Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

Holiday or Holy Day

eileen

Image by my sister

Holiday
[hol-i-dey]
Spell Syllables
Synonyms Examples Word Origin
[See more synonyms on Thesaurus.com]
noun
1.
a day fixed by law or custom on which ordinary business is suspended in commemoration of some event or in honor of some person.
2.
any day of exemption from work (distinguished from working day ).
3.
a time or period of exemption from any requirement, duty, assessment, etc.:
New businesses may be granted a one-year tax holiday.
4.
a religious feast day; holy day, especially any of several usually commemorative holy days observed in Judaism.
5.
Sometimes, holidays. Chiefly British. a period of cessation from work or one of recreation; vacation.
6.
an unintentional gap left on a plated, coated, or painted surface.
adjective
7.
of or relating to a festival; festive; joyous:
a holiday mood.
8.
suitable for a holiday:
holiday attire.
verb (used without object)
9.
Chiefly British. to vacation:
to holiday at the seaside.
Origin of holiday Expand
Middle EnglishOld English
950before 950; Middle English; Old English hāligdæg. See holy, day
Related forms Expand
preholiday, adjective

Florilegium:Word of the day at Dictionary.com

 
6396477_69682eacb4_mWord of the Day
Definitions for florilegium
A collection of literary pieces; anthology
Citations for florilegium
… Brichot who was not merely kind to Morel, but would cull from the Greek philosophers, the Latin poets, the oriental storytellers, appropriate texts which decorated the Baron’s propensity with a strange and charming florilegium.
Marcel Proust, translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff & Terence Kilmartin, The Captive, 1992
Printing also encouraged a trend toward ever larger reference books as each edition tried to lure more buyers by offering something of interest to everyone, or at least everyone who could read Latin. One of these was the “ florilegium,” a book gathering memorable quotations (or “flowers”) from respected authorities of many kinds — religious writers, philosophers, poets, and orators.
Ann Blair, “Information overload, the early years,” Boston Globe, November 28, 2010

Origin of florilegium
Florilegium can be traced to the Latin terms flōs meaning “flower” and legere meaning “to gather.” Historically, it has been used to refer to both collections of literal flowers and figurative flowers in the sense of notable literary extracts. It entered English in the mid-1600s.
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I

The wrong kind of talk

People often assume talking is good for us.It must be or it would have died out!Yet even when we are small we know talking or being spoken too can cause pain.I’m leaving out parental criticism.But gossip hurts and so do lies.often.

Later while talking to some people  is good,it’s not universal

 

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Words like flying  pebbles hurtle from her lips

They may not hit me,but they keep  us apart.

Of course,it may be unconscious..

That’s the modern excuse.

Politicians do a double trick.

They sound as if they want to reach us

But they can’t depart from a  script they wrote two years ago.

He smiled like a dead drake,leaned towards me,bared his lips

And said,I love you.

I reared back to escape his yellow fangs.

I’d rather be alone.

 

I suppose the best time is

When we have a balance of talk and silence.

And for women,it’s usually when the men are absent.

If a woman says a few sentences men think it’s a lecture.

You may not believe that men talk more than women

But research shows it.

It’s how we judge their talking.

Boring talk is the worst.

Especially when we can’t escape.

We think we can’t,perhaps we can.

The wrong silence

There’s a warm silence

which feels good,like a cashmere blanket

around the shoulders

which can contain what we say

and what we don’t say.

Which unites us.

 

Then there’s a cold silence

You are telling me not to speak

Not to  come close.

Even worse,it may say

I’d like to destroy you

You are not human

You’re not worth anything.

Daggers drawn

Hate.

 

Then there’s the silence of indifference,

You see me but feel nothing.

I could be a table or a hat

A book or  potato.

You live in your bubble

And nothing can pierce it.

Even to see me die would not

Affect you.

You seem to have no affect.

Loss of love

When true love’s gone and doom hangs over head
When life runs like a river to the sea
Then shall I take new lovers to my bed?
And with their carnal touch consoled be?

When my love lies,so breaks my tender heart.
When life seems grey and rocks bestrew my path.
Then, shall I my life of evil start?
And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?

When true loves lie and wreck all loyalty.
When puzzlement makes all my world seem mad.
Then I shall upend causality
And let myself do deeds which make me glad.

For I have love’s sweet child inside my soul
And I shall tend her till at last she’s whole

Sadness and silence

The cause of sadness also shows its end;
That we let go the loved one and remain.
Such comfort,aid and love we have from friends
Helps us bear the heart’s most dangerous pain.

 

But if our friends  fear their own  hidden  grief.
If sorrow is never let to touch their heart;
Then friendship’s stolen by a nervous thief;
As wishing to retain our self,we part.

 

The friends who sit in silent company
Who look for no reward yet love us true
Who show,  quite clear, desireless empathy;
They are friends who warmth and  hope imbue.

 

Patient silence may do more than  words
The utterance of the heart is not absurd.

 

 

Cream tea

In Derbyshire there is a cafe advertising “Cream Teas”.But that doesn’t include the pot of tea!Nor even a cup of tea.It makes  me wonder if  it has any cream in it.Life,doesn’t it annoy one sometimes?Well,it annoys me.And I am random sample size one so we can generalise to,

100 percent of the sample were annoyed by modern life.

Or a Cubist.

To be a  perfectionist  is not the same as being a tourist

Or a Cubist.

It’s a state of mind which doesn’t recognise itself;

That believes there’s only one way:

The ideal way.

And that will can achieve it.

To be a perfectionist

Is to be afraid of being ordinary or average.

How do we change?

Can we change?

Everyone assumes we can,

That will power can do it.

But like losing weight,it’s hard

Or impossible.

In any case does anything perfect even exist?

Ignoring humanity,is the world perfect?

What does it mean?

Is  a baby perfect?

Is the  sun perfect?

How are we using words?

Love

I see your face reflect the moon.

You smile enchants my  heart.
I hear you sing our favourite tune ..
As we stroll in the dark.
I’ve never known such happiness.
As I feel when I’m with you.
And when our lips join in a kiss
I love you through and through.
Let’s live for now and not dwell on
The problems we must face
I feel that you and I are one,
When joined in love’s embrace.
Our time is now,the moment’s here,
Let’s put aside all fear.

Stan falls in love with his cat

Stan fell asleep in front of the roaring fire.Emile lay across his lap.Emile was so limp he looked like a wet towel casually over the old man’s knees.It was Stan’s birthday but no party had been arranged.He was struck that Mary had not baked a cake..nor even bought one at the Co-op.
That was no surprise really as he did all the cooking including Bakewell tarts and Xmas cake,He was a versatile man who could also mend old radios and fix clocks that were stuck one time….usually th wrong one!
He also spent quite a lot of time giving statistics lessons to pensioners and making love with his blonde and busty mistress,Annette who lived next door.
He decided that being so near her was a big advantage given his age.
Suddenly he was awakened by chuckles and giggles,There were Mary and Annette holding a big iced cake and a pot of tea.The doorbell rang and in came all Stan’s friends from his Art class.Mary produced sandwiches and pork pies,sausage rolls and potato cakes.
How did you do this ?,he enquired dazedly.
We did it all in Annette’s oven.She has two so it was quite easy.
Mary was not jealous of Annette for Mary would rather read Principia Mathematica than go to bed with Stan.Apparently she was mildly autistic but she was happy doing maths as many of her co-workers had the same syndrome.
She did have one daughter whom she found hidden in a gooseberry bush in the garden.This was enough for Stan as he was 92.But luckily he did have a good gold plated pension of £390.09 per month.
Everyone was having a fabulous time until Anne tried to light the candles on the cake.No matches could be found.
Ring 999,Stan called childishly.Mary obeyed and soon the ambulance drew up.In ran Dave the paramedic.
Is it your chair? he enquired wildly.
No,it’s this cake.We can’t light the candles on it.Shall we douse it in petrol?We have a jerry can full of it in the spare room.
That is very dangerous,he shouted.
Well,we are old now and need the car badly.Risk assessment gave us evens on the odds.Dave produced a silver lighter and lit the candles.Then he conducted them all as they sang,”Happy Birthday” to Stan.Stan managed to blow out 90 candles before passing out on the rug.
Well,at least he didn’t break the chair,Mary said philosophically.
I wish he had,said Dave.I’ve got some superglue here.
Well,we do have a wardrobe that’s falling apart.would you like to mend it?
Sure,he replied gratefully.This is why we have the NHS!
We are here for you 24/7
Or come to A and E if you get a mouth ulcer or a cold sore.No problem is too small!

Stan came to on the rug with Emile beside him.He gazed deeply into the cat’s green eyes.
I think I’ve fallen in love with you,he informed the Emile.
Will you sleep with me and let Mary have your basket.
Are we engaged,said Emile.
Definitely,said Stan.I’ll get you a golden collar with diamonds on it.
When shall we be married?
As soon as it’s legal,Stan answered honestly.
In the meantime,we’ll have to live in sin.
Then he fell asleep again with Emile in his arms.
What a lovely picture, cried the ladies.
Look at this.What a happy sight.
What love,what devotion.
How strange,what a commotion.
They’re in love,what emotion.
Don’t tell the Pope,we need caution

Sacramental trees

tree in sun

 Maybe you didn’t know

When you touched me so.

Maybe you never knew

What your words would do.

I float across that space

Where lovers once embraced

And thus you bring torment

To me to  whom  love you sent.

When I close my eyes

My daytime face then dies.

I look across dark seas

To sacramental trees.

My dreams are full of loss.

Is night or day the worse?

When we return  next  here

Will  love outstrip our  fear?

I gaze upon your face,

Forbidden  to embrace.

My arms ache deep inside,

As if in agony tied.

Torn apart by  grief

Love is now a thief.

Where has God’s face gone

As brightly shines the sun?

The pains of life  are sharp,

Cutting through the heart

But still we turn towards love,

With all the  strength we have.

Trusting in the dark

And emptiness beside

I step into the  void

Love can’t be denied

Mary’s holiday

 

Mary woke up with a start,to see the big holly tree swinging from side to side in the wind.She was sleeping on the living room floor in a sleeping bag.As she had not been on holiday she  had decided to pretend she was on a camping trip.The weather was so unstable,to risk putting up the tent was not an idea she spent much time dwelling on or with.

Emile strolled  into the room and jumped onto her large and  supine body.Good morning, he cried loudly.

For goodness sake,Emile,please don’t shout.I feel fragile when I waken up.I am wondering if the  idea of camping at home is a mistake.For one thing,you would not be with me if I went to North Wales.And so I could lie peacefully until I decided to get dressed.But then I might miss you.

I’d miss you,mewed Emile.Can I not come with you when you go hill walking? I promise not to run away.Unless we see a tyger of wrath or a Chesire Cat.

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We’ll have to see,Mary told him,her eyes gleaming like floodlit  lapis lazuli. in the night.I didn’t know you liked Blake’s poetry.Neither does he Emile replied languidly.

Mary struggled up and went to the bathroom for a quick shower.I suppose it is more comfortable camping at home,she said to Stan who was hovering over her head like a large  hornet looking for its nest as she wrapped a robe around her generous body

I don’t mind where you are ,he replied honestly.But if you were in Wales it would be hard for Dave to come to help you out.

So true,she answered casually.I’d better get dressed now.I’ll see you later,Stan.Mary ate her breakfast on a rug on the lawn in her nightdress..This saved her sweeping the crumbs up in the house or spilling food onto her clothes..She then decided to go to Bicester Shopping Village as that is what she used to do on holiday with Stan in former years.Stan was puzzled by why she wanted to shop.The thing was she  preferred quality clothes and could not afford them in the department store in Knittingham.In Bicester they had last year’s clothes for half price.Or even clothes from 2 or 3 years ago.

She put on a long tweed skirt and a pink  striped jumper over her  bright blue  roll neck top.On her feet she put soft blue suede boots.This wearing of boots at home dated back to the time when hse lived in a house with no bathroom and the lavatory was by the back gate.It had no light not lock but that was what people were used to then.

Sitting in the old green car,Mary watched her neighbour Tom cutting his hedge.Another job  for her to do or to arrange,or was she going to become one of those  people whose front gates fell off and hedges grew to trees after they suffered a bereavement?Not to mention those men who never change the pillow cases after their wives die.

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She drove away slowly deciding to go to a Garden Centre instead of clothes shopping.After all who would see her clothes now?As long as she had a decent winter coat that would cover up her moth eaten knitted merino wool skirts and trousers and her over tight jumpers.Why not buy some flowers  like crocuses and daffodils in pots to put in the hall and living room to bring her back to the reality of life on earth?They were just as real as the horrors of war and troubled nations.What could Mary do to help?She might have worked as code breaker when young but her eyes were no longer good enough.

Mary rang 999 at tea time.Can you send Dave round.My new plants look a bit unhealthy.And ask him to buy some milk on the way,please.Make it quick as I need a nice cup of tea made the way he does it.Thank you.Maybe I’ll phone Annie,she murmured before humming Nessun Dorma to herself.I wonder if I could write lyrics for a pop star,she thought pensively.Or buy a  guitar and sing my own songs.Is the guitar hard to learn,she pondered.Maybe it’s good for the fingers.But the neighbours might not like it.A violin would be even worse!

Rhymes feed our sounds

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  • Frightened by wrath? Read ” 1000 ways to cope with fear of  rage.”
  • Share out one’s  kitsch in a Will.That will show ’em
  • Call  the chair,it’s love, war or destroy.
  • All is well that blends well
  • Every crowd   has me whining,leave this mall now or forever  bear my grief.
  • The writing on the wall is due to poverty;can we have your   paper?
  • Rhymes  feed  our sounds and time steals our  wombs
  • Chaste by good taste,she was a sinner at heart but nobody reached her acme of fantasied  perfect love.

Blanker

My mind seems  blanker today

Than is usual when I am at play

I have hints of my dreams

But my memory now seems

To run my brain in its own way.

 

Concentration is the key issue here

And not letting our minds fill with fear.

We are told  far too often

How older brains soften

A prophecy dangerous to hear.

 

 

 

 

 

Were you not soldiers too,fighting for the right to breathe?

The protesting world

cries out like a trumpet

playing “The last post.”

The eyes of the lost ask me to tell

what is unspeakable,

but I have nothing

except to ask why bugles are not played for you

at Remembrance Ceremonies.

Were you not soldiers too,

fighting for the right to breathe?

The “right to life,”

As you dragged yourself off the truck

Not quite believing but

Yet,yes,believing,paradoxically that

Soon you would be silent amd still.

Your teeth carefully taken for gold”

Yes,they were green alright

Recycling was very important to the Nazi..

One might almost say they were the pioneers here of what we do today

So was hygiene. They practised so well

How to wash their hands clean from guilt,

So much soap they needed

So they could play Mozart

and tenderly touch their children

Then sleep on clean linen enjoying such dreams.

Soon the world would be perfect.

all in order,all tidied away,

Unique,complete, orderly ,dead..

Yes, death of everything w as the real final solution.

All packed away in boxes,

Waiting for the Resurrrection.

How far is it to heaven from where we started?

Would Jesus like to meet you now,to greet you,

So pure,clean and perfect?

You have cut out your own heart with the breadknife

Because it troubled you so,beating like that.

When you were only doing your duty.

Doing what men have to do.

A dove flew up as the agnostic man comforted the

frightened boy

And hand in hand they died right there

At the foot of the Cross.

Which you revered,I believe.

But it was God’s son hanging there

And you all knew.

As a lover, he was utterly sublime.

As a  lover, he was utterly sublime.

Yet he did it as  just a pastime.

He much preferred    daydreaming

Or financial scheming

Why,even rewriting my rhymes!

 

He was in a hurry to get out of bed

He said he’d change when we wed.

But he  had three more engagements

And  secret arrangements.

Thus was his fantasy fed.

 

 

 

Sublime,the meaning from dictionary.com

 


Sublime
[suh-blahym]
Spell Syllables
adjective
1.
elevated or lofty in thought, language, etc.: Paradise Lost is sublime poetry.
2.
impressing the mind with a sense of grandeur or power; inspiring awe, veneration, etc.:
Switzerland has sublime scenery.
3.
supreme or outstanding:
a sublime dinner.
4.
complete; absolute; utter:
sublime stupidity.
5.
Archaic.
of lofty bearing.
haughty.
6.
Archaic. raised high; high up.
noun
7.
the sublime.
the realm of things that are sublime:
the sublime in art.
the quality of being sublime:
the sublime of nature.
the greatest or supreme degree.
verb (used with object), sublimed, subliming.
8.
to make higher, nobler, or purer.
9.
Chemistry.
to convert (a solid substance) by heat into a vapor, which on cooling condenses again to solid form, without apparent liquefaction.
to cause to be given off by this or some analogous process.
verb (used without object), sublimed, subliming.
10.
Chemistry. to volatilize from the solid state to a gas, and then condense again as a solid without passing through the liquid state.
Origin of sublime
Latin
1350-14001350-1400; (noun and adj.) < Latin sublīmis high, equivalent to sub- sub- + an element of uncertain origin, variously identified with līmis, līmus oblique or līmen lintel, threshold; (v.) Middle English sublimen < Old French sublimer < Latin sublimāre to raise, derivative of sublimis
Related forms
sublimely, adverb
sublimeness, noun
sublimer, noun
unsublimed, adjective
Can be confused Expand
sublimate, sublime.

The cyclamen now flower again

The cyclamen now flower again

Today I dwell alone with them

Their shapely leaves,you did not see

Yet even so,they do please me.

 

Some are white and some are red

As if on blood the white had fed.

The waxy texture colour takes

So perfectly that my heart breaks.

 

The little rosemary and sage

 

Struggle with the winter’s rage.

Yet I think they will survive

For, on this March day, they’re alive.

 

My heart in pieces  and forlorn,

I await the flowers’ charms.

The heat of sun shall give me joy

I am no more your mistress coy.

 

Like the birds, I’ll find a mate

For my soul to generate.

Grace and love will combat hate

True perception tolerates.

 

Don’t phone

Made by a computer

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Dear Sue

I wrote this for you

In summertime, our love is limp, like  flying  blossoms  floating in the  airy breezes
In wintertime, our love is warm like a new duvet  filled with Russian down

If skies are blue, our love is excited — two people kissing in the sunny woodlands
If thunder rolls our love is sadder, a refuge from the  warnings of the lashing  rain.

When spring flowers bloom, our love is bold, like the  purple petals on the pansy.
When autumn leaves fall, our love is gentle, gleaming  like a harvest moon.

From Easter till Christmas our love will continue in sweet silence.
From season to season,I hope for your  romantic glance and no more..

 Meanwhile leave me alone with my books.Don’t phone.Respect my boundaries.

Yours ever,Ron

Lost amiability

 

I am able I am assembled
I aim able.To kill Abel.
I blame Abel,I.
Am I emblematic
Of blame?
Abel,am I to blame?
At home,I am
Unable to tell.
A lamb is an emblem.
I am unable to help Abel.
Help me ,Abel,are you able?
My name is unable to be,
I mean I am unnameable.
I am Abel,I am an object
Of fraternal hate.
Love was unable
to be,to embrace. Enmity and time
Beat me.Killed me.
Dead.
They aim to disable,
A lamb dies.Call him
Abel.
I am bereft, for hate
Was able
To destroy amiability.

I aimed hate at my brother, Abel.
Hate will be unable in the
End to win.

I miss you, Abel.
My brother.
I miserable,Abel.
I am unable ,Abel,
To live,to love.
Abel,I bad.
No balm,no love,
I unable.
I un…
Un,undone.
Oh, Abel.
I bereaved myself,
Unable,
blind.
I lost,ability,
Love.
I live not.Yet
Not able
To die.
Unabled
Undone.
Done for

When Robin Hood hides in our wood

When Robin Hood hides in our wood
I shall not turn him out
I’ll let his merry gentleme
Hang all their bows about.

So when a swaggering top M.P.
Comes riding by alone
The arrows of the hidden host
Will ring against the stones.

The horse rears up,the man looks round
To see what’s caused the stir
And what he sees amidst the trees
Is green men everywhere

Let him complain to Sheriffs all.
The green men will be gone.
When soldiers come to hunt them out
They’ve vanished every one.

The forests of England are the home
Of rabbit,deer and game.
The green men live their natural life
And we should do the same.

Let us all take to the greenwood life
And feel the strength of trees
They do not change at every poll,
Nor do just what they please.

In Nature all is linked to one
And one to all extends.
If we could change our cut throat ways
Maybe we l could be friends.

The hearts and souls of all of us,
Form a human wood.
So let the love we feel be shared,
And heard for the common good.

If everyone is given their place
Then Robin could go home
His men would not be in my wood,
And M.P.’s could safely roam.

Let us all sing,”Robin for King,”
“We all want Robin Hood.”
“He took the money from the rich
To be spent for the common good

Together alone

We were alone together

In this sitting room.

I would draw on my laptop,

While he had his camera on zoom.

 

We were alone together

Now I’m alone alone.

I am  studying poetry

Because he’s not on the phone.

 

We were alone together

As I sat by his bed.

He still didn’t speak but then he winked

As I laid my hand on his head.

 

I wish I could be with you

Together and not alone

I wish I could be with you

And you were not cold as stone.

 

 

Happenstance

I never used a photo editor at one time.But by accident I inverted a  photo of a church.I was quite taken with it.Sometimes like  in the images above it is not very interesting or successful.I found it was better with buildings.

But after that I started to look at Art software like Pixlr or Artweaver.I couldn’t find much literature about it so I just experimented.I find it’s good when I don’t want to write in words.I got some interesting ones from  photos  of a bleeding bite on my leg and from a  cracked pavement.And even the gate!

 

 

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But if it’s forbidden

I once had a doctor called Roger

Who let out a room to a lodger.

He charged her much rent

As his money was spent

Sending food out to old codgers.

 

If you want to get published today

You can’t have  word rhymes in your play.

They are pre-post-modern

Especially when sudden.

So take care and enjoy feeling ………………..grudges.

[see it’s quite easy]

 

But the essence of limericks is rhyme.

As in clocks, it is their chime.

But if it’s forbidden

We’ll have to get rid o ’em.

The essence of loving is time.

 

 

 

 

 

Writing is all I do

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My love for ladies is so great,
my heart  aches for them  from the dusk of  each day.
The night sulks when the one  chosen is away,
Chides me roughly
until  next day’s dawn arrives and my hunt resumes.

Their startlingly soft beauty is  so gentle,
And they have well lit wondering minds

till each sees,
Writing is all I do,
While waiting for the moment, for  them to say
“I feel far too blue
.How about you?
How do you who?”

Choose a plural noun or a name:

A pronoun (her/him/it):

Choose a verb (ends with s):

Another verb (any verb):

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