Mary gets a temperature

Mary woke up and found that she had slept all night on the sofa in the living room. This was the first time that she had ever done that and she was very puzzled.

Then she realised she had a temperature she then understood that she had suddenly felt too unwell to go to bed. Mary thought she would have her nap on the sofa but she was asleep for 9 hours. She called for her little cat Emile.

Emil6 ran into the room,oh mother he fried I thought you were dead.

Why did you not go next door and ask Annie to come?

I thought it was too late so I went into my basket and fell asleep and then I ate the cold sausages you left out.

The sausages were not for you. There were for the church bazaar lunch.

Well you won’t be able to go to the church bazaar this now will you? You may have got COVID.

I never had my booster vaccineshe cried thoughtfully. Didn’t have the flu jab either.

Emile said I’ve got something else to tell you. I ate all the stuffed eggs that you made last night and they were absolutely delicious so will you make some more ?

You’ll have to wait. I have used all the eggs that there are in the fridge so unless you can go out and find a hen and see where it lays its eggs you’ll have to wait till I’m well again

Why, are you going to go and find a hen?

No I will order them with the groceries from the Co-op. They do organic ones

It’s a pity that you can’t lay eggs, the cat said.

Human eggs are very small because after the sperm gets into the ovum and it becomes fertile it remains inside the mother being fed through the umbilical cord but chickens don’t stay inside the hen for 9 months the egg is put into the nest and the hen have to keep it warm and eventually it will hatch and out will come the chicken.

So when we eat the egg we are eating the chicken that’s inside it?

Yes although sometimes the egg doesn’t have an embryo in it.

They lay sleepily on the sofa wondering why human beings ate the eggs of hens

And so do all of us

Mary is hit by a can and Annie prays

As Mary stood by the fridge at bedtime, a can of fly killer brought by dear Annie fell off the top and struck her red,orange and brown framed spectacles on the top.The heavy can hurt her nose
I hope nobody thinks a man has done this. she said to Emile
Well,I didn’t do it ,he mioawed cheerfully
It must be an Act of God, she mused.I hope there is no bruise
Ah,well.Are you sleeping on my bed,she asked Emile
No,I think I might go out roaming
Looking for frogs,she teased him
I may return, depending on the weather
Suddenly Annie knocked on the door
Are you all right, she asked anxiously?
Why, what is wrong,dear?
Your nose is blue
It’s that fly stuff, it fell onto me!
I’m terribly sorry.We must put it somewhere else.
Choose between me and the flies,Mary joked.
You are my best friend.I will not bring this stuff again
I am off to bed,Mary cried.Let me lock the door behind you
Annie ran out, and stole The Duty of Genius by Ray Monk.She wanted to discover why Mary liked Wittgenstein.And it covers a dangerous and terrible era in human history from the end of several Empires to the Second World War and beyond
I wonder what the children of Dr Mengele and the other dreadful criminals who committed torture and atrocties would feel like when they learned the truth abou their fathers
So Annie is embarking on some serious study while Mary is reading Woman and Home magazine.What is causing this strange change?
In bed ,Mary gazed at an article on ” How to dress well when you are over 80″
Alas all the clothes were expensive.Very
Does it matter what I wear, she pondered?
I suppose people do judge by appearances, she concluded.But which people?
Maybe I shall dress in one colour from now on.But not black.
Blue is a good colour.From now on if I buy new clothese, they must be blue
Maybe just a blue silk scarf is enough to make a vivid impression
Mean while Annie is crying over “The Duty of Genius” because at least two of Wittgenstein’s brothers took their own live and his sisters were almost captured by the Nazis who had to be bought off by the family wealth unlike Freud’s sisters
So what are we complaining about in the UK, she asked herself before saying some almost forgotten prayers.
And wished her husband were there to hold her in his arms.At least one of her husbands would have been most welcome

And so feel all of us

Listen to the voice that is distinct

Instead of sweating blood I’m bleeding ink

In my dreams I’m writing my best book

I hope the still small voice speaks while I think

Why do spirits rise, why do they sink?

I wrote a poem but was it just a fluke?

Instead of losing blood I’m bleeding ink

Elijah hid and then his courage shrank

God was angry yet he was astute

We hear the still small voice,who says it’ counts?

Light come through a crack or through a chink

Whoever is inspired is rarely thanked

Whose voice was the little voice extinct?

Instead of blood my veins are filled with ink

We’re told that god is dead but he still speaks

I hear the still small voice and then I think

I write it down I want to be correct

I always treat my voice with great respect

Instead of using blood we write with ink

We recognise the voice it is distinct

Sunny joy

My sister came when I was two years old
Born into an icy winter cold
Her little face was full of sunny joy
As we played with dolls and small stuffed toys.

We lined up all our dolls in rows by size
The large ones at the back had blinking eyes
We played with an old dog on little wheels
It had no fur but still held great appeal

Dad lifted her and held her to the sky
My allanah, love you till I die
All too soon the family turned sad.
Mother was not Mother without Dad

We survive and love and live our best
If there is a heaven,we’ ll be blessed.

Thoughts annihilate

Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
No sonnet,villanelle or rondeau there
Nor is it true or false that we are apes

A sentence made from curses aggravates
Makes even slight hurts something we can’t bear
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

This very poem’s ironic , it emotes
Glares with total rage at you who care
If it’s true or false that we are apes

This poem,alas, will offer no escape
If it has no rhymes then I have flair
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

The forms are hung until we get to break
We shatter and we crack the poet’s lair
I think it’s true and false that we are apes

For a metre I will hang in here
Waiting with no patience for a jeer
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
Nor is it true that thoughts annihilate