Patient Voices: Thyroid Disease https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2017/06/27/well/patient-voices-thyroid.html?smid=nytcore-android-share

THE DOCTOR’S WORLD; President’s Thyroid: Questions Of Mood https://www.nytimes.com/1991/05/21/health/the-doctor-s-world-president-s-thyroid-questions-of-mood.html?smid=nytcore-android-share

The Subtle Signs of a Thyroid Disorder https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/24/well/live/the-subtle-signs-of-a-thyroid-disorder.html?smid=nytcore-android-share

Oh,steam iron how I love your heat
And how you make my clothes so neat.
A flat iron is no use to me
No open fire is here,you see.
And thought I liked the flickering coals
I feared those faces that looked droll.
They were in the flames and peered
At anyone who ventured near.
I wonder how the people past
Kept their trousers neat and pressed.
Now I’ve bought a hand steamer
To keep the germs off my femurs
I didn’t like to say,my crotch
In case the devil is on watch.
I never ever used to think
My body perfume was distinct.
And yet it may appeal to men
I don’t want to try again.
One dear husband is enough
Though he did enjoy a cough
He had asthma and bad eyes
Looking out with wild surmise.
He saw my golden hair float by
As by his window it did fly
All at once he fell for me
And we sat by an apple tree.
His clothes were wrinkled so I thought
I would iron them for a start.
He could darn and polish floors
Cook lamb chops and apple cores.
So my steam iron sees much use
I wonder if it’s self abuse
For as a woman feminist
I’m not meant to iron vests
I’m not meant to boil men;s socks
Nor their pants of interlock
I’m not meant to make them tea.
What a naughty person,me!
I must confess these wicked sins
Then I’ll polish my cake tins.
Satan wants me down in hell
Don’t say he needs my iron as well
As he was an angel proud
I’ll save him into One Drive Cloud.

Small rain in summer
Pools on large green leaves,
Makes all birds dumber
Silently they weave.

Wrens fly to and fro
Nesting near the house.
They know where to go
With nestlings and spouse.

Simple life of green
Hiding in lush leaves.
A space to be unseen
Humans only grieve.

Where is our safe space,
Where can we live well?
As anguish veils the face
In green thoughts I dwell

Dye your own hair (easy when there’s only one)

Paint your own pictures and leave mine alone.

Write your own novel and save money because it will take you a long time to write this book and you won’t want to buy anymore while you’re doing it will you?

Buy your own books

Write your own poetry ;please do not send it to me. I don’t want a ghost writer on my blog unless it’s the holy ghost.

Pass your own water.

Make love everyday and then you can sell it if you have too much.

Identify your own flaws. Yes I am a cretin. My IQ is 67.8 recurring. That shows you don’t need a high result to do well in life. But you must be able to read and write and ideally do arithmetic.

Eat your own fish on Fridays. This is cruel if they are pets. So don’t give your fish names. Especially don’t call them Jesus

Make your own corn beef hash without the corned beef. Use heroin instead. Please do not leave potatoes in their jackets outside the men’s toilet

Create your own mental illness. You can create any number of them with a wicked imagination.

Calm your own self. I don’t want to become calm. I will wait till after death

Be obedient to your own rules.

Try yourself ,yourself. But you can’t be your own jury.

I’ll be judge I’ll be jury said cunning old Fury

From which play is that entry taken?

No

Stan was feeling puzzled. He stood in his front room staring at the rowan tree outside.
Do ants fall in love, he asked himself.
Are swans the most beautiful birds?
Shall I send Annie a card tomorrow?
Should I send Mary one as well?
He went outside and watched the ants running up and down the tree trunk. They seem to work so hard but they never get bored.
But is that true? We have no way of knowing. At last Stan has found a question with no answer.
Is boredom a unique quality of humans?
If that were so we ought to have a Patron Saint of Boredom though not of Bores.
Why are some people so boring?
Luckily Annie had seen Stan and rushed out in a teal coloured all wool dress made more striking by having butterfly motifs scattered on it at random.
“Why have you got those butterflies on your clothes ?” he asked her scientifically
“It’s to cover up the moth holes.”She pertly replied.
“You must have a lot of moths. Do moths fall in love? Do they get bored?”
“You seem in a funny mood today,” Annie murmured.
“Why don’t we go out for coffee?”
“I’ve just made a pot full. Please join me.”
“Thank you,” she cried mildly.
They sat down in the kitchen where Emile was sitting by the window.
“Good morning,Emile,”Annie shouted.
“No need to shout,” Emile miaowed politely.”I’m not deaf”.
“I am sorry, Emile.” she responded furtively,” I am over-excited.”
“Why is that? Stan demanded like an untrained philosopher in a maths class
“Well, I’ve already had ten Valentines.
“Already. You must have done it fast!” he teased her gently.
“No, you horrible idiot. I mean cards.
“You must be popular”
“Some look like women’s writing.”
“Let me see,” he asked swiftly.
To his surprise, one was in the handwriting of his wife Mary.
“Are you bisexual?” he asked her wonderingly.
“No, I’m just annissexual,” she replied saucily.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s just one letter away from “Anti-sexual.”
“That’s a relief. You are not anti yet, then.”
“Not yet”, she whispered coyly.
“Would you make love to a woman?”
“Only if she made love to me.”
Mmmmmm
.Apparently seeing lesbian movies turns men on.do you watch them?”
“Not bloody likely,I want to get turned off.”
“That could be boring,” she said sweetly as she combed his eyebrows with an old toothbrush.
“Well,I could do the polishing better and get the house sorted out. Fill the freezer with casseroles and defrost the oven.
Yes, though would that be so rewarding as loving another human?
“I guess not” he answered slavishly.
“Shall we go to your place and have a cuddle.
OK
Emile was very put out as he liked to see people kissing but he had grown very philosophical over the years and at least he could get on with his book,
“Wittgenstein’s cat.”
He switched on the netbook and began to type:
“Not everyone knows how important cats were in philosophy. But now we can reveal all.
The saying,
“Of that which we cannot speak, we must miaow” was inspired by Daisy who lived in Cambridge
And,” Of that which we cannot purr we must yowl.” was inspired by Ludo, a fine male cat that lived with Wittgenstein in Ireland.
So as Emile types, we must tiptoe away for he has not much time

Let’s make the most of it

My man has gone to heaven on his own
Now I’m down here gnawing on a bone
Lamb chops bring the devil out in me
That’s why I still eat them for my tea

He said he’d had enough as he was old
He felt angry ,all his friends were gone
He asked for cigarettes and for champagne
I got it though it went against the grain

He even ate a meal before he died
Mashed up fish with carrots on the side
They did not bring dessert which angered me
I was going to have it for my tea

I do not want to find another man
For gender fluid people I shall scan

How to Live in the Face of Fear: Lessons From a Cancer Survivor https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/05/us/kate-bowler-cancer-coronavirus.html?smid=nytcore-android-share

The space between the words where silence lies.

Irrational as real numbers on the line

When the words are spoken silence dies.

Words can be arranged so truth defies

The origins of the love which day combine

The space between the words where silence lies

No words are known to stand for mother’s sighs

Speech is like a song, continuous,fine.

When the words are spoken silence dies

Will the words reveal the Gorgon’s eye?

We need reflections to derive the sign

The space between the words by v were silence lies

The power of words is simple and divine.

A net to catch the real,the winding twine

The space between the words where silence lies.

When we say the word the silence does

Please don’t read this it has been put behind warnings on my blogger blog even though that vlog was current in 2012 and I’ve not published for a long time

I have discovered it but why should I tell you?

Email me with your complete questions and thoughts at

onceoponarhyme@poetsareus.org

or at

shethoughtshewasclever@littleredadriding hood.net

or even at

womenandmen@freehermaphrodites.com

t 14:3

Light casts shadows , hides familiar views

It forces us to focus on the new.

When we’re in trouble we must see what’s wrong

Fear and lazy thinking sneak along

Truth is an island, in a sea of lies

I’m a double Agent, you’re a spy.

We float untethered in s drifting boat

And as we float the truth becomes remote.

No one is an island in their mind

We can fool ourselves,we are so kind

Stepping Stones

I loved the stepping stones near Ambleside
The river Rothay runs into the Mere
Mingling with the Brathay day and night

In my childish state I wished to die
To make the joy eternal, evermore
I loved the stepping stones near Ambleside

But we went on to Grasmere,Wordsworth’s guide
The river Rothay never suffered here
Mingling with the Brathay day and night

As a child I often was denied
The joy of nature,love but never fear
I loved the stepping stones near Ambleside

The rivers make no effort, down they ride
so should humans live and love sincere
Mingling with our Natures day and night

Life may be a mountain or a mere
The rivers flow, the stones are waiting clear
I loved the stepping stones near Ambleside
Crossing this dear water day and night

Oh,doctor I am in a flap
I cannot turn this childproof cap
I cannot take my medicine
So I shall chuck it in the bin

The beta blockers make me down
So I am in a study brown.
The mini aspirins make me bruise
And my mind is quite confused.

The ibuprofen hurt my heart
Yet without one I can’t start.
The thyroxine has no effect
So what rot may I select?

The codeine fails to make me high
I’m not addicted,though I try.
I’ll have to take a shot of gin
And alcohol will make me sin.

I’ll go to parties in a dress
That makes men’s hormones more or less.
I’ll take a big one home with me,
And give him poison in his tea.

And when I am in jail, at last,
I’ll feel remorse for all my past.
For as I suffer dreadful pain
God has hit me yet again.

It’s not enough that I’m half blind
And suffer terrors in my mind
Not enough that lovers cruel
Give me stick instead of jewels.

Or maybe life does not make sense
Especially when one feels so tense.
Maybe random are my days
and my life has gone astray.

I think that I shall buy a cat
And love it tenderly and chat.
But if my cat gives me a scratch…
I’ll light its tail up with a match.

All the world must me obey
Else I’ll be enraged all day.
I want my own way all the time.
Other people must conform.

I am here and full of ills
What do you think of those blue pills?
If they take away my heart
That at least will be a start.

Then they can remove my brain
To help me with this ghastly pain.
Why not kill me straight away
Then I’ll be from pain astray?

I breath as softly as a little bird
Like the robin in the glade in Arnside Wood
Quick yet calm, who for some food would dare.

The view from Arnside Knot is broad and fair
The atmosphere is pure, we see trains chug
The Estuary of the Kent will never bore

Further South the Lune runs like tapped tears
Morecambe Bay endangers, how it floods
Behind the Pennines rise, the edges fierce

Dent is sacredmmobile phones won’t dare
To penetrate the music of its blood
Nor bring their tones to hurt the mad March hare

Hutton Roof , cathedral, how we stared
A gentle hand caressed my heart to good
Meek flowers grew in the cracks as safe,as pure

How my heart expands and I am glad
For mourning heals and I am no more sad
I breath as softly as a little bird
I tiptoe on the path the peace is shared

I wish I were on Hutton Roof again
The limestone and the little open flowers
The sea at Arnside like a distant gem
The spaciousness, like days with far more hours

I wish I were as agile now as then
I’d climb the mountains, hills,the little lanes

Windermere below still winding on
The handsome Lake the old man, Coniston

I wish I were in Dent, the curious shapes
The hills and their deep mystery engross
The height, the little river, the mistakes
The lost loved man alive, to hold me closeI

I yearn to be on Hutton Roof today
The holy smell of grass, the feel of air

William Shakespeare did not go to university. H3 did not have a degree in English

What a poor example to the young

https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2021/jun/29/skylarks-sunshine-solidarity-winter-hill-lancashire-mass-trespass-west-pennines

The north is a closely knit, indigenous, industrial society,” he said. “A homogeneous cultural group with a good record for music, theatre, literature and newspapers, not found elsewhere in this island, except perhaps in Scotland.” He added, with a wry smile, “And, of course, if you look at a map of the concentration of population in the north and a rainfall map, you will see that the north is an ideal place for television.”

The mast is only a little higher than three older landmarks. Most walkers catch their breath at the Grade II-listed Rivington Pike Tower, built as a hunting lodge in 1733 on the site of an older beacon. Another focal point, a little further down, is the Pigeon Tower – built by William Hesketh Lever (aka Lord Leverhulme) as a birthday present to his wife, Ellen. The tower and the terraced gardens it overlooks were part of Lever’s private estate, landscaped by Thomas Mawson between 1905 and 1925.

The third landmark, the Two Lads Cairn, is a pile of stones on Crooked Edge Hill, large enough to resemble a tower from certain angles. Conflicting legends say the lads were two Saxon princes, two sons of a bishop, or two children employed at a mill.

If the summits of our more celebrated peaks have a generally middle-class atmosphere – the technical gear, the smart gizmos, the “hydration” drinks – the top of Winter Hill felt everyday, multi-generational, multi-ethnic and communal. This was especially fitting, given the hill’s role in our nation’s rambling history.Pigeon Tower, which was built by William Hesketh Lever (aka Lord Leverhulme). Photograph: Ruaux/Alamy

In August 1896, Colonel Richard Henry Ainsworth, scion of a wealthy family that had made its fortune in the bleaching trade and resident of Smithills Hall, decided to close a well-used track that crossed his land on the south-east slope of Winter Hill. His business’s reliance on the hill’s watercourses had perhaps given him a proprietorial outlook. Moreover, he regarded walkers – whether tramping to work or heading up there for a breath of clean air after a week’s slog in factory, mine or mill – as unwanted intruders on land he used for grouse-shooting. He had his gamekeepers turn people back and build a gate on Coalpit Road to show the way was closed. A melee ensued, but the colonel’s private army was no match for the great mass of demonstrators

Local people took umbrage at Ainsworth’s decision. Cobbler Joe Shufflebotham, secretary of Bolton Social Democratic Foundation, advertised a march up the disputed road, which won support from journalist and Liberal party radical Solomon Partington. On Sunday 6 September 1896, about 10,000 people joined in the march as it progressed along Halliwell Road through a densely populated working-class district, and up the hill track. A handful of police and gamekeepers were waiting for them at the new gate. A melee ensued, but the colonel’s private army was no match for the great mass of demonstrators; the gate was smashed and the procession continued. When the victorious party arrived at their destination, Belmont, on the north side of Winter Hill, they drank the hostelries dry.

The Bolton Journal reported that “the multitude far exceeded what had been anticipated … the road was literally a sea of faces and the multitude comprised thousands of persons of all ages and descriptions”. During that fervid September, there were three weekend marches and one on a Wednesday, the only day shopworkers were free to join. There was a further march on Christmas Day.

Despite the numerical success of the popular uprising, Ainsworth had writs issued against Shufflebotham, Partington and others. The marches were stopped while the case was heard in court. The colonel won, leaving the marchers to bear the costs. The tail of the trial was long: though locals were able to use the path from the 1930s, it wasn’t until 1996 that public access was formally secured.

The massed march (the walkers wouldn’t have thought of it as a “trespass”) of 1896 has never been accorded anything like the attention given to the 1932 march up Kinder Scout, led by Manchester communist Benny Rothman, which is usually credited with leading to the creation of the UK’s national parks.

“Although the march was a massive event, it was very local, only involving people who lived within two or three miles,” says Bolton-based historian and author Paul Salveson, an expert on the Winter Hill events. “That, and the fact they lost the case, might explain why it’s not better known, though it did lead to greater awareness about rights of way in the Bolton area. The first world war led to the slaughter of many of the participants and brought the curtain down on so many working-class activities. When I met Benny [Rothman] for the Kinder Scout 50th anniversary in 1982 he had never heard of Winter Hill.”

Paul has written a book about the march and was involved in commissioning a play for the first commemoration, back in 1982. His most recent publication, Moorlands, Memories and Reflections, celebrates the countryside writing of dialect writer and radical thinker Allen Clarke, who wrote about the march and penned the stirring song about the Winter Hill protest, Will Yo’ Come O’ Sunday Mornin’?

A memorial stone to the marchers stands on Coalpit Lane. But, unless you go looking for it, you could walk for miles around without seeing any record of the historic clash. Just as most drivers ignore Winter Hill, so many walkers miss the glorious story of their recreational space.

This year – the 125th anniversary of the march – things might at last be about to change. Bolton Socialist Club, the Ramblers, the Woodland Trust, housing association charity Bolton at Home and other community organisations and unions have joined forces for a commemorative march along the original route for the weekend of 6 September. Folk singer Johnny Campbell is releasing a single for the occasion. There’s even talk of a new memorial, to be built by a local quarrying company.

“The events of 1896 showed how important the countryside was to working-class people in the north,” says Salveson. “It still is. This year’s celebration of those momentous events 125 years ago isn’t just a reminder of Britain’s biggest-ever rights of way demonstration. It’s intended to be a rallying call that the countryside is still under threat, with rights of way being eroded and inappropriate development threatening the landscape.”

• Join in the 125th anniversary events via Facebook

D October 22, 2017

The driver of the bus lives far away
His home is mobile,but not smart like our phones
He lives in a small caravan, he says
Yet of all the drivers he’s the one.

He always waits till I ,crippled, sit down
Advised me to sit until he stops
He has a smile and rarely makes a frown
Though sometimes in his words some anger’s wrapped.

Alas, he unsurprisingly believes
That all the money goes to foreign folk
By the tabloid press he is deceived
Yet due to pain, his hidden fires must smoke

The least men are the kindest to the weak
Believe me,I know well what I here speak

Oh, mother, father take me back
I’ve lived the pain, I ‘ve felt the rack
I wanna see Jesus.
Take me to that wall they built
Let me see where blood’s been spilt
I wanna see Jesus.
Oh, take me back to where I was
The enemy may well be us,
Not Jesus.
What did all those sermons do?
Did they say he was a Jew?
Oh, Jesus.
Did he want the First Crusade
It is his blood the priest creates
Lord Jesus.
I don’t like the way things are
I am getting tired of war
Kill Jesus.
What has human wisdom done
From Wittgenstein to Abraham?
Cripes, Jesus!
Does research improve our lives
As for grants, the scholars strive?
Ask Jesus.
We may have chemotherapy
Radiation, history.
Where’s Jesus?
You’d think that after all the years
We’d have used up all our tears
Sweet Jesus.
Love your neighbour as yourself
Give 10 % of all your wealth
Aye, Jesus.
Do what’s better, not what’s worse
I see another fragrant hearse.
It’s Jesus.
See the plastic Crucifix
See him dying with dry lips
Bend your knees, confess your sins
Otherwise, the Devil wins
Not Jesus.
We destroy the good we hate
Envy writhes and with pride mates.
The progeny will wreck the earth
Eden’s burning as drones pass.
No, Jesus.No Jesus.
Know Jesus.

whelm/wɛlm/ARCHAICverbengulf, submerge, or bury.”a swimmer whelmed in a raging storm”nounan act or instance of flowing or heaping up abundantly; a surge.”the whelm of the tide”Feedback

Translations and more definitions

Posted on June 23, 2017

The lithium battery shone in innocence.
I nearly hit it with the hammer in dismay
I’d put it in the wrong way up, I was too tense.
To get it out was nothing like child’s play.

Why are those instruction books so wee?
I looked on youtube, at a simpler one
I nearly stuck the knife into my knee
A kind of acupuncture overdone

Yes, wee is what we Irish say for small
I’m not English since they voted to withdraw
I could be Danish, Swedish, Dutch or nought at all.
Since the Tories baked the common law.

As I wept while mending the doorbell
A man called out, you’re clever, I can tell

From time and place and season I am lost,
Disorientated ,missing tracks well worn.
Do not suppose I’m unaware of cost,
Nor label me with epithets of scorn.
For usual paths lead to the usual place.
The safest way to live and perhaps to die,
But wandering through the woods I find new space
and in wild grasses with the fox I lie.
Through distant trees, I see a way to go
As narrow as a slit in pale limestone.
I pass in silence as if in deep,deep snow.
My courage rises even as I groan.
Remember when we’re lost ,we may then find
Another way,a place,another mind.

Describe this now, the sky called out to me

Copper clouds turn pale above the tree

No motion but a trembling of the boughs

And leaves that shake by rhythm well endowed

So I bought a pen with murderous ink

As I wrote the sun began to sink

Why am I thinking about original sin? No one talks about sin nowaday nor about evil and yet in the last 120 years we had two terrible world wars we had the Holocaust we had Stalin not to mention the other more recent tragedies

The human being can be involved in  evil matters. What original sin was meant to be something that babies were born with something to do is sex being evil according to Santa Augustin of Hppo.

. So what is the problem?

Well I have a different explanation. Someone born into the economic system presently in Britain will be better off the many babies are in other parts of the world.and elderly people e looked after nursing homes

Yet the staff in care homes are not able to do their job with 100% satisfaction because the prime purpose of this care home is to make money for the owners and in order to make money you’ve got to charge a certain fee but not so high that no one will those who afford it with high enough to make a profit.

Well you can do this by having the minimum number of staff and paying them the minimum wage which currently in London is about £10 an hour.

There are never quite enough carers to answer the people’s bells as quickly as critical would like them to. So sometimes the people who can’t walk and therefore are in the greatest need will start to scream and shout or cry and sog and this can be very distressing for all who to hear. Then they criticize the carers but it’s not the carers fault is it if you have say 18 people needing care with only two carers on duty then someone loses out. It’s like Darwin’s theory of evolution that the strongest will beat the weakest and the strongest of the old people even when they have dementia can dominate the atmosphere

They do get more attention simply because you can hear them so much. It can be tragic sometimes but it’s even more tragic to me to see the ones who have not got dementia but maybe you’ve got cognitive decline and they’re just sit there  half dead in the silence.

They are the forgotten people unless they have families close by and some families think that once their

relative has got dementia they don’t need to visit them anymore but dementia is only part of what they are most of their personality is still intact. The name of the person may be forgotten but the familiar eyes on face and voice will be a great comfort

Where I see the sin is even with someone who feels that she’s got a vocation to be a carer to the elderly cannot be a carer in the full sense because she cannot look after anybody except the ones who are fairly fit she cannot lose after anybody to the extent that they need. And there’s nothing in economic theory about a job being there to satisfy and genuine need for human caring for the old or disabled

.

The sin is not in the Carers but it is in the economic system of maximizing profits and minimizing labour costs.

If you looking at a textbook for mathematical ethanolics you will see the letters

L is labour, formerly known as people

C is capital. Representing money

To me it is dehumanising to call people labor and then in numbers which happens if you continue reading this economics book. Once you don’t see them as people then you can move them about do what you like to them make them part of an algebraic equation … So labor must be mobile and people cannot expect to live in the same city all their lives. Don’t worry about the elderly parents or their relatives etc they have to move elsewhere and while this is quite acceptable to some better off people if she’s not so good for people in lower jobs who are getting older. How many devices now we have so we can stay in touch with people far away because we can’t expect to stay near our friends or relatives for any length of time and that might be our children use their phones so much as well.

What it means in a care home is that is it will be very unusual for all the residents to feel satisfied with their care but  they will criticise the carers or the nurse or the manager for those people do not have any control over the number of staff.

It’s possible that some homes are more flexible than others but you can’t be sure of that but you cannot be. sure of anything

The original sin is the economic system together with the flows of weaknesses together with the flaws and weaknesses of human beings which are there in the rich and the poor. Sometimes there are saints as well

.

https://www.advisory.com/daily-briefing/2023/01/13/weekend-reads

The trembling leaves hid sparrows as they sang
We were silent,drowning in the sun
Reminding me of Cartmel and Grange sands

I turned the phone off. so no idler rang
In winter we forget that bright light comes
The shining leaves hid sparrows as they sang

My parents had no garden and no land
But judging by fertility,some fun!
I wish we were all down on Grange’s sands

I remember holding Dad’s thin hand
He put me on his shoulders and we ran
He knew the words to all old Irish songs

He was tall and made of smoke a friend
Then he went away to be God’s son
I wish we still were playing on the sands

In theology ,I have no hand
Do we need to know where God has gone?
Can even experts hear what angels sing?

The theologians meanly note their ends
Bishops in their robes are tried and stand
The pure white flowers are scented as birds sing
Haunting me with childhood,Grange O’ Sands