I dream into your mind

I wish I were at Whitby by your side
From the Abbey Steps we saw the.whole
The sound of gulls aswirling round our minds

The atmosphere of Yorkshire blunt and kind
Salty air,the North Sea,winds that groan
I wish I were at Whitby by your side

See the children taking donkey rides
The fishermen look anxious , happy, worn,
The sound of gulls is swirling round my mind

From Saltburn,Staithes to Bempton bold cliffs rise
Then Bridlingon where Hockney was a boy
I wish I were at any by your side

The two weeks break seemed long when we arrived
Now all my past seems like an old map torn
The sound of gulls is calling you to mind

To be in Whitby and to be alone
The pie shop’s open yet I feel forlorn
I wish we were at Whitby side by side
The sun and air, I dream into your mind

My watercolour love


Though our colours mingled, the earliest remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colours blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.

I love your colours flowing into mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor painted by the rain;
We shall go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain

Praise these creatures in the grime

Winter weather, frost, grey 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

In the local park

By the flowerbed Dad and I would talk

In 1952 he still could walk

We spent the afternoon in Willows Park

At least there were some sparrows if not larks.

He wore a jacket made of thinning tweed

He felt cold in summer hence the need

He smoked cheap cigarettes I love their smell

Though they killed you Daddy I know well.

I did not understand that God was frail

I prayed for you but all to no avail.

The Jews in Auschwitz must have prayed at first

Then singing Kaddish stumbled to their deaths

God cannot be judged though humans can

Each Jew was a real person like I am

Wounded by Katherine

Every living person is another world

In its Imagination Europe failed

But could Daddy have been saved for ten more years?

Does even the best neighbour really care?

Few will help us mourn the ones we lost

Their feeble hearts just cannot bear the cost

Am I a saint myself for I am frail

Hiding from the lightning and the hail

No religion but  a sense of awe

If we had no language,we’d be good
No communication but by sense
What devil conjured up the  demon word 
Made our dealings complex and intense?

No Tower of Babel, nothing but mud huts
Caressing,kissing,kicking,  real contac
Boxing,wrestling,killing the unjust
No law except the fist. no guilt.no wrack

No religion but  a sense of awe
The rising sun, the moon, the distant stars
Oh,bow before the Cedar and the Oak
Anything that is taller than we are

No  books, no news no media,no war
It makes me wonder what live words are for

Anne Lamott’s writing tips



8. Writing is fueled by hard work rather than innate talent.

“I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts…For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts.” -Anne Lamott

Lamott’s line about “shitty first drafts” has gotten a lot of airtime in the writing community. Many writers seem to use it as a rallying cry.

To me, this quote is a great reminder of the fact that authorship is not a land of “haves” and “have-nots.” The world population has not been divided into capable writers and hopeless wannabes.

If even the best writers in the world struggle to write beautiful prose, we know that writing is a learned craft — one in which we can all improve over time.

We earn the blessing of the Muse by putting in writing time — not by being born with a golden ink pen in our hand.

God’s little hands

The  branches of the tree  reach out like  hands
The hands of children trusting in their need
Beseeching me to notice their demands

On the sea shore, ghosts of children stand
By gasping waves. where  fishing boats made speed
The  branches  bend out like   god’s little hands

In microcosm, in miniature on land
In macrocosm where the planet bleeds
Beseeches us to  answer earth’s demands

The suck of surf, the prayer of shingle sound
Where  rough plants  fill  the shorelines with their seeds
While  branches  reach out like   god’s little hands

Look stranger  at this island, hear its sounds
The sea birds here, the robin in the weeds
Beseeching man to notice their demands

Prayer  is less important, it’s these needs
Demanding ,without bitterness, our deeds
The  branches of the  trees, the golden strands
Tell us, humankind ,their  last demands




I am the earth

It’s frosty and I found my knit wool skirt
It’s purple heather Northern, long and warm
I remember falling down some steps
Stone,they were ,you took me in your arms

With you standing staring on the edge
Oh, Cleveland Hills that make a cliff like fall
We drove the A 19 at deep sunset
The profile of the hills stood out,they called

They ,like Langdale, speak myself to me
My soul awakes with joy to cliffs of sight
Rejoice, oh psalmist, sing your rhapsody
From deep darkness to the morning light

I am the earth, my body will lie here
From Arnside’s Viaduct to Buttermere

Oiling the agenda  and the wheels

Fidgeting is exercise of sorts
Shouting words that are considered coarse
Sex is better standing on your head
Gravity is better than your bed.

Skipping classes, running out of milk
Jumping in alarm, or clicking links
Walking out on lovers in a rage
Stalking those whose worth you cannot gauge

Printing errors, boiling over milk
Washing up your shirt if it is silk
Oiling the agenda and the wheels
Covering up our nerves with rolling steel

Helter skelters, slides and rolling balls
Having rows that drive me up the wall.
Fidgeting and tapping on a board
Kicking habits, tripping over cords

Playing on my feelings with your airs see
Keeping lustful men upon the stairs
Sitting on the loo and crawling out
Menstruating monthly, drinking stout

Poring over maps with ruined eyes
Keeping up, rotatating all your toes
Feeling lively touching up your walls
Churning out Epistles for St Paul

Movement keeps us going as we bathe
Diving through the deep green of a wave
Counting shells and mines and heads of cod
Making kippers,salting fishing rods

Writing letters on a sweatshirt front
Writing me ,advising who to haunt
Making fountain pens to write with ink
Letting rubber boots dry in the sink

We can’t keep still ,so mindfulness is bad
Until the end when all are mindful dead