.

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.I
s 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 made more  striking by having butterfly motifs scattered on it at random.
“Why have you got those butterflies on your clothes ?” he asked her.
“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 wildly.
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.
“Well,I’ve already had ten Valentines.
“Already.You must have done it fast!” he teased her gently.
“No,you 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 repliied 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.”
Mmmmmmmmmmmm
.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,Wittgenstein\s favourite cat.
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

I have walked without a  map or plan
I have whispered  names of people dead.
I have wandered further,longer than.

I have stumbled ,when the able ran.
I have longed for you but  never said
I have walked without a  map or plan

I have been through places men would ban
I have sung to birds and shared my bread
I have wandered further,longer than.

I  have searched for you in nook or cran
I have felt my  brain has turned to lead
I have walked without a  map or plan

I have  sauntered,wandered,I have run
I should have lain down in dry leaves instead
I have wandered further,longer than.

I remember when you shared my bed
I remember all the words  we said
I have fallen  without map or plan
I am drowning deeper,darker than.

Three days before the end,he lay quite still
Could barely speak nor breathe not eat nor smile
I sat alone and swollen was my heart
I knew by  inward feelings, soon  we ‘d part

At home were waiting  frozen ready meals
Quite suitable to my own freezing feel
He  gazed at me and tried to speak some words
“How will you manage,sweet”, I barely heard.

The grief I felt ignored by day time nurse
And from the Sister, came demonic curse.
Exercised in Re Hab  until dead
And even after that, cruel words they said

Resuscitated,  left in peace in bed.
He lasted 19 hours .The verdict: “Dead.”

There was a holy place made by the screens
Where lay the old man,  trembling into dream.
His face was pale,his nose felt like white ice
An offering on the block for sacrifice.

The sacred place was marked by song and prayer
Made  quietly . so  that no-one else would hear.
He held my hand and whispered ,please don’t go.
I held him in my heart, as his went slow.

A cocoon made in noisy A and E
A strange place for the Lady God to be.
Deep silence underneath the usual noise,
Pierced only by  my child-like singing voice.

I saw his soul ,  my tears made long curtains
Hidden so, I felt the weight of  pain
I felt my heart  crack in this loss and grief
For Death had been there like a silent thief.

His  pale face  on the pillow  seemed to smile
The kindness of strange angels did beguile

They didn’t have any red onions so they sent me a whole ball of string
I sauted it in the frying pan,with a knotted  courgette , and it sang
I am wondering now every Friday, what will the grocery send?

Instead of roast  beef they’ll send i Pads or kindles with fire on the wings
I really do  need a new doorbell as this one infrequently rings
They didn’t have any red onions so they sent me a hen on a string.

I suppose it may not be the doorbell,just a cat advertising his bling.
We all suffer paranoid feelings, but the police watched  me  in case  I might sting
I am wondering now every Friday, where the art  of psychiatry ends

I may be a a little bit backward but string ain’t much good for roasting.
When  I boiled three dozen eggs in the toaster, they exploded with a big brassy bang
They didn’t have any red onions so they sent me a  pig on  a string.

Eat at your own risk

First course

Ginger shampoo and boiled onions  on a bed  of  buttered snails
Lemon, barley   and pepper jelly with a dash of bustard.
Cat food on toast [wholemeal] with  yellowish salad

Main course

Dead blackbird pie and gravy with one  fresh spinach leaf per portion
Baked potatos and chilli beans with fresh chicken wings.
Soup frozen over a lake of lamb chops and sprouts

Puddings

Eve’s own  apple pie and Carnation milk right from the tin
Adam’s apple baked in pastry and flustered
Tomato jam tart with caramel rocks and treble cream
Desert delight and sand to toss on to it  from an oasis of  peas
Bethlehem cheese   plus slice of  border Wall  and crackers.
Rocket junket and cheesecake with barbed wire kebabs of needed.

List of MPs who voted to turn away 3,000 unaccompanied Syrian children

by Sylvia Plath

The storm clouds wander random as a glance
Let’s toss the dice and choose a president
The sunset’s mauve and willing clouds a-bounce

The lies and fake news breed and so advance
Conquer minds and hearts of residents.
The storm clouds wander ,random as  a glance

Shall we fight or leave the end to chance?
The danger of the latter’s evident
The sky is mauve and thunder might roll once.

What is life like after the romance?
What seemed a louse may be an elephant.
Yet storm clouds wander random  to my glance

Who made the madmen who now high boot prance
As politicians  building walls   of cant.
The sky is mauve and God needs  a seance.

Are these human add ons ,miscreants
Wearing Nazi slogans as they rant?
The storm clouds shudder. random, elegant
The sunset’s fire has gone ; there is no dance

It’s like an old dream,I’m running but slowly
Like that film, Chariots of fire,men running on a beach
Someone slowed the film down so you could watch
Each leg rise slowly then come down
And they panted,but very slowly
Like a mammoth climbing Scafell.
I’m running to meet you,you’ve come back
I stretch out my arms for you and you smile
And smile and smile.
But you have gone

When I bought the batteries
They said, where are you from?
I said, I come  from Darlington.
I’m British and I’m glum.

Your accent is not English
Your smile is much to warm
You must be from a Nordic state
You’ve come to do us harm

I asked them why it mattered
What my background  was.
They said we don’t like foreigners
Because,because,because.

I asked to use the toilet
They said, you must give proof
That you are a real lady
And not a man in truth.

They did not accept my gender
So I had to wet my pants
And my old man was angry
He hollers and he rants

Must I bare my organs
To prove I am female?
Or will I be arrested
And thrown into the jail?

Soon I shall not go to town
Because I  feel so bad
That toilets are not unisex
And foreigners  have fled.

Apparently  a new law is being passed which says we have to prove we are male or female biologically before entering the boys’ or girls’ bathroom
This is a really good idea because it will create thousands of new jobs.Because every   toilet outside of our own home we will have to be inspected to make sure we are in the right toilet.So a new job of willy inspector is to be created
Men and boys will have to show their willies to the guard outside the toilet and if they have none they will be sent to the girl’s toilet.But that is harrassment to  make them show they are trans in public.Surely that is not  kind.
But as revealing your willy  in public is a crime you may get arrested for indecent behaviour.The next minute you will wet yourself.I foresee a big rise in sales of nappies.Then you will be in prison awaiting trial and there are no toilets as the government can’t afford inspectors in prisons
The numbers of judges will rise and even the judges will have to bare their willies if they want to go to the men’s toilets and then they will be arrested too which is whimsical
It could be that 50 % of the population will be employed  inspecting others’ organs
Then the next hard question is: what if the willy inspector wants to go to the toilet? Is this like Russell’s paradox?
Meantime, how will people queuing for the ladies prove they are ladies biologically ?The best way is to make it a crime  for  women to wear clothes.Then we can all see whether they have willies and it could make some of us  more neurotic
We can manage without clothes like the Patagonians
.Of course  some men might be affected by naked women in their offices but there is always a difficulty which can be over come.The main trouble here is for trans females.The answer is  to let women trans or not use separate cubicles  in the toilets so nobody will see their organs of whatever kind.
We’ll see more new crimes like women arrested  for walking round the shops wearing dresses.Then the police will undress them in public.Remember France last summer?
So we will need more police and we will have all the clothes shops going bust.
Why not have just one lot of toilets for everybody.No urinals,jusy lots of  cubicles? I never liked urinals.They are  a form  of abuse to women… harrassment, you’ve seen nothing yet.They are just so men can show off

And suppose some men like exposing themselves?They’d be at the toilet 10 times an hour.When would they work?
The whole thing is a farce.
Let’s all go behind a  Bush.

• Pig in smoke,louse on fire
• A pink jelly set so I trifled
• Grace for everything and everything in God’s grace
• I am vague on both your houses
• A fiddle wrapped up in an enigma cause Customs  to crack my code and make me sing
• A rolling bone gathers no dental floss
• Your hose by any other name would smell as sweet,,
•  I got Trump ‘flu.
• A safe lair for bands,
• The sea  cringed in the Tempest
• I shot across the flow like an arrow in  Ariel
• A chamber pot is a charm ,
• Boa shot in  the ark,Noah on trial
• A  what in the dark?
• Short but fun bedding,
• A Site for Sore Eyes,
• A grudge hammer to knock him flat
• A worry  blight
• A  room full of  lovers helps the medicine go down,

The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
The  sacred, silent space  unoccupied
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

We centre our   whole self on the absurd
For iPads cannot pass through any eye
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.

God no longer feels inclined to share.
The golden cloud  of angels  cannot fly
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

The altar’s stripped,  the rituals  are nightmares.
The ancient priest says Mass and wonders why
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.

A  virtual wall stops grace from being shared.
Jesus is made flesh and , silent, dies
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

No man is an island,John Donne cried
But now there is no truth to satisfy
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/articles/detail/92189

“Poets are seekers and questioners. They explore the unknown and help to give it shape. The insights and wisdom in the following poems below are hard-won; more often, it is simply the naming of the fear—personal, spiritual, or political—that offers solace, reminding us that people are connected by our worries and doubts as well as our joys. By resisting closure and easy answers and sounding out the darkness, these poems remind us that poetry has always been able to cope with uncertainties, ambiguities, and shades of gray.”