The jacket on the chair that smelled of smoke

In my dreams I travel deep and low
Into the loving world of long ago
The jacket on the chair ,it smelled of smoke……
The funny tales, he sang, he laughed, he spoke

So faint the memory, strong are its remains
Security and love in our domain
The brushes and the stipplers all stood by
For no-one told his tools that he would die.

On his shoulders, like a queen I rode
So safe and happy on the path he trod.
His voice was clear and he could whistle too
In those days men were used to do


And  love shone from him on my mother dear
She smiled and made us cakes for Sunday tea
What  tragedy to leave  his children five
But in that distant space ,he is alive

The fire as red as any glowing rose
We were dressed so well in  home made clothes
Too happy, needing no words to relate
Our sense of being in this  generous space

I can’t get back to them, I cannot swim
The passages too wet , the light so dim
Yet I feel it in my body faint and clear
Death is not the end of those so dear.

Deep inside our minds, ancestors live
And   to out hearts a depth and breadth they give
Yet missing him,I hover near the place
Where I might dive into his dear embrace

The  table where we  banged our little heads
The chairs so close together like a bed
The teapot  always full, the sugar bowl
The fire, the kettle , pussy cat and coal

The fireplace had its oven  nice and warm
Looking at hot coals made me feel calm
The children seem to play in that   far space
And all around  is love  and on  and on I gaze

Blythburgh angels

By Blythburgh church, the cottage was unique
At night the floodlight  made me catch my breath
So beautiful the sight,I could not speak
I felt my soul awaken from its sleep
The Cathedral of the marshes is unique
The  soaring space,the stone, the river deep
The images that fade, the angels’ laugh
By Blythburgh church, the cottage was unique
In  the  dark , the floodlight caught my breath

Happiness is not what we think it is and about the rich people and how they feel

My still life If by Katherine

in myopinion, is the Mappiness project, founded by the British economists Susana Mourato and George MacKerron. The researchers pinged tens of thousands of people on their smartphones and asked them simple questions: Who are they with? What are they doing? How happy are they?

From this, they built a sample of more than three million data points, orders of magnitude more than previous studies on happiness. So what do three million happiness data points tell us?

The activities that make people happiest include sex, exercise and gardening. People get a big happiness boost from being with a romantic partner or friends but not from other people, like colleagues, children or acquaintances. Weather plays 

expressions – Origin of “half a mind” and “a piece of my mind” – English Language & Usage Stack Exchange

Both of these expressions/phrases have similar uses:

I have half a mind to confront that person.

I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.

Were these separate but similar expressions translated from

The anguish in the bones

People often think feelings come from the heart but sometimes i feels as if they come from my bones
especially the bones in my arm
After the camera software electronically stitches the image together, the resulting panorama offers a much wider view than a standard photo.s

I miss the full shared silence with you here
I miss you as I watch a film alone
Now I am just me ,God must me steer
I miss the full, calm silence with you here
The peace of love, the loneliness of fear
The anguish that arises from my bones
I miss the full, deep silence with you here
I miss you as I lie in bed alone

I miss the car rides into Essex towns
I miss the burning stubble in the fields
Yet I must rise again,I will not drown
I miss the coloured houses in the towns
I miss your glances as Love settled down
Where the harvest, where the ripened yield?
I miss the car. the journeys, hamlets, towns
I miss the burning stubble in the fields

I miss the joy of learning who you were
I miss the warmth of being loved and held
I cannot now complain you are not here
I miss the joy of finding what you were
Of learning what you knew of Art and fear
Now the golden ring has been unwound
I miss the joy of feeling who you were
I miss the peace of being loved and held

Sad story

A woman of 61 who lived in a flat in South London and have a jov as a doctor’s receptionist

Died in her flat and it was two and a half years before anybody did anything. That was because during a gale the glass door onto her balcony opened someone called the police who broke in. This is very disturbing to know that that could happen to you you when he’s in your next door neighbour will not realise that you were dead. Modern Life


Rondeau- a reminder


“An example of a solemn rondeau is the Canadian army physician John McCrae’s 1915 wartime poem, “In Flanders Fields“:

     In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The challenge of writing a rondeau is finding an opening line worth repeating and choosing two rhyme sounds that offer enough word choices. Modern rondeaus are often playful; for example, “Rondel” by Frank O’Hara begins with this mysterious directive: “Door of America, mention my fear to the cigars,” which becomes the poem’s refrain.”


Soaring soul

A  robin came in after you had died
The little bird is missing you like me
After hopping round, away birds fly

You sat there in the kitchen looking kind
The birds were eating crumbs left from our tea
The  robin looked in after you had died

Should I see it as a  subtle sign?
Once a bird tapped on the window here
I  knew   the meaning as I sadly sighed

After hopping round, away birds fly.
Their delicacy, their size haunts me like fear
The  robin looked in after you had died 

I wish the  bird  had stayed a little while
I wish I were up North near Windermere
On a  boat that sails  till my heart smiles

Oh, for another  one to  share , to steer
I miss your hands so warm and once so near
A  robin called by after you had died
With your soaring soul the small birds  fly