Like butter in the sun

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

My heart is soft like butter left in sun.
Much more heat and it will melt and run
Oh, why do we have feelings,why engage
When friendship turns into such bitter rage?

I do not wish to live remote and stern
As if I am so perfect I can’t learn
Pain too deep can mortify the flesh
Turn us into robots fit for trash



All I need is an enormous fridge
Which will make me harder than sweet fudge
I’ll go inside and pray for peace each day
If I freeze to death,I shall not say.

Oh, be of merry heart,my friends and foes
When love comes in, a little hate will go

Revolution

A strange comingling of the mills and moors
Green of nature,smoke from chimneys glowers
While sheep graze their wool is touched by smoke
But higher up the ground is bare of hope

Peering down I recognise the view
Rows of terraced houses share a loo
Women wear their aprons with panache
Boys are playing,give or take a bash.

Miners walking home with faces black
Painters with their ladders and their sacks
Little girls are skipping with their ropes
Cats are watching idly, kittens mope

Which way shall we go, we must decide
The green hill with no walls, the red brick eyes?

Revealed by love


A beam of light passed through my eyes

And showed to me a world disguised
So near,yet far,we do not see,
Unless by gift of grace redeemed.
That world is full of peace and calm
Its colors mingle,like a balm.
In such a moment all thought dies
Revealing Love which underlies.
Colors caress my naked eyes.
Sunlight blesses new designs.
I stand enthralled,and do not wish
For one delight,other than this.
My breath slows down, and filled with joy,
I rove my eyes with bliss to toy.
Everything is just itself.
This is now my living wealth.
Beneath the noise of city cars,
This mellow joy in love endears
This depth and peace, is always near
When we choose Love and turn from Fear

Air strokes our bare skin



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

Float through my mind like flowers

On summer days the cliff at Weybourne sang
Of finest grass entwined with tiny flowers
The butterflies were floating on the wind

We walked along contented, hand in hand
In Sheringham we saw no faces dour
On summer days the cliffs at Weybourne sang

We met no wasps nor anything that stings
The footpath was kept clear, no weeds to sour
The butterflies were resting on the wind

I looked at bluebells,insects hear their ring
So we passed with pleasure our free hours
On summer days, the cliffs at Weybourne sang

Was it for this perfection Adam sinned?
No human joy is with us very long
The butterflies were resting on the wind

On summer days the cliff at Weybourne sang
Of grass so fine and of its tiny flowers
The butterflies were floating on the wind

In winter the North wind will make beasts cower
No need for ventilation,faces glower
On summer days the cliff at Weybourne sang
The butterflies float through my mind, bright, winged


Now shivering alive

The myriad random movements, words and signs
Inanimate, cold blooded,hot or warm
In mystery make the world, complete, designed

From the stars at night, to needles’ eyes
Every size is present eye to horn
The myriad random movements, words and signs

Yet, not robotic, shivering, alive
Like a human baby when new born
In mystery the world is fresh, designed

So every morning we awake surprised
The dreams we had afflict us like flung stones
The random movements, words and latent sign
s

Are dreams the truth or can the unknown lie?
Are we subject to their nightly roams?
The mystery is the world makes its design
s


As the wild geese land at one in storms
The murmurations of the starlings charm
The myriad random movements, words and signs
In mystery make the world, replete,divine

It fell to earth with solemn gravity

Another branch has fallen from the tree
For nine short months, it weakened and grew dry.
It fell to  earth with utter gravity

Is comparing us to trees good simile?
I’d find a better if I’d wits to try
Another branch  has fallen from the tree

The tree grieves not, for trees like to be free
Their main desire is stature, to be high.
Dead branches fall to earth by gravity

Some compare life to a drunken sea;
Or to the sky where dance wild nuclei
Yet our most holy symbol is the tree

The strong hang on in their tenacity
Even as their leaves and berries fly
Weaker branches fall  with gravity

Death comes  so much harder to the high
This is no truth but neither do I lie
Another branch has broken from the tree
Thus disconnected , it is down and free

Yet life endures

Since you died I learned to use a crutch
I have noone to lean on, none to touch
I wanted you to die with kindly ease

Now I miss another I could tease

Noone knows what was our special tree
Nor why the pain of loss dwells in my knee
As if I cannot stand or wait alone
Dark earth is softer than these paving stone
s

The trees you loved my neighbours see as weeds
I shan’t recite a list of their misdeeds
Others gossip of my coloured coats
A widow’s weeds aren’t teal, they grin, they gloat

Before you went I saw the cloth of gold
Coming down from heaven to enfold
Then it rose, its satin thick and pure
Taking you away, yet life endures

The emptiness, the void, the loss, the pain
The crash severe we know is for
eordained



The handkerchief pan

In the evening. simmering handkerchiefs
Perfumed the air with odours I can’t tell
Mother scrubbed them, hung them on the line
Then I had to iron them, folded well

Now we have our tissues, we don’t need
Hankies that need scrubbing many times
The oceans  deep are  poisoned  with our  waste
Is the use of tissues a  new crime?

While we did our  homework  after tea
My brother  liked his Wagner at  full blast
Imagine  learning Latin  with that din
Now the time for anger  has  long passed

Bad memories change  by  newly given grace
Evoking hints of  mother and her face

The cake tins

I see the tins I used for Christmas Cakes
The Russian Cheese Cake and the apple tart
Nowadays do younger women bake?


I remember mother making Buns
Hot,uncross, she made cakes with her heart
Her apple suet pudding beat her plum


The kitchen was a room with its own fire
There we ate and cooked and fought,alarmed
Children pinch and nip and even bite


I banged my head upon the table sharp
The corners seemed to hate me,even spurn
I wished I were a dog so I could bark


I fell down the stairs, it was a thrill
It hurt less than the beatings made me smart
Children were deprived of any will

Shall these cake tins from my home depart?
Shall I make a small cake from a chart?
I hold the tin I used for Christmas Cake

Watching TV where new experts bake

Pen and bell

In this so called office,I am trapped
Trying hard to write and to adapt
I have numerous pens in this my cell
Reminding me of school, the longed for bell

Ten past four, we put on winter clothes
I crossed the Park in fog, it wet my nose
Walking down our street I’d see the cat
Sitting on the pavement, Ginger spat

I put the kettle on to make our tea
The coal glowed low and red like elves in glee
The aluminium teapot never broke
The kettle had turned black , the milk was smoked

I had that tiny piece from others free
That was when I learned that I am Me

Thoughts at dusk in winter

Four o’clock– and the sun’s still glowing
Four o’clock – of a colour bright day,
Up above, pink-tinged clouds are sliding
Down still sky, sweeping sun away.

Come back sweet sun, do not yet leave us.
Come back bright beams,I need sunlight
Down on earth,it’s witch moon darkness,
When your golden face is out of sight.

I see the orange clouds extending
I feel such sense of sky lit bright.
But gently now, the mist surrounds you
And sweeps away that happy sight.

Into velvet blackness sinking,
The dazzling, dreaming darkness falls.
Goodbye to haste,and glare, and sunshine,
Time for reverie,night time calls.

On the night-trains gentle journeys,
On this trackless train we ride
Strange new visions, haunting pictures
We will see in dreams’ designs.

In my night train,I’ll be happy
In such rich deep reverie.
We visit darkness in our sleeping,
There we learn its ecstasy.

Now we may have no God to hold us,
In His Hands of Living Love,
What will help us trust deep blackness
If there’s no Saviour from above?

Must we enter that great darkness,
Go back to dark from which we came,
Into dark all living creatures,
In that darkness find our home?

Trust the dark unknown, to hold us,
Trust the dark,both night and day.
Must we walk into that darkness
And trust it is our safest way?

Of the green

In the birdbath filled by summer rain
I saw the baby wood pigeon again
So safe  the garden,  birds became quite tame
Secret,silent, sweet,no cats, it kept me sane

The bird was washing,splashing all about
With darted glances,so few I could count
Then it  flew up into a large tree
Holly,maple, apple,I could see

Though it’s winter, sunshine makes me dream
Gazing through the window at this scene
Sap is stirring,rising in soft  light
Making these bare branches a new sight

Love came down and lit up  this,my heart
Then the grace of being  made its start

Failed in sarcasm!





Hello Mary. what are you doing today? There stood a vision dressed in a teal jumpsuit
it was Annie, Stan’s  mistress,[ when he was alive.] Quite what her status as a former mistress can be is unknown,but she remained on friendly terms with Mary ;she  had helped Mary a good deal while she was grieving,mainly by being present yet undemanding not to mention making frequent cups of tea and putting out the washing

 I’m going to stay with the Pope in Rome ,Mary cried out from her pink armchair

 Are you being sarcastic, ironic, or have you gone mad? Annie  replied politely

Well I was trying to be sarcastic but I am not very good at it yet I hope to improve as time goes by because research shows being sarcastic improves your creativity

But can you be sure which part of your life will become more creative, Annie ask her thoughtfully with a little grin

 For example you might become more creative in the way you trying to attract  men

 Well that would not be difficult, said Mary ,as I do nothing to try to attract  them at the moment and on the other hand it could be rather time-consuming

 Would it improve my ability to write in a creative manner or to be more creative in what I cook?

 I have no idea Annie  told her. the only problem is is that if you practice on me it might affect our friendship

 You are far too  childish, Mary told her. Is that sarcastic?

 Tell me, the ex mistress of your ancient husband!

 What do you mean ancient, he was only 23!

 23 what? said Annie

Are we being sarcastic?

  Well if we can’t  know the answer then we are not being sarcastic because I am sure we would realise if we were

 I am glad you  can express yourself in such a brief manner

 What have briefs got to do with it?

 I just found a bag full of dry ones and I have been folding them  and  putting them into the drawer

 Do you mean knickers?

 Yes, I do, but I couldn’t remember the name

 You’re pulling my leg

 No I’m not. I’m nowhere near your leg

 Don’t tell me that you are not familiar with the expression meaning “you are joking”

 Why do you assume I am not familiar with anything?

 I am giving you the benefit of the  doubt

 Doubt is a very dangerous State of Mind

 Shall I wear the pink knickers or the blue ones I spend  all morning trying to decide so it is best not to doubt anything but to believe that what you do must be correct and everybody else is wrong

 That’s alright as long as you’re not stealing people’s husbands

 If they can be stolen so easily  what does that tell us about the state of the marriage?
Nothing nothing at all, men are so easily beguiled that is in the best of marriages they’re not be enough to keep them faithful  for ever

 Don’t be so horrible
I was trying to be sarcastic
Should it not come naturally  like  loving?

 What kind of  loving do you mean?
If you mean physical loving it doesn’t always come naturally to  human beings’

.many couples go for help in having a baby and the doctor discovers they didn’t realise what sex was

 They thought by sleeping in the same bed, the wife will get pregnant

 It seems very hard to believe but compared to thinking about Donald Trump

 and his lies, it is nothing

Shall I put the kettle on,  said Mary

 That is sarcastic Annie said  because you know that I always put it on when I am here
it is more like dropping hints  Mary cried
All these things are very hard for scientists. You don’t solve mathematical problems by dropping a hint nor does anyone drop hints  to you whereas  in interpersonal relationships it is very important to be able to drop hints and to be able to take hints when they’re dropped in front of you
Mathematics and physics much easier than everyday life because they contain no sarcasm no irony and no hints whatsoever
I wonder if Wittgenstein would agree with you.

 As he is dead we cannot know but I am almost sure he would agree

 I was just being sarcastic,that’s all!

 It seems like that Mary and Annie are going to have to spend much longer  practicing sarcasm before they were able to go outside and be sarcastic to neighbours or Friends

 well Emile’s view is that he will not accept sarcasm from anybody

 He will bite the hand that feeds him if necessary because he knows that Mary will forgive him when he apologizes

 
On the other hand it would be easier if  he didn’t bite  anyone And God might be angry  with Emile  for being a trying animal to live with

God, does he enjoy sarcasm?

Noone has asked before!

I think he is beyond language altogether

And so say all of us

Cleveland Hills

Lying in the heather with you,love
The world below,the cliff edge of the hills
Swainby,Stokesley, Stockton,Saltburn sea
Happy, free, still unaware of bills

The butterflies, the little flower bells
The scent of honey and the Yorkshire bees
I see your face as clear as it was then
But you have crossed the Styx and not the Tees

Yet still I feel your arms that held me near
I see you smile , so happy to be wed
We hitched a lift right to Osmotherly
The entire hill seemed like a marriage bed

There is a place where that sweet day exists
I take your hands and kiss your inner wrists

When music ends and silence overwhelms

As music went and silence overwhelmed
As in deep despair, I thought to end
When nothing seemed to help me on on my way
Perhaps I’d lost the track and so must pay


Empty now of thought and of desire
The vision of the darkness without fire
The utter loss of any help at all
From the depths, my heart cried out appalled


Expecting nothing, hoping even less
A fire of gold appeared to hold,caress
And tears rained down my face from eyes amazed
While in my flesh I felt caressed and saved


I bowed my head in assent to this good
The crucified, the lost, have understood


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

I can only comment in a verse

I can only comment in a verse
A villanelle for virtue,my defence
I don’t know what you mean for you are terse

Love or hate,I don’t  know what is worse
Is this life  a very spiteful  test?
I can only comment in a verse

In my bag I have a purple purse

Money is so dirty it’s a pest
I don’t know what you mean when you are terse


When we marry, we won’t be the first
We need a godly priest for I confess
I can only comment in a verse

Do not pay my bill which I detest

At our party let us all be blessed
I don’t know what you want when you are terse

I am in a struggle, can you guess?
I am well endowed with happiness
A villanelle for virtue is the best
I don’t know what you mean you are so terse

Nor rain to flood

Katherine   May 30, 2018

A mood of stillness like a quiet dove
A lack of wind, vast silence gives repose
Symbolises blessings from above.

My trees mature now form a holy grove
The sorrow ruling me has been deposed
To give me stillness with the nesting dove

In such moods, there’s space to think, compose.
To learn the ways of energy and love
Symbolised by blessings from above.

In the crowded Mall, the shoppers shove
The special mood of peace  I fear eludes
We lose the sense of silence and the dove

In public life, we quarrel and oppose
We lose the way to  our fine treasure trove
We lose the symbols and the deep repose.

Give me your hand without its heavy glove
As we caress,   we  value human love.
A mood so stilled, oh, fluttering of the dove
No wind to destroy peace nor rain to flood

My husband has a rubber face











My husband has a rubber face,
He’s from a subset of the human race.
Some men have faces fixed and set;
My husband’s face is not like that.

He imitates our politicians,
Just like Rory Bremner can.
Though he has no wig or hair piece,
He can look like anyone.

Some nights I waken for I am laughing
While I am quite sound asleep.
I am dreaming of his mobile features,
Contorted to a different shape.

He is skilled at telling jokes.
And he loves a good cartoon.
If I am feeling flu style blueness
I he can get me up again.

He has a rather noble visage.
He gets attention he abbhors.
In the bar on King’s Cross Station—
I was asked was he a Lord!

He’s a Lord of Fun and Humour.
He’s a Lord at Listening Well.
He’s unique, but so are you,
And all creatures that on earth do dwell