Only one pillow on my bed
I knew then that my love was dead
Only one cup and only one spoon
The gramophone playing only one tune.
More than one tear ran down my face.
I live now in an empty place
Only one pillow on my bed
I knew then that my love was dead
Only one cup and only one spoon
The gramophone playing only one tune.
More than one tear ran down my face.
I live now in an empty place
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
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
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
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
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
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
https://writingcooperative.com/anne-lamotts-top-13-writing-tips-7577eb5d5c24
“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.
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
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
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