsen a mood?He still felt a trifle glum but nothing a meringue wouldn’t put right.
OK,what shall I make for Mary’s supper? he enquired.
You sit there in the window and I’ll just make my special spaghetti,Annie replied gaily,as long as I can stay too.
Yes,I’ll open some red wine he said youthfully,and we can have fried apples and bananas for pudding with non fat Greek yoghurt.
What a wise choice she murmured gently into his ear………that will use up some of the newly picked apples,the bananas were from Lidl’s as usual.
Well,Stan you look better.said Mary happily,You’ve been pale all weekend.Was it Annie who cheered you up,not to put too fine a point on it?
Actually it was nitroglycerine,he said roguishly,but Annie made me use it.
But for us women you’d be dead,she replied equably.
But for you delightful creatures I wouldn’t be here at all,he moaned ecstatically.
Now then Stan,control yourself she urged,After all we have a visitor,Annie!
What a hoot,he thought as he twisted spaghetti round his fork in a careless manner splashing tomato sauce all over his new green acrylicjumper.
Thank the Lord for washing machines,Mary said.
I didn’t know Jesus invented them,Annie said with a tone of mild sarcasm but no-one bothered to reply.

As told by Emile to the local paper.
And believed by all of us.

Forgive all dear trespassers.

Ray Kleers cat’s in parquet
Did Jesus have a hot temper?
I feel so gay, it is natural
They are waiting for our partitions.
Say but the word and my sole shall be heeled.
Guarded the angels from seven acolytes
Hail glorious St Hat Trick.
Lord, it’s hearsay.
Lord, I’m the worser
Forgive all dear trespassers.
Blessed is the root of thy broom.
Pay for us now and the whore at our death.
I believe in none ,God.
The communion of taints.
But Joseph had a bee.
Jesus wants me for his bathroom.
The Ten Demanding Torments are here.
Have you paid your wrecks yet?
For all the saints who laboured at their texts
For all the painted ghosts
Remember man, thy tart is bust
Ash to ash,dust not the frost
Forgive us an hour’s trespassing and we shall be over the moon
Please do as you would have fun by
I am God”s losing person
Satanic Curse.
Pray,Father,give me your venom
Through my vault,through my thieving vault
I heard a bill fall twide.
Why are you queer,Nehemia? Sorry, why are you dear?
Jeremiah hid in a wave.He couldn’t fund a whale.
God sent a form and a bad temper, but the Word was not on the Form
She was like a centipede married to a mouse.What a feat!

No room for mourning by Sydney Keyes

No ro.om for mourning: he’s gone out
Into the noisy glen, or stands between the stones
Of the gaunt ridge, or you’ll hear his shout
Rolling among the screes, he being a boy again.
He’ll never fail nor die
And if they laid his bones
In the wet vaults or iron sarcophagi
Of fame, he’d rise at the first summer rain
And stride across the hills to seek
His rest among the broken lands and clouds.
He was a stormy day, a granite peak
Spearing the sky; and look, about its base
Words flowing like crocuses in the hanging woods,
Blank though the dalehead and the bony face.

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