I told him my soul was on fire so he threw a jug if water over me.

I said it’s raining in my heart so he put a tin helmet on my head . He’s not a surgeon you see. Andyl likes Cornwall

I said I feel like a drowned rat.

He said you’re so cruel. You’ll be eating mice next.

I said I’ve got gastric reflux.

He said well at least it’s not a heart attack.

Why do hearts attack anyway ?

I said you  have got a beautiful soul.

You said yes I got these shoes in Freeman Hardy and Willis

. So I said I expect they were £29/19/11.Pay £30 we will give you a penny. It’s daylight robbery. Now those  old copper pennies are probably quite valuable.0

That was the end of the conversation because we didn’t do decimal in our day.

What a duo

Grief has washed my heart like melting rain

Now I’m pure as silk without a stain 

I’m thin as grass and green as any leaf

All is well above but not beneath. 

Grief can cleanse us if we bear the pain 

And when the rest are gone what will remain?

They say that Jesus died between two thieves. 

I like the picture though I’ve no belief.

For two long years I in a bed did lie.

Until I told my heart we must not die

Please accept my sentiments request 

That when we die there will be no more tests

And so we come again to grief and loss

In my hell hot bed I  burn and toss 

How long for rain how long for the ice.

Ask me once but never ask me twice.

Sometimes beauty only needs to be skin deep

Even fresh air is not original.

How can someone else define your duty?

Why is it wrong to feel strong emotions if you are English?

Would you change your DNA if you could?

Would be nice if I could borrow some DNA for a few days

There’s an atom bomb with only one atom in it. But I can’t see it.

Evoking the beauty, the stars so far away,
I like to watch geese at the end of day.
Patterns and poems disclose other worlds.
Feel the hand of a baby with the fingers all curled

See the trust and the smile when the mother is home,
To create entire worlds for the one she has borne.
For chaos and panic or not far away
Even in adults who don’t care to say.

The little hands touch me so deeply, so well;
How come the world is diving to hell?
How can we kill little wains by the score
Was it for this that I opened your door?

Was it for this that love electrified us,
And we were lost in each other, in the holy white dove.
Was it for war that we gave love our wombs
Making more soldiers and filling more tombs?

The bombs are a-loading they’re having parades.
It’s not North Korea, it’s Washington, dude.
Let the tanks roll on Corrie and the Bedouin tribes.
Let the allies laugh blindly as the Lord Jesus dies.

O take me, dear mother.Please take me away
I can’t see no point in saying my prayers.
The leaders’ religions are making God frown.
The desert is empty, the tents all dragged down.

The centuries of living so free , so mobile;
The holy land blessing as they pause for while.
The little black tents like wombs of the night
Are all gone to shredders as we sing, Silent Night.

Abandon not the wildness of your heart

In the unreformed, creation starts

There is no privilege in wealth nor gain.

In the rejected fragments life remains.

Remember man you are the dust and corpse

In all thats gone before there lingers hope.

Golden rod shall flourish and grow tall

In the gardens of our hearts its dust shall fall

Extract from the book by Marion Milner

An experiment in leisure

But if man’s salvation depended on his capacity to see the facts, both about himself and the outside world, and if the poets were the pioneers in this, what were the conditions under which poetry could grow? For a long time I had been puzzled by the continual recurrence of images from the Bible in my thinking. Then I find this note in my diary: Just supposing this is what the Gospel story is partly about? All this year it’s been growing in my mind, the possibility that the Gospel story is concerned, not with morals at all, not with what one OUGHT to do, because someone (God, father). expects it of you, but with practical rules for creative thinking, a handbook for the process of perceiving the facts of one’s own experience – and, of course, in this sense, with ‘salvation’, for it is ignorance and blindness which lead to the City of Destruction. And the central truth, is it that only by a repeated giving up of every kind of purpose, plunging into the void, voluntary dying upon the cross, can the human spirit grow, and achieve those progressive fusings of isolated bits of experience which we call wisdom, truth?