https://www.themarginalian.org/2017/10/11/a-life-of-ones-own-joanna-field-marion-milner/#:~:text=which%2C%20in%20the%20sobering%20words%20of%20E.E.%20Cummings%2C%20%E2%80%9Cis%20doing%20its%20best%2C%20night%20and%20day%2C%20to%20make%20you%20everybody%20else.%E2%80%9D%20Try%20as%20we%20might%20not%20to%20be%20blinded%20by%20society%E2%80%99s%20prescriptions%20for%20happiness%2C%20we%20are%20still%20social%20creatures%20porous%20to%20the%20values%20of%20our%20peers%20%E2%80%94%20creatures

Loneliness, the word’s not strong enough
For widows and their masculine counterparts.
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like tough.

No arms left now, that never will rebuff.
No eager lips which whispering love impart
Loneliness, the word’s not strong enough

People say, of course, the going’s rough
The coming’s gone and nothing shall gestate
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like, tough.

Never more to share cartoons and laughs.
Never more to be a chosen mate
Loneliness, the word’s not wrong enough.

Did we know the heart of what we had?
Did we learn the art of love. of fate?
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like, tough.

You have gone and closed now is the gate
In a mad ball, I dance with love and hate
Loneliness, the word’s not strong enough!
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like, tough.

Flowers by virtue of design
Appeal to both the heart and mind
First, perceive and then dwell on
Beauty, truth and thus reason

Inside the mother’s womb the baby turns,

Unaware of Earth and how it burns

The mother weeps, shells fall the baby cries

How many flowers and doves are soon to die?

What a waste of people,jewesl Wars

Human sacrifice.. what is it for?

We think that we’re more civilized but ,no.

We idle life away with TV Shows

Livelyz foolish wiilling ignorance lives

Glowing bodies, minds and hearts like sieves

Yet women have such courage in hard times

Knotting children’s worlds with nursery rhymes.

Sheltering little bodies with their own.

Singing ancient songs,oh blood oh bones

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/article/2024/jul/25/experts-financial-advisers-18-foolproof-ways-spend-less-save-more?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Why am I thinking about original sin? No one talks about sin nowadays though 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; you all know what I am referring to I think

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

. 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.

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 gracious need will start to scream and shout or cry and sog and this can be very distressing for all of  us 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  have 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 look 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 look at a textbook for mathematical economics 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 labour and them 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 paid 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 why 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 w 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://poets.org/poem/i-walked-out-one-evening

Emile woke  Mary up at 7am.It was a  Sunday in  late October, grey and damp though the sun was still not  too low in the sky
Go away, she told him.The clock has changed.It’s not 8 am yet.I have to wash my hair as well.Get the Observer out of the basket for me,please.
I can’t read. the dear animal replied.And why don’t you rebel and stick to Summer Time?
I know Stan wanted to send you to Eton but we couldn’t afford it.Yet you understand days and calenders, Mary joked  sorrowfully
She got up and found her fleece dressing gown; it was   conker brown covered in coloured spots.She went downstairs and gave Emile a Whitby kipper.Then she made some tea and took it upstairs so she could drink it while she came round from her dreams
Suddenly Annie ran into   her bedroom wearing a  long black vinyl coat and  red knee-high boots
You never locked the back door, she howled like a lost  leopard which has had no  food for weeks
I don’t suppose anyone wants my old TV as it is only 19 inches.And my Chromebook is not something worth re-selling.I do have a new coat.
How about Ray Monk’s life of Wittgenstein, Annie asked her defiantly, her apricot lips pouting childishly as the Riemann of Paris lipstick glittered uncannily like an imaginary number in a dream of Godel.
The people who might enjoy reading it are by virtue of that , not the sort to steal or buy it on the black market.
That is very racist, Annie told her.You should say:the beige market!
Then nobody would know what I meant, Mary said lovingly
Anyway, do you want to come to Marks with me? They have some beautiful coats in
I’d like a pink wool coat, said Mary thoughtfully
Quite right  ,said Annie.Bring back feminine colours
Actually, gay men might like pink coats, she continued.But if they go on the bus they might get dirty.Come to think of it, so will women’s coats
They will have to buy pink puffa jackets and we can wash them at 30 deg.Mary whispered
Using a special detergent, Annie asked?
I have never seen a detergent for washing gay men.I don’t think they will fit into the washing machine.On the other hand, you are small so you will fit in
Shall I get undressed first, Annie asked furtively.
Yes, I’ll try to put you on a  short wash for 15 minutes but it is your choice.Maybe a bath would be safer?
No problem, said Annie intellectually.Are you having one with me?
You’d better be careful, Mary ad-libbed.It might be sexual harassment.
Well, I am not gay , said Annie.
You never know till you try, Mary giggled ,like a child behind the school canteen
Why, we might become gender fluid and then who knows?
And so say all of us
Miaow

You stabbed my heart when I was left alone
Telling me my writing was like porn
Now you give me nightmares,  be my pest
We all need one or two,and  you confessed

My writing is so  bad, you  envy not
Did I hit you  on a painful spot?
If others have a gift, that is their call
You have yours , get out a net and trawl

Ambivalent  in love which turns to hate
We wound ourselves in making this our fate
Talking  overmuch lets such thoughts out
As tea will  pour down from a  tilted spout

The ancient virtues,patience and restraint
Shall be our wise protectors when distraught

The answer is the misfortune of the question

I am not sure where this originates but it is very true.

Although if you ask the time of the train you do want to answer

But if you wonder about the meaning of life that stimulates discussion or thought or reverie.

https://theconversation.com/think-swearing-isnt-big-or-clever-think-again-71043

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/02/opinion/sunday/political-polarization.html

What we need is not to disagree less, but to disagree better. And that starts when you turn away the rhetorical dope peddlers — the powerful people on your own side who are profiting from the culture of contempt. As satisfying as it can feel to hear that your foes are irredeemable, stupid and deviant, remember: When you find yourself hating something, someone is making money or winning elections or getting more famous and powerful. Unless a leader is actually teaching you something you didn’t know or expanding your worldview and moral outlook, you are being used.

Next, each of us can make a commitment never to treat others with contempt, even if we believe they deserve it. This might sound like a call for magnanimity, but it is just as much an appeal to self-interest. Contempt makes persuasion impossible — no one has ever been hated into agreement, after all — so its expression is either petty self-indulgence or cheap virtue signaling, neither of which wins converts.

What if you have been guilty of saying contemptuous things about or to others? Perhaps you have hurt someone with your harsh words, mockery or dismissiveness. I have, and I’m not proud of it. Start the road to recovery from this harmful addiction, and make amends wherever possible. It will set you free.

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Finally, we should see the contempt around us as what it truly is: an opportunity, not a threat. If you are on social media, on a college campus or in any place other than a cave by yourself, you will be treated with contempt very soon. This is a chance to change at least one heart — yours. Respond with warmheartedness and good humor. You are guaranteed to be happier. If that also affects the contemptuous person (or bystanders), it will be to the good.

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• e

Ll

The pathways to the heart are learned by love

And those who find this knowledge never lose.

Though virtue and her graces help  above

All we see are hills and rocky views.

With willingness to cross the seas of mud,

To drag ourselves through tangled briar-filled woods.

Our soul shows us the truth and what is good,

For trees that looked quite dead are now in bud.

With wild flowers kissing feet and blessing toes

Encouragement is finally received

And as we smell the fragrance of the rose,

We know our gladdened hearts were not deceived.

Fortune favours those with steadfast feet.

The journey may be long, the end is sweet.

Note: The saying “Fortune favours the brave” is attributed to several people..Virgil, Pascal, Montaigne are ones I have found

The red leaves in the sunshine seem to smile
A pale blue sky, a silver aeroplane
I’m happy,I am warm, in your arms coiled

I  have no heater but the kettle  boiled
I made us coffee   then my  parcel  came
My face in the small mirror  had a smile

My love is deep, you never were on trial
If we quarrel, we both share the blame
I’m happy,I am warm, in your arms coiled

Our sorrow is, we have not made a child
Jesus cursed the fig tree in its shame
Yet red leaves in the sunshine seem to smile

Sorrow need not  madden nor make  bold
We do not know the purpose  nor the game
I’m happy,I am warm now as I toil

We need old fashioned virtues like restraint
We don’t see the whole  as life we paint
The red leaves in the sunshine seem to smile
I’m happy,I am warm, the sea sings  wild

Samsung and Delilah

If only Eve had not bought an apple  iPhone

Yahoo punished Adam severely

Was Asus the son of God too?

God said, why are you here, you liar?

Elijah invented Intel,computers and chips. but not pizza

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

I have seen the Light on Google Drive

The Cloud of Unknowing is not a good place to save your poetry

He filed me under “wonder” on One Drive

One Drive,One G-d, One World

Where is Ogle Drive?

Yeshua did many lyricals.He was Leonard Cohen,we have found to our surprise

The still small choice

God did not dictate the Bible directly onto stone tablets.

What language would he have used?

https://www.bbc.com/worklife/article/20200827-how-self-control-can-actually-unleash-your-dark-side

Looking out across the River Lee

I could not see a place where you might be.

Tower blocks high and low stung both my eyes.

What use are sisters when they seem to die?

I could not see the road to take me home

I closed my lips so none might hear me moan

From another window I looked out

I saw a busy road and heard men shout.

The world was empty to my starving eye.

I saw the ice cream clouds as they went by.

The world I once could see was gone,was bare

I could not see your face,not anywhere.

How could you leave me in this desert harsh ?

The river Lea polluted stinks the marsh

There was no place where little birds could rest.

These feelings were a stone inside my chest.

I feel the grief without that blight despair.

And yet to others everything is fair

Religion has been privatised like gas
I know in church we still can hear the Mass
Yet no Chaplain comes to dying men
I did my best alone without a plan.

Inside the holy sanctuary bare
I became the priest and comforter
I sang the sacred songs and gathered crowds
Outside our little cubicle they bowed

I saw a canopy of golden cloth
Hanging down from heaven, as it does
It came nearer till it touched his soul
I was silent, love can’t take control

For a moment everything was still
A little bird sat on the windowsill
Then the cloth of gold was lifted high
I wept the precious tears for those who die.

That one eternal moment gave us grace
I see your shining eyes, your smiling face.

http://www.georgeatwood.com/the-madness-and-genius-of-post-cartesian-philosophy-1—a-distant-mirror.html#:~:text=A%20truly%20post%2DCartesian%20theory,premises%20and%20their%20psychological%20foundations.

On a personal level, Wittgenstein’s philosophical efforts reflect a struggle to disentangle his identity from the confusing, mystifying language of his original family.  He had been brainwashed, so to speak, under the usurping pressure of his father’s self-centered universe.  Hermann Wittgenstein was an epistemological tyrant, defining reality for all those who sought to be connected to him.  This philosopher’s thinking, therefore, can be viewed as a self-deprogramming enterprise, ultimately directed toward the possibility of liberating himself from the paternal agenda and claiming his own place in this world.

     Wittgenstein’s first book, the only one published during his lifetime, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921/2001), is an effort to clarify the relationship between the words of our language and what he called the “states of affairs” appearing in the world we perceive.   Two specific assertion appear in this book, ones we believe are charged with personal significance:

 “There is no such thing as the subject…”

“ The subject does not belong to the world…” (1922, p. 69)

   On a philosophical level, this reminds us that we ought not to objectify the first person singular: the ‘I’ is not an item in the world.  We are being told that the experiencing subject is not a content of the world we perceive; it is instead what he spoke of as a ‘limit’ of this world, a standpoint from which what we call “world” and all its contents appear.

     If we lift the statements out of their ordinary philosophical context, and think about the personal, life-historical meaning they might contain, an epistemological rebellion on Wittgenstein’s part appears, one mounted against the powerful father who tried to be the all-defining director of his son’s existence.    The son is saying:

 “’I’ am not a thing belonging to your world, not anything anyone can define or control.  My being lies outside the insanity of your self-absorption.  Above all, know this: ‘I’ am not an item in the inventory of your possessions, to be made use of as you please!”

     The pull of the father’s usurping authority, though, must have continued to be very strong, presenting an ever-present danger of falling back under his control and becoming once again the obedient extension of an irresistible will.  This is not just a matter of a child fighting back against a parent who is strict and controlling.  Wittgenstein’s separating himself from his father was a matter of rescuing his very being as someone independently real.   A crisis occurred in his young life in which he saw that continuing to walk on the road laid out for him by his father would be to become permanently itemized on the list of his father’s many possessions.   It would be to embrace annihilation.

     A sign of the felt danger of returning to the obliterating conformity of his youth appears in a feature of Wittgenstein’s life that his biographers have noted but not fully understood.  It was his incapacity to dissimulate, to lie, to conceal the truth because of the claim of whatever circumstance he was in.  If he did move toward some concealment, which happened exceedingly rarely, he was thrown into a crisis of wanting to immediately kill himself.    Our understanding of this inability to lie is that presenting anything other than what he felt and knew to be true posed the danger of a re-engulfment by the falseness of an identity based on the need to be accepted rather than on his own spontaneous intentionality and authenticity.   If the only possibility was that of a false life, then his only option would have been death.  

     The philosopher enforced his emancipation from enslavement by cutting off relations with his father, and he refused even to accept his very substantial inheritance after the father finally died.  Wittgenstein saw taking the money as sacrificing a very precarious sense of personal existence.  The heart and soul of this man’s madness lies in the danger of annihilation that haunted him throughout his life.  His philosophy we can thus view as a search for an answer to this ontological vulnerability. 

     His writings, for the most part, consist in aphoristic meditations focusing on language.   He gives us trains of thought that attempt to expose various confusions into which we fall, arguing that many – perhaps all – of the classic problems of philosophy arise as secondary manifestations of these linguistic confusions.   Wittgenstein engages himself, and his readers, in dialogues subjecting specific examples of how we speak and think to relentless reflection and analysis.  In the process of these conversations, a profound critique of the whole Cartesian tradition emerges, a dismantling of metaphysical conceptions and distinctions that otherwise enwrap our thinking and imprison us within structures of unconscious confusion.  Central in this transforming inquiry are understandings of human existence in terms of ‘mind,’ seen as a ‘thinking thing,’ an actual entity with an inside that looks out on a world from which it is essentially estranged.   Such an idea, once posited, leads inexorably to a dualism: one begins to wonder how the entity ‘mind’ strangely, mysteriously connects to another entity, ‘body.’  He makes compelling arguments that specific linguistic confusions based on the human tendency to turn nouns into substantives lie at the root of such otherwise unfounded ideas.  In Wittgenstein’s universe, there are no ‘minds’ that have interiors, no intrapsychic spaces in which ideas and feelings float about in some “queer medium,” no mysteries we need to be fascinated by regarding how the mental entity and its supposed contents relate to the physical object we call the body.  Longstanding traditions in metaphysics are accordingly undercut and the terrain of philosophy is opened up to new and clarifying ways of exploring our existence. Well-known arguments against the coherence of solipsism as a philosophical position and also against the possibility of an individual ‘private language’ definitively refute the idea that it makes any sense to think of a human life in terms of an isolated ‘I,’ or ego.   He was a post-Cartesian philosopher par excellence.

     Wittgenstein sometimes viewed his scrutinizing of our linguistic expressions and associated patterns of thought as a form of ‘therapy,’ performed upon philosophy and society.   It is our view that this therapy he offered to our civilization mirrored precisely the personal effort described earlier, in which his life goal was to free himself from the entangling confusions, invalidations, and annihilations pervading the family system of his youth.   In this respect he succeeded in connecting uniquely personal issues to important currents and needs of the larger culture.  His philosophical journey therefore allowed him to find a meaning for his life beyond the narrow orbit of his father’s deadly narcissism and helped him avoid the tragic fate of his brothers.

     Let us turn now to one of Wittgenstein’s (1953) most important specific ideas: that of a so-called language game.   It is an elusive term that he never formally defined in his various dialogues, so one has to note how he used it in various contexts and extract a meaning.   Of course one of his most well-known formulations is that “the meaning is the use,” and exists nowhere else, which is a distinctively post-Cartesian view of semantics.

     We think of a Wittgensteinian language game as a set of words and phrases, along with their customary usages, that form a quasi-organic system, such that when one uses one or two elements in the system one is catapulted into the whole, subject to its implicit rules, in some respects trapped within its horizons of possible discourse.   The German word for this is Sprachspiel, and the word obviously derives from spielen: to play.  A language game, in whatever sphere of our lives it becomes manifest, encloses us within a finite system of elements and possibilities, and subjects us to rules we knowingly or unknowingly tend to follow.  Such a structure literally “plays” with our minds, shaping and directing our experiences according to preformed pathways and constraining them within pre-established boundaries.  Wittgenstein wanted us to become aware of these systems in which we are all embedded, and this would be part of his therapy for our whole culture.  The goal is one of ushering in a greater clarity about what we think and who and what we are, illuminating what he spoke of as our “complicated form of life.”

     The primal language game of this man’s personal history was the communication system in his early family, which designated his existence – and those of his doomed brothers – as playthings, almost like chess pieces belonging to the father’s controlling agendas and properties.  A clear perception of the mystifications and usurping invalidations of his early family world would obviously be of assistance in this man’s attempts to find his own way.   He tried mightily in his philosophical reflections to release his discipline and the world at large from its “bewitchment” by language, even as he was able to free himself only very tenuously from the spell cast by his father.

 Kierkegaard, S. (1834-1842) The Journals of Soren Kierkegaard. Excerpted in Bretall, R. (Ed.) A Kierkegaard Anthology, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1946.

 Wittgenstein, L. (1922) Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. London and New York: Routledge, 1974.

 Wittgenstein, L. (1953) Philosophical Investigations. New York: Macmillan

The fountain pen glidez softly on the page

The ink connects the words like a blue stream

Thus mind and body both are well  engaged

Writing poetry, recreating dreams.

But now I dictate words into a phone.

The words are beads that hang upon a chain

But writing with a pen was going home.

Wsndering my leafy little lane

.

The hand and eye and brain work as a team

But now my voice distracts me that is plain.

I lose my way and disconnect from dream.

Should I buy a stylus for my screen?

The thought of writing that way makes me scream

Love

When first I saw your soulful face,
Then wished I most to you embrace.
I wished as well to clothe you in
The sacred images within.

To find a home for love without;
To fold my dreams all round about
Your loving body and your face
Were covered in such joy and grace.

But now my dreams are cast aside
The world of meaning denied life.
What seemed most precious now is fled…
And I lie sleepless in my bed.

What is the world when unadorned
With all that in my heart I’ve formed?
There is no meaning I can trace.
As in a mother’s empty face.

On these grey rocks my path is hard.
From paradise, my self is barred.
To struggle or to grief succumb
When this dark day of mourning’s done?

Into His dazzling darkness dart
My dreams and love like dying sparks.
Into His Mystery now so fair
I’ll cast both hope and my despair.

Thus my dreams will be transformed
To show themselves in other forms.
What feels a loss may foretell growth.
On my hope,I’ll take an oath

That nothing in my life is waste,
That I have not for phantasms chased.
And you are human,as am I.
Let’s live again until we die

When I roamed among the Lakeland hills

When I sailed on Windermere or swam

My mother and my sisters roamed with me

But now I am alone my loves are gone

No one left to reminisce or share

The shocks of joy the love of tumbling ghylls

Coming from a dirty ugly tow

Mother struggling with the rent and bills.

I had not dreamt of anything so fair

My skin my eyes my body filled with joy

The scent of  wet old pine trees filled my head

There was nothing there at all that would annoy.

Now I grieve the women folk so dear

But  now I see them smiling through my tears

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

http://www.literary-articles.com/2010/02/wordsworths-views-on-poetic-truth.html?m=1

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Aristotle was the fist who declared poetic truth to be superior to historical truth. He called poetry the most philosophic of all writings. Wordsworth agrees with Aristotle in this matter. Poetry is given an exalted position by Wordsworth in such a way that it treats the particular as well as the universal. Its aim is universal truth. Poetry is true to nature. Wordsworth declares poetry to be the “image” or “man and nature”. A poet has to keep in mind that his end (objective) is to impart pleasure. He declares poetry will adjust itself to the new discoveries and inventions of science. It will create a new idiom for the communication of new thoughts. But the poet’s truth is such that sees into heart of things and enables others to see the same. Poetic truth ties all mankind with love and a sense of oneness.

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I must be poor I’m wearing a thick coat
Sat here at the table where I write
I  know my grammar  and I made a note
Sat  here is allowed but it ain’t right

My coat is dirty green and a bit black
So I can sit on stairs when  in a  shop
They don’t have chairs  not even a stuffed sack
When I can’t walk, they tell me I must hop.

If science was taught they’d  know well that  a hop
Puts twice the weight onto a single foot
Maybe I should give my legs the chop
And get some steel ones when there is a glut

My coat is better now for I feel hot
My hanky’s red for I have spilled my blood
My nose was bleeding from a vein I cut
I never took a drug but I pretend I could

LSD is too wild for  my mind
And even at my age I am with child
I fear the risk of growing  yet more kind
The child’s my nephew and he ‘s very mild

I feel like ink that’s spilled out from the well

I have no shape .nor form that I can tell

This image frightens me it chills my blood

As I disappear into gnarled wood

A river has its force it has a goal

But when my blood spills out who can it hold?

I shall be soaked up by wood and earth

No transcendence, no containment and no worth

So give my heart more strength to fight the pain

Give it more resources less bloodstain

We need both skin and bone then we can live

Giving us a frame that is no sieve

Do not spill the blood of other men

To write your letters with dictator’s pen

The message has a meaning quite distinct

From what is written down with blood and ink

https://247wallst.com/special-report/2019/09/06/50-most-popular-words-that-entered-the-dictionary-in-the-last-decade-2/

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2023/apr/04/extraordinarily-stressed-and-vigilant-how-racism-makes-people-physically-ill?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

They tell me that trees are a wonderful sight
They have leaves hanging on them all day and all night.
They tell me the golden sun shines in the sky
It’s said to be so much brighter so high.
I’d like to hear birdsong and thunder and hail.
At all these pursuits worms are likely to fail.
We only make holes in the soil as we move
And we know almost nothing about feelings and love.
We don’t know why we’re here or what purpose we serve
And our earthen workplace is also our grave.

We must be grateful to the lowly of all kinds.