Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

My lover, it is I.

My pink cat is so beautiful.
His name is Coloured Cat.
He lives inside my dreaming head,
He is both round and flat.
My lover rides a bicycle
He comes round here for tea.
He loves to eat my chocolate cake
And he also loveth me!
My children dwell in other parts,
I cannot see them now.
They dwell with angels singing high.
Their shape is called The Plough.
They plough the  entire universe
I see them in the sky.
My pink cat rides my bicycle.
My lover, it is I.

Emile’s hanky

 

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Stan was sweeping the garden path.He had a stiff broom with a small head that was useful for cleaning the edges of the steps.Emile, his beautiful cat was sitting in the old apple tree gazing down on Stan.
“Is it time for coffee yet,”Stan asked himself.He had forgotten to put on his watch.
Suddenly he heard a shriek.He peered through a hole in the fence.His neighbour Annie was lying on her back in some mud.
“Hang on,I’ll come round!” he called.
There was a gate in the old fence which was rarely locked since Annie loved to drop in on Stan.
“Oh,Annie,how are you feeling?” he asked her anxiously.
“Bloody annoyed.I’ve only just bought these,”Not your daughter’s jeans” and now I’ve torn them,” she replied politely.
“But you don’t have a daughter!” he informed her loudly.
“I know that.It’s just they are better cut for the mature figure.”
“Your figure is not mature.You are quite slender.my dear,” he murmured lovingly.
“Well,I never feel happy with it!” she said mutinously.
“Whereas I am very happy feeling it,” he responded romantically.
Tears came into her green eyes lined with purple eye shadow.Alas,it was not waterproof and purple rivulets ran down her cheeks across the peach blusher with which she had valiantly decorated herself earlier.
“Can you get up?” he asked tenderly.
“Yes, but it would be nice if you picked me up.”
He leaned over her and licked the purple streams of tears off her cheeks.
“I hope it’s not poisonous,” she murmured into his ear
Then with the aid of Emile,he lifted her to her feet and helped her into her large trendy kitchen.
The kettle switched itself on as they entered and a robotic voice asked if they’d like coffee.
“God in heaven,what the hell is that?” he cried confusedly.
“It’s my new computerised hot drink maker.After that fall I think a double espresso would be good.”
Emile ran in and asked for coffee too.
“Emile,you usually have milk,”Stan reminded him softly.
“Well,coffee is a new taste for me but I like a little.” the cat whispered sweetly.
“I’ll give you some of mine in a saucer,” Stan replied.
Emile began to sob.
“Why Emile,whatever is wrong?”
“I want a cup and saucer just like you” the cat howled.
But you have no hands,Emile,” Stan reminded him.
The poor cat was crying loudly now.So Stan rang 999.
“Can you please send the emergency ambulance round.the cat’s crying and all his hankies are in the wash.”
Soon Dave,the transvestite paramedic appeared.
“I love your light teal kitchen,” he informed Annie,
“And your eyes look like two deep pools in a coal mine.”
She slapped his cheek naughtily.
“Have a look at Emile” she ordered him sweetly.
He turned to the cat who was sitting on the dark pine table.
“Here,Emile,I got you some Kleenex for Cats in Sainsburys.” he said gaily.
“I want a real hanky,”cried Emile.Dave took a clean hanky from his own pocket and dried the cats tears.
“What made you cry.Are you feeling bad.”
“Yes,I want to go to Cafe Nero,” Emile mioawed.
“Who told you about that?”
“Another cat down the road has been and he said it’s lovely for people watching.”
“The town is not safe for cats like you,Emile.”
Dave urbanely replied,
“But when summer come I’ll take you to the out of town Marks and Spencers.They have a cat’s coffee corner upstairs.”
“Wow,isn’t it amazing,”Stan wondered out loud.
So Dave poured out the coffee and they all sat down and discussed Ray Monk’s Life of Wittgenstein.
Ray has discovered that Wittgenstein liked cats but as he moved around quite a bit,he never owned his own cat though Elizabeth Anscombe let him play with her three cats now and then.
We may all be different but most of us value the love of a good cat.Even boiling their hankies and ironing them is very nice.We all have this problem though.
Where can a cat carry his own hanky?
Do cats need shoulder bags?
What would Wittgenstein say?
Be quiet.
What?

We need both real and metaphorical windows.

 

To look out or to peer in… we need both  real and metaphorical windows.
To a baby it may seem as of the whole world was created just for her.
And so it may seem, for a moment. to a mystic.
And that may be anyone who looks in the right way in the right direction at the right moment.
The world was made for me..
And for you too.
And with our eyes, we see.

Jews from the Yemen.

I don’t know what the answer will be in Israel/Palestine in the long term.But last night I read an article and it seems Israel is about 8% the size of the UK.That is very small. They have airlifted 18  Jews from the Yemen [thus ending a 2,000 year history as the 500 year old scroll of the Torah has been brought out.A few Jews remain in a compound by the American embassy.Maybe they feel too old to relocate]
I recall reading that most of the Jews were airlifted out  of the Yemen in 1950 to Israel  with the aid of Britain because they would have been attacked or killed.They were mainly peasants and had to walk to Aden where Britain had got an airbase and some planes.As they were from such remote places they had never seen planes before.The story is that they were told they were angels as mentioned in the Hebrew Bible.The plane had to go to and fro  a few times.
I used to teach with a Jewish man from Iraq.They  were expelled too after a long history.Britain did not offer to take any of the Yemeni refugees.Judging by the Saatchi brothers who are from Iraq,Britain lost some bright entrepreneurs.Then we get such idiots ruling us.Or am I just getting old and sad?

To merely amuse.

Is humour immoral for me?
Are jokes made by a mad chimpanzee?
Humour’s a  virtue
Life may well teach you.
Practise wherever you be.

Sometimes a joke insults Jews
Or the Irish the black or  mixed hues.
These are  immoral
And cause fights and quarrels
I seek here to lightly amuse.

Hyperbole’s often an error

Hyperbole’s often an error;
For simple fear is not yet terror.
Be more exact
And speak with great tact.
And stop peering into that  big  mirror.

 

The  hyperbola’s a beautiful shape.
But not one for women to  ape.
Our shape’s in our genes
And therefore it seems
Self acceptance is never a mistake.

Geometry’s seen in a tree
The branches make visions we see.
I will take my camera outside
And my door key beside.
And look for one  that  much affects me.

Humor is a virtue

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https://en.wikiversity.org/wiki/Virtues/Humor

Everyday Humor

Practice the virtue of humor every day in these various ways:

  • Before saying something you intend to be funny, decide if it is benign humor, or biting irony.
  • If you find yourself amused by childish, sexist, racists, or other exploitive jokes, it may be important for you to reexamine your beliefs and values in those areas. Respect the dignity of all people as you develop your virtuous sense of humor.
  • Be neither the buffoon nor the boor.

 

Hyperbola

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What is hyperbole?

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The Wolf Among Us.

The wolves ran free that sunburst evening emerging from the fog like ghosts with razor teeth. Emboldened for some reason, the canines set upon us as though having to have waited to do so for far to…

Source: The Wolf Among Us.

Lowness

 

 

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It is the  lowness of  small  plants
Which gives them fortitude
When gales tear down trees and fences.

 

“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire, a still small voice.” The Bible.

Floating emoters

Life

National Wealth Service.
Floating Quotas
Life’s a Crime.
In your own Line
Newsrapers.
Telederision.
Imputers.
Medea.
Paying Fine.
Inland Cleverer than You.
Wealth Fax
Tax the Pure.
Smart yawns.
Democrassy.
The Right to Float.
Usury Rates.
Counsel Tact.
Tablets  Moan.
Lapmops here.
Keep it Spleen

Bode:An old Norse word

 

Dictionary.com
bode
[bohd]
verb (used with object), boded, boding.
1.
to be an omen of; portend:
The news bodes evil days for him.
2.
Archaic. to announce beforehand; predict.
verb (used without object), boded, boding.
3.
to portend:
The news bodes well for him.
Origin of bode1 Expand
Middle English  Old English
1000before 1000; Middle English boden, Old English bodian to announce, foretell (cognate with Old Norse botha), derivative of boda messenger, cognate with German Bote, Old Norse bothi

Foreboding

St_Paul's2016.jpgforeboding
fɔːˈbəʊdɪŋ/
noun
noun: foreboding; plural noun: forebodings
  1. 1.
    a feeling that something bad will happen; fearful apprehension.
    “with a sense of foreboding she read the note”
    12717545_665991480207400_9095795496204359785_nsynonyms: apprehension, apprehensiveness,anxiety, perturbation, trepidation,disquiet, disquietude, unease,uneasiness, misgiving, suspicion,worry, fear, fearfulness, dread, alarm;More
    antonyms:12106693_624329767706905_7636879451072832801_n calm
adjective
adjective: foreboding
  1. 1.
    implying that something bad is going to happen.
    “when the Doctor spoke, his voice was dark and foreboding”
forebode
fɔːˈbəʊd/
verb

archaic
gerund or present participle: foreboding
  1. (of a situation or occurrence) act as an advance warning of (something bad).
    “this lull foreboded some new assault upon him”
    synonyms: presage, augur, portend, prognosticate,foreshadow, foreshow, foretell, forecast,predict, prophesy, forewarn, warn of, be a warning of, herald, be an omen of, be a harbinger of; More
    • have a presentiment of (something bad).
      “I foreboded mischief the moment I heard”

Living in harmony……..

Stunning images

janetweightreed10's avatarMy Life as an Artist (2)

‘Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.   Thomas MertonP1100559I have been thinking about a time in my life when I experienced a sense of what it is to live in a state of innocence and harmony.

After World War II – yet another hideous war which was supposed to be the war to end all wars,  the powers that be decided that it was time to integrate the young people of Europe.        All sorts of schemes and programmes were adopted.    School children were encouraged to have pen pals from other countries and when possible to travel and meet one another.P1100549Given that I grew up in Kent, not too far from the English Channel,  where France can be seen from England on a clear day,  I was one of many young people who were able to meet up…

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Where are you?

 

 

First mew phome pics 007Today I went for an ultrasound scan.Fortunately the result is good and I had a friend with me ;strangely it was not in the ultrasound department but in X ray  so we had to walk much further.The journey back to the front door was tortuous.I seem to have become weak since I was ill for 4 months and it   angers me  to find I am not able to do what I expect.Although, given I am in fairly bad pain, it seems I am too harsh on myself.
Of course I am pleased with the outcome but later in the day I find I keep expecting my husband to be here so that I can tell him.
When people talk of returning to an empty house that is not quite how I would describe it.It seems to me as if there is a hole in the atmosphere of the house which was not there when my husband was alive and was working away from home.
Yes,there’s an empty space of a finite size,like a cocoon,where a person should be.I have dreamed about him but he does not say anything.He was very quiet but had an expressive face and presence.
Even when he was still alive he had stopped fully  responding to me.I came home last April with good news that a biopsy  result was ok.He was too  far gone both health wise and emotionally since I’d been under treatment for a  year.Fortunately I was able to  look after him nearly all the time.
I keep looking round;I see dead roses; he’s not here.How can I tell him? I speak and ask him,where are you,but only silence answers me.He has left me behind like a bag that was not needed.But he needed me to help  him to go.
When with my friend I felt like I usually do.But now the silence seems to shake like waves  of air bouncing and roaming  round the room. I’m too tired   to speak on the phone.I need to eat.
Why don’t I see him like many people do their loved ones? Or is that bad?
Maybe the hole is inside me.Or Am I inside the hole?

Lame Ministers of Britain.

Winsom Church Bill
Prince One Churchill
Dante in Eden.
Symphony Bleeding
Howled McMillan
Arid Back Filling.
Scarred Home
Sword Loom.
Imperilled Wilson.
Paroled Will’s Son
Dead Heath
Said Lethe
Carol Wilson.
Feral Pills Won
Nameless Carry-On.
Shameless Ferry Man
Hark at Scratcher.
Target Snatcher
Ron Made Her.
One Minor
Phoney Blair.
Loony Heir
Pardon Brown.
Fawning Clown
Pick Clegg
Sick Head
Solemn Cameron.
Waving Hammers On
Forge  Sauce Bone?
Gorge Unborn
He ain’t dunkin’ pith?
Peeing, Drunk Hitsmith
Flu in Hell?
Woo the cell.

I Wore This Dress Today for You, Mom,

7985150_f260.jpgAmerican Life in Poetry: Column 574

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREAFacebook Like Button

When I was a boy, because of the song, I thought there really was an Easter parade, but the Easters came and went without one. But here’s a glimpse of just a little piece of a parade by Kim Dower, who lives in Los Angeles. Her forthcoming book is Last Train to the Missing Planet, Red Hen Press, 2016.

I Wore This Dress Today for You, Mom,

breezy, floral, dancing with color
soft, silky, flows as I walk
Easter Sunday and you always liked
to get dressed, go for brunch, “maybe
there’s a good movie playing somewhere?”
Wrong religion, we were not church-goers,
but New Yorkers who understood the value
of a parade down 5th Avenue, bonnets
in lavender, powder blues, pinks, hues
of spring, the hope it would bring.
We had no religion but we did have
noodle kugel, grandparents, dads
who could fix fans, reach the china
on the top shelf, carve the turkey.
That time has passed. You were the last
to go, mom, and I still feel bad I never
got dressed up for you like you wanted me to.
I had things, things to do. But today in L.A.—
hot the way you liked it—those little birds
you loved to see flitting from tree to tree—
just saw one, a twig in its mouth, preparing
a bed for its baby—might still be an egg,
I wish you were here. I’ve got a closet filled
with dresses I need to show you.

I can’t read between your whines.

I can’t read between your whines.
My poetry is only mental floss.
Do you choose a flannel?
Where is my truth brush?
I need a  big clean howl some days.
I mispaid the Pope’s men.
Where are the hand mischiefs?
I like Jewish bloomers with  many  happy seeds  sprinkled on.
He’s anti-emitting anything.
I love Jesus for his behaviour.
Holy Week… we’ll be lucky to get a holy minute.
What’s wrong with  bed scarves?More mystery,more allure.
I  wear strange robes    despite my health.
Whatever text!
God is   bereaved again.
What do you stink your shoe in?
Get down of that Mabel.?
Never rush to the daughter.
What do you think you are suing?
Sex in marriage is an acrimony.
Were you never a virgin?
What’s so lad about that?
After Henry  chewed her Katherine Parr re-harried quickly.Then died.
Thank the Lord I am still dear.

The trees are calm for they have grown deep roots

 

When of the world of doctors,I am sick.
When diagnosis is not any aid
When from the choices given, I cannot pick
Although I feel my deepest debts were paid.

Then off from thinking I must take my mind
To gaze upon the beauty of the woods
And feel the sun not fiery, even kind.
It warms and heartens even my cold blood.

The trees are calm for they have grown deep roots
Though storms may strike their trunks and branches too
breaking off new tender green tipped shoots
They sway and take it without much to do.

Strength needs flexibility and give;
With no such, the brittle shall not live

An old poem

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In London town,I saw the moon.
It looked  so darned impressive.
So I lay down upon my coat
Where I could write this missive.

After lying staring up,
I began to feel  so lazy.
I thought I saw the Pope go by.
Do you think I’m going crazy?

He was in a large white car
Wrapped up  well in tartan.
I know you won’t believe me but
I felt almost certain.

I went to a free soup kitchen,
As I’m a homeless person.
I saw ten angels looking down,
So I called  to them “Stop staring”

I went inside a shop doorway
To get an hour of sleep.
I dreamed I dwelt in the old U K
It nearly made me weep.

If I really was in old England
I ‘d have the N.H.S.
I’d have a some benefits to spend
And a  warm  red  Xmas dress

Elemental as a storm

A force  far deeper than our anger

Elemental as a storm

Annihilating all before it

Terror makes man’s rage perform.

This  force saying self is threatened

Runs to  rise and to protect,

Most murderous when  we’re most alarmed

Rage  the enemy detects.

Over-riding other feelings

Deprives us of the power to think

Like a nuclear  tsunami

Disconnecting human links.

Reddened vision,focused,narrow;

Eyes locked onto enemy’s

All the wider context losing,

Wipes out  our good memories

Like a mother tiger fighting,

And the cornered eagle’s force;

We will destroy  what we think other

Without  bitter,pained remorse.

Nature made such to protect us;

Yet  our  perception can be wrong.

Once the flood of feeling takes us

All reflections seems too long

Later, if we see our victims,

Will we know that we have erred?

For  hate deceives ourselves and others

When our inmost terror’s  bared

Is God happy?

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Is God Happy?

 

They ask if  our God  may be sad
Or if people in heaven are glad
For if they look down
To us foolish clowns
The vision must drive them all mad.

Is eternity here in the now?
Do puzzles have to wrinkle the brow?
Live like a flower
Content in its bower.
And never ask God why or how.

As Jesus said,we  all know
That what we reap we may  have sown.
Purified intentions
Are worthy of mention.
And help all us humans to grow.

 

Someone to do nothing with

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I  remember a few  years ago reading an article about people who were  bereaved.One woman said,
I have plenty of people to do things with but no-one to do nothing with.
I was reminded of that  lately because I have felt very sad and stricken again.And I can visit somebody but I will have to talk to them.Unless they had  other people there so I could just sit quietly.Being with people is nice but  not if constant conversation is required.That is where those who’ve been blessed with   ahappy partnership or marriage have really been fortunate.I suppose years ago we lived near our extended family so that would have given us some protection.But  here  not many people do.Or maybe their  relatives have died.Being with people but not having to talk…
One reason living to be very old is painful is that your own age group has thinned out a lot and people don’t realise very old people still have desires and wishes and don’t want to watch TV all day.Many times they do want to talk but nobody is there.I am not VERY old yet.But I have friends who are.And actually even young people can have disabilities  or  go blind  etc.

Misreading between the lines

??????????There is  no doubt we  all do this reading between the lines…sometimes consciously,sometimes unwittingly.We attempt to fill in gaps in our knowledge.There are a few problems.One is in cultural differences which may affect us here on the web.We come from very different societies and the meanings of certain words and attitudes does vary considerably;

And another factor is our own desires which we are  not always aware of.We may then interpret someone’s words in a way which fits with our desire or interpret someone using bad language to signify that they do not respect us.If the Soaps are an indication it seems in much of Britain every other word has just four letters. which to me shows poverty of feelings and language… but it means many people are not offended by them…But many still are.

So wishful thinking,ignorance,wanting to believe something,,,,,..cultural ignorance.. all these may make communication difficult.Perhaps we should not read too much between the lines at the beginning of a friendship…and be wary of imputing desires to another when they seem to offer what we are hoping for.

It’s a bit like the way here nearly everyone puts “love” or “xxxxx” at the end of a letter or email… so that in reality it means  almost nothing at all;Words become meaningless through overuse and we  will have to judge in other ways what a person feels for us..

Some people are more prone to seeing patterns or meanings in things which can be creative but it can also lead to paranoia in the insecure or lonely individual who has become the center of a huge important plot.When I was ill as a child I remember seeing faces leering at me from the wallpaper and the oil heater hissed menacingly,,, it was the fever but I was afraid…We need friends to tell us if our interpretations seem sensible and to comfort us when we are low.. and we need to be wary of assuming too much especially when we come from different cultures

It’s criminal

P1000261.JPGHe

He’s so subliminal
It’s  almost criminal.
Yet he’s divine
Most of the time
Do you believe in magic?
If not,don’t make it tragic.
Do you like to swallow  your words?
Don’t be absurd
Speak,show and tell.
I shall, as well.
Red shoes are good in hell.