Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

Oleaginous

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Definition

1) resembling or having the properties of oil
2) marked by an offensively ingratiating manner or quality

Oleaginous spiked on March 8th, after the word was used by New York Times columnist David Brooks, in reference to Senator Ted Cruz:

His rhetorical style will come across to young and independent voters as smarmy and oleaginous.

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‘Oleaginous’ means “resembling or having the properties of oil.” It’s sometimes used to describe people who are a little too slick.

Brooks is not the only writer who has seen fit to employ this adjective when describing the senator from Texas; a fair number of other pundits have decided that Cruz merits this less-than-flatteringdescriptor.

Something about his affect — oleaginous, self-pleased, mega-churchish — sets my teeth aching.
—Michael Brendan Doughtery, The Week, 24 March 2015

Striking a pose that lands somewhere between the oleaginousness of a Joel Osteen and the self-assuredness of a midwestern vacuum-cleaner salesman, Cruz delivers his speeches as might a mass-market motivational speaker in an Atlantic City Convention Center.
—Charles Cooke, The National Review, 23 March 2015

Cruz has a Joe McCarthy-esque oleaginous disingenuousness (I’ve been waiting to write that for a while); won’t his charms wear off soon?
—Carter Eskew, The Washington Post, 18 February 2016

Oleaginous came to the English language in the 15th century from Latin via the Middle French. For several hundred years the word simply had such meanings as “resembling or having the properties of oil” and “containing or producing oil.” In the early 19th century it began to be used in a figurative sense, to refer to people or things that were perhaps a little too slick.

To be fair to Cruz, he is hardly the first person to see himself described repeatedly as oleaginous. And given that our politicians are often viewed as having excessively ingratiating manners, it is not surprising at all that our records show thatoleaginous was often used to describe another aspirant to, and holder of, the nation’s highest elected office: William Jefferson Clinton (and sometimes Hillary Clinton as well).

And he watched as they were stymied by cautious moderates in the U.S. Senate (Bob Dole, proprietor) and an oleaginous President Clinton.
—Dick Williams, The Atlanta Journal, 2 March 1996

One of the most impressive, not to say disgusting, aspects of the last few days’ television has been the oleaginous aplomb with which President Clinton has presented his penitent soul to the world.
—Paul Hoggart, The Times [London, England], 14 September 1998

No handkerchief shall I boil e’er again

When tasks and labour wear us into shreds
And burning sun does shrivel up the skin
Shall we like lovers leap into our beds
And see how rapidly we can now sin?

When vests and Y fronts decorate the halls
when trousers seem to multiply at speed
With thermal undies ready for a ball
And bras converse with panties as they breed.

Then shall I throw the whole lot in the trash.
As sorting and disposing invokes wrath.
We’ll wear nothing but watercolour wash
Until in winter we all sneeze and cough,

No handkerchief shall I boil e’er again
To signify my fresh revolt from men.

Alcohol will make me sin

Oh,doctor I am in a flap

I cannot turn this childproof cap
I cannot take my medicine
So I shall toss it in the bin

The beta blockers make me down
I am in a study brown.
The mini aspirins make me bruise
And my mind is quite confused.

The ibuprofen hurt my heart
Yet without my dose I cannot start.
The thyroxine has no effect
So now I feel my life is drecked.

The codeine fails to make me high
I’m not addicted, though I try.
I’ll have to take a shot of gin
And alcohol will make me sin.

I’ll go to parties in a dress
That makes men’s hormones more or less.
I’ll take a big one home with me,
And give him poison in his tea.

And when I am in jail at last
I’ll feel remorse for all my past.
I fear I suffer dreadful pain
God has struck me yet again.

It’s not enough that I am blind
And suffer terrors in my mind
Not enough that lovers cruel
Give me stick instead of jewels.

Or maybe life does not make sense
Especially when one feels so tense.
For so random are my days
thus my life has gone astray.

I think that I shall buy a cat
And love it tenderly and chat.
But if my cat gives me a scratch…
I’ll light its tail up with a match.

All the world must me obey
Else I’ll be enraged all day.
I want my own way all the time.
Other people must conform.

I am here and full of ills
What do you think of these blue pills?
If they take away my heart
That at least will be a start.

Then they can remove my brain
To help me with this  fearsome pain.
Why not kill me right away?
Then I’ll be from pain astray.
.

So much for grief counselling

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“It is generally assumed that the principal emotional response to a significant loss is grief. Certainly sadness is usually a predominant feature and can feel overwhelming. As Freud suggests, and as is acknowledged in most of the modern literature on the subject, grief and sadness are not mitigated by counselling. The only relief is the passage of time. Articulating the sadness may be somewhat helpful but, very often, the hopelessness and despair that accompany a client’s realisation of the finality of death are deep enough to appear untouched by the methods of counselling, however sensitively offered.”

 

Source unknown

 

What not to write

Your skin glows like the orange blossoms in Tesco’s at Xmas
Sweet as  poison oak in the purest  depths of summer.
My yearning heart rises to your Arp-like voice and leaps like a goat at the whisper of your  post modern name.
The evening ascends  as if heated on a great owl’s wings nightly.
I am calmed by your airy shawl that I carry into the twilight and hold next to my heart
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears on my duvet cover in the next week
As your thighs falls from my trousers, it reminds me of our coalition government.
They are all mixed up like you and there are more of them.
In the hushed  play time, I listen for the last humming of the singing bats
My heated arms leap into my coat all alone. as per usual
I wait in the crystal moonlight for your secret sheet of text messages
so that we may be as one,hand in hand,foot in shoe.
in search of the gloriously gay and spiritual soup of love.
Whatever. Be mine.Sometime

Life is what we know

When soft winds blow and air strokes our bare skin.
When days are long like melodies of youth,
when light wakes up the soul from out her sin
Then shall we know when this sweet life is truth?

When flowers droop and leaves are dried and brown;
When water’s short and all  the ground’s forlorn
Then do not meet disaster with a frown,
For out of heartfelt sorrow new life’s born.

When winter’s here and all is quiet and still
And nothing seems to move or grow or speak
Then we shall learn the limits of our will
When through the soil the first green shoots will break.

For seasons change and actors come and go.
Yet through such changes, life is what we know..

Yet love is like a fearsome heavy blow

How like a bird’s nest is my unmade bed
As twigs and feathers from my feet did fall.
I ought to take my shoes off, but instead
I leave them on or hurl them at the wall.

As for a lady’s nightgown I do lack,
And wear old vests my dear husband once loved.
For ladies’ garments often have no back.
And fit too tightly, like a rubber glove.

For pain and torment some will undergo,
To gain attention from a handsome man .
Yet love is like a fearsome heavy blow
Survive it like an act of God unplanned.

So take life lightly though you are enchained;
For it is short and everything remains.

Roses

 The roses by your gate

Revealed my sweet fate:

That I would love you in summertime,

That my poetry would always rhyme,

That a dream of petals falling from above

Would drench us both with sunshine’s golden love;

That we would fall into deep grassy meadows

Full of daisies;lie on our backs.Swallows;

Darting across the sky would see

Our shapes intertwined with bright buttercups.

Who knows when love will erupt

And carry us on its flowing waters

To places unreachable in summer saunters?

Into the eye of love itself.

Love

  • I love you like I’d love a black walnut
  • You’re so rare I can’t eat you.
I’ll put you in my pocket
and take you with me
when I go in town
I’ll feel your crinkles and your wrinkles,
But nobody will know.

I love you like I’d love a comice pear.
I’ll put you in a golden bowl.
I’ll let the sun shine on you,
Till you are ripe.
I’ll put you in my bag,
Take you to a meadow of buttercups
And devour you.
And nobody will know.

I love you like I’d love a flower.
I’ll give you my best vase.
I’ll stand it in the window.
Then I’ll look at you all day
With my peripheral and my central vision,
Till your pattern is embedded in my brain.
I’ll sleep well and dream of you all night.
I’ll wake up and remember it all.

And nobody will know

Humor is good for inflammation:geometric progressions

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Scientists have found humor helps arthritis, instead of prescribing ibuprofen the doctor will tickle you with a feather duster.You’ll have to strip of course and if the nurse came in it would look strange to have them doctor running around the room saying,”You need another tickle”So he’ll give you a pack of cards each of which says:
This card entitles the carrier to one tickle today,two tickles tomorrow.Four tickles the day after, and so on.
If the number of tickles doubles each day,how many tickles will you have been entitled to in a week?In a month?
On the last day of the year would the number of tickles you were prescribed be more than the number of seconds in the day?
You’d better tick off the doctor for not understanding the growth rate.Still if it gives you or her/him a laugh……..your pain will diminish.
Bring back the tickle,I say.It never did me any harm,though I say it myself.
If that fails to heal you,you could ask for Capital Punishment…. you’ll have to move to London for that.

I know that being sad is no disgrace

The bell rang on the ancient church at noon.
A sparrow flitted to the Tudor wall.
Was this the knell which brings us damned gloom?

 

Perhaps there is no meaning here at all.
I read my unknown thoughts projected out;
And in my rage, desire the walls to fall.

 

Like you, I am too often stuck in doubt.
Betrayed by old ideal and vanished wish.
So what is in confuses that without.

 

 

Oh,pain, oh ,mind, oh agony, oh flesh.
I shall not cling to life and wait for grace.
I am, myself, a fish in net of mesh.

 

 

Was this my destiny, my rightful place;
Alone besieged by sorrows on all sides?
I err for being sad is no disgrace.

 

So ,to my hopes, I’ll cling like drowning beast.
Until my invitation to the feast.

 

 

Imprisoned spirits

How like a prison   is my cubicle;

A prison,a trap, a cell,a place of fear.

For humans,this  is truth indubitable;

We need to roam ,to see,to smell,to hear.

 

Yet in the bureaucrat realm , we must observe,

The rules laid down by  generations gone.

And from their ancient code we cannot swerve.

Even if by rules we are undone.

 

Did Euclid discover how grave was a bath?

Did Moses fear  to see the burning bush?

Did Einstein follow someone’s else’s path?

Did Socrates  give voice to utter trash?

 

Imprisoned spirits are to revolution called.

Lest by lioness they should be mauled.

 

 

 

Your face

I wear my heart displayed upon my face.
Attentive readers find their meaning there..
Where feelings thought too deep to be embraced
Can shine demurely where they do not scare.

As Freud observed, we're never quite disguised
Betrayal is our body's real motif
The message comes conspicuous from the eyes..
Bright sparkles  or the tears of blackest grief.

The answer to a question seemly leaps
So Yes or No is visibly revealed.
The blush that spreads so fast across the cheeks
Both bold and shy unable to conceal.

Your face tells me you lied when Love you wrote.
Yet let us part with song, thus write our poems.

I desire to live

I feel soft ghostly hands around my throat
That want to pull me to the darkest deep
My husband cannot leave or be remote
He wishes me to join him in his sleep.
I shall resist for I desire to live
Though sightless are my hours without his face.
I have no more  to friends that I can give,
Now he has taken from me his kind embrace.
As lonely as a swan without its mate.
As tired as swallows after they migrate.
I must accept my unconsoled fate,
Yet not believe this be a constant state.
From my loss, I shall recover when
The birds return and warm sun shines again

Punctuation marks.

An invited comma?

Punctuation marks,see the nurse

Wool stops, here.

An excavated  ark.

A restoration mark.

Mull flops end all repentance.

Never end with hands.

Never start fingering  before you have stopped.

Before writing  very many words,  decide how to puncture the entire para-gaffe at once.

Never confuse emoticons with real wheelings

Never hurry.

Never finish before the end.

Never ending words skulked away sulkily

 

 

Oscar,my cat

 When Oscar sits on the windowsill
And sees someone within,
His mouth opens wide in soundless cry,
He gives us his cat grin.
Oscar rubs around my legs
He’s such a friendly soul.
He then rolls round upon his back
And waves his long striped tail.
But after Oscar’s greetings done,
He’s off to do his rounds.
He sets off from the white door
To the long thin gardens end.
Every inch of soil and seed
Is subject to his nose.
The garden looks one way to us,
But he can see much more.
I wish that Oscar cat could talk
And tell us what he’s found.
Ten thousand spider’s weaving webs,
A slow worm on the ground.
A million ants climb up the rowan,
I sometimes watch them too.
I see  striped wasps and honey bees
In this small natural zoo.
The hedgehogs sweet have long been gone,
but we have diverse birds.
Oscar sits on my tall stool.
He watches them for hours.

 

The pity of it all

The pity of it  all,

that a blindman’s buff

should determine our fate;

that people can’t  make distinctions

fantasy becomes vision

we see with our minds and our eyes are blind

The pity of it all

when we might love

The pity of it all

that we are no longer just animals

that we are conscious

The grief of the madness.

 

Cliche,the limericks

Cliches are boring to  hear

Like, why is that spoon in your ear?

We must  make things new

Or give a fresh view.

I will stir my tea now,with a spear.

 

My father kept spoons in his hat

For often he wore a wool cap.

When Ma wanted teaspoons

He told her  he’d resume

When all of the spoons were quite  flat

 

Your love is a rose,I am sure

But why not use a new type of flower?

My love is a   frog

We sing in a bog.

Then we sing  once again on the hour.

 

 

 

 

Cliche….the definition from Oxford Dictionary online

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  • CLICHÉ

cliché

See definition in Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary

Line breaks: cli¦ché

Pronunciation: /ˈkliːʃeɪ/

(also cliche)

Definition of cliché in English:

noun

1A phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought:that old cliché ‘a woman’s place is in the home’the usual worn-out clichés about the English[MASS NOUN]: a mixture of good humour, innuendo, 

1.1A very predictable or unoriginal thing or person:each building is a mishmash of tired clichés  you’re a walking cliché

2Printing , chiefly British A stereotype or elect

Origin

Mid 19th century: French, past participle (used as a noun) of clicher ‘to stereotype’.

The sea within you

 

Love shines from your eyes
and makes your face
so beautiful.
Smile has a rare beauty
Like a foreign flower
transported into a bare garden.
Though it’s winter
it’s summer in my heart
as I lose myself
in the colour
of the sea within you

Our own Roman Games?

Birdfall

Birds,unlike humans, can  fly across the barriers

Avoid the checkpoints,need no identity papers, permits

Or gold star.

Brothers,why were you separated?

Why could Palestine not be left as one

where ,as in Andalucia before the madness

of Inquisition,you lived together 500 years of peace

Until Christian conformity and suspicion

Tormented and killed you both?

It is we you should be fighting against

Not each other

Are you  our  own Roman Games?

You ,in the  Arena we watch on our screens

We can  turn them off but you,brothers and sisters,

are still there.And your children.

What remains   for any of us?

Flow of words

logorrhea log-uh-RI-uh, n an excessive flow of words, prolixity [Gr logos word + roia flow, stream]

We assume that words are used to communicate but when we are with someone who never stops talking we realise it is not communication in the usual sense..Usually there is an interchange,a sharing of thoughts but I knew one person who drowned one in her words.I believe then it is,ironically, a way of keeping people at a distance.I found it wearing.

Have you ever met loghorrea?

Which is rather like diarrhea.

It’s a long stream of words

With no end ,till absurd.

So if you have it then please keep well clear.

 

It may be a type of desperation;

An error in fruitful communication

A fundamental disorder;

A horse with no ride

Alas,utter demonisation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It rankles within

We try to forget those who harm

With words which cause us alarm..

For it rankles within,

May even cause sin.

Like a snake which may bite or may charm.

 

A festering wound must be cleaned

The poison is otherwise a fiend.

The cut may give pain,

But while pus remains

Septicaemia  lurks unredeemed.

 

And as with the body,the soul

Poison will spoil thus the whole.

We must loosen our hold;

Our resentments unfold.

To  perceive all, we must become bold

 

 

 

.

 

 

Rankle

Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day
March 9

rankle audio pron   \RANK-ul\
uk-suffolk-blythburgh-church-ahnfpy

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Definition
verb
1 :
to cause anger, irritation, or deep bitterness in
2 :
to feel anger and irritation

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Examples
The ongoing roadwork has begun to rankle local owners who worry that the closed-off streets are hurting their businesses.
“That goal should sit well with many neighborhood residents—but it might rankle some landlords.” — Avery Wilks and Sarah Ellis, The State(Columbia, South Carolina), 26 Sept. 2015dots
Did You Know?
The history of today’s word is something of a sore subject. When rankle was first used in English, it meant “to fester,” and that meaning is linked to the word’s Old French ancestor—the noun raoncle or draoncle, which meant “festering sore.” Etymologists think this Old French word was derived from the Latin dracunculus, a diminutive form of draco, which means “serpent” and which is the source of the English word dragon. The transition from serpents to sores apparently occurred because people thought certain ulcers or tumors looked like small serpents.

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Ruthless foreigners

ACC02433GRE
A terrified child clings to a rock on the shore as a group of Syrian refugees arrive on the island  after travelling by inflatable raft from Turkey. The Eastern Mediterranean route from Turkey to Greece has overtaken the central Mediterranean route, from North Africa to Italy, as the primary one for arrivals by sea. From January to June this year, 68,000 people arrived in Greece, compared with 67,500 in Italy, accounting for nearly all the arrivals in the period.

The New Yotker

Famous novels to re-read

 

Don Risotto

Dead on the Nail

Far From the Shabby Cloud.

Oliver wished.

Anne of Green Fables

Pilgrims’ Coatless

Robinson’s views are?

Gulliver Unravels

Tom Moans

Do you miss/kiss  her?

Trysts with  Brandy

 The  Quorum

Lemma

Frank with Wine.

The Green Light.

The Bed on the Screen.

The Life of   Bath.

Where Angels Fear to Wed.

Not Anger,Abby.

In  The Middle Grease.

England’s Rabid

 

 

 

 

 

Charms like a bee

abstract summer

I was un-ready for anything,
with no charms, like a bee.
Each fresh day is torture..
When you don’t hate me.

I was as tame as a mango,
I was alright in my mind.
Each night was  a daydream
Where you were  so kind.

I was harmed by your molars.
They were sharper than whales.
Each claw brought the moon out.
As you cut your nails.

Rolling stones gathered
Your heart is not mine.
I’ll give you what you wish for.
It ‘s a half  true design .
.
As long as the clock speaks
As long as the rose.
As long as the bike pumps..
I’ll remember your nose.

As long as my patterns;
As brief as they are;
As long as my brain’s dead…
I shall parsnip a star.

I love a good proverb.
I love no cliches.
When you find some Wisdom
Do not never pay.

Justice long as a ruler,
Sharpened to a screw.
When you are more kind,then
I may leak what I brew
.
As long as the flat Earth
As wise as it’s broad.
The moon in the water
Heard the crow caw.

Please hear my tall story
Sing  with my cello.
I may fail at  the Wife Class
But I can  still say,Oh,no!

I went to the Church belle,
And asked for a clue.
The finger on the dial
Keeps pointing at you.

The music of laughter,
The joy of details,
I went by the river
But the moon never paled
I know the  sky’ s tilted
My muse is in me.
Don’t sting like a daisy
Nor  wail  like  the sea.