Black pudding is not a dessert
Neither is steak and kidney pudding
Gravy is not grave.
Why do we stuff joints?
Author: Katherine
I like art, poetry,history, literature,cooking,doing nothing to music.And conversation
Some shelled shore
Walking to the bus stop from our door
We fell into a subtle harmony
Like little children dawdling on the shore
No haste, no chiding, wanting nothing more
Like swimming in a balmy pale blue sea
Or walking to the bus stop from our door
Who is known and which one is the knower?
What is here and what is yet to be
For little children dawdling on the shore?
Setting aspirations ever lower
No competing, rush nor victory
Just walking to the bus stop from our door
Though human who gave us creative power?
Who has loved and who evoked in me
The feel of dawdling on the sea, the shore?
Who hears the sorrow, plangent , of the sea
Where earth and stars reflect so rhythmically
Walking with you touching nevermore
Oh, that I were with you on some shelled shore
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What if
What if the moon fell from the sky
And all the Bishops told us lies?
Viruses are out to play
We wonder which of us must pay
The snow fell softly on the graves
Who will spend and who will save
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Stan’s mind starts to wander
Stan put on his hat and went down the spring green garden where a blackbird trilled.The sunlight was very strong,almost glaring in intensity.That’s an interesting word,more commonly used to describe the angry expression on the face of an adult who believed he is a position of power,he thought.
It pains most people to be glared at, he reminded himself.
Stan’s wife Mary had a habit of humming or even singing as she went about her day at work or home.Usually sshe didn’t realise!
He recalled the day she came home from her Art Class to amuse him with a tale of a very wealthy and dominating lady who had suddenly glared at Maru and shrieked,
Is there something wrong with you?
Mary said,
Yes, there is actually. but I don’t usually talk about it except with the doctors.
Why not ? shrieked the woman nastily in her dominatrix style
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Snow
Snow up in the Pennines dressed the hills
Though the cautious thought àbout their wills
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Praise these creatures in the grime
I wrote this when I was starting out and I noticed I was drawn to images of worms and beetles and life in the darkness under us.I was not aware of that when I began to write
Winter weather, frost, dark sky,
See white geese and silver stars.
Two cooing doves with collars red,
Are watching out for seeded bread.
From the sun, low in the sky,
Light falls slantwise to my eyes.
Trees bud, though invisibly,
Nothing that our eyes can see.
Bulbs shoot up from dark cold soil
Where worms and beetles quietly toil.
We take for granted air and sky,
Love the birds we see fly by.
But who can love the worms and slugs
And those creatures we call bugs?
So in our dark cold winter time,
Praise these creatures in the grime.
Without these worms, our crops would die.
No cornfields for us to lie,
Amidst the poppies’ wild red blooms.
So we forget all winter’s gloom
.
Praise the snails and bees and ants
For these and spiders, let’s give thanks.
As the lightness needs the dark,
From darkness come life-giving sparks.
Enrich darkness with our gifts.
Look not always to the swift.
Slow and patient like these worms,
Nature’s lowness is my theme
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Like a natural god, the geese divine
When we walked I held your hand in mine
We walked round a small lake to see geese fly
We sauntered, in a rhythm were aligned
Time had stopped, the geese in circles climbed
Then swept onto the path as we came by
When we walked I held your hand in mine
Like a natural god, the geese divine
Landed in their beauty with a sigh
We entered a new rhythm, were aligned
On the shining water geese in line
Float and hunt for food with little cries
When we walked I held your hand in mine
In our garden for your love I pine
I cannot love another till I die
We sauntered, in a rhythm were aligned
God is on the mountain with his lyre
Singing of the beauty of desire
When we walked I warmed your hand in mine
We lived attuned to love until you died
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Thanks
Illness pain and treatment sap our strength
Till we wonder is there something left
Why accept the suffering and the angst
Does any God seem worthy of our thanks?
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Like a tree
Cold winter
The frost and sun make images that sing
To our human hearts much joy they bring
Be less active, let perception be
All that matters to humanity
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Would you like it?
The pathos of her howl cuts through my bones
Dementia is the illness noone knows
For hours of night and day she calls again
The staff are underpaid,yet care remains
Yet should sick people have to hear her. cries
As some of us will live yet some will die
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Storm
Leaves
The leaves once rich and moist lie on the ground
No longer needed, they turn red and brown
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Greese
Beetles
Oh lovely leaves you die and fall to earth
Even nature’s favourite has no worth
All that lives will age and duly rot
Making food for beetles to beget
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Old leaves
In three November weeks the red leaves died
No more to flaunt their glory and their pride
They turned a dinghy brown as they each dried
Now they fall to earth down there to hide
How my heart sings 