If God was murdered why should he help me?
He hung, an abject figure ,on the Cross
Some have labelled it a holy tree
If God was murdered why should he help me?
No-one can deny what all can see
From the Romans he could not be free
Thus the world endured his final loss
If God was murdered why should he help me?
He died forsaken on his human Cross
Category: poetry
Love in a mist
Western Scotland ‘s covered in sea mists
While Southern England dreams in fragrant heat
Today some Scottish sweethearts kissed and kissed
In Western Scotland enjoying deep mist
While lovers touch their lips to inner wrists
Promoting in their hearts enlivening zest
Making love both holy and complete
Western Scotland bears the sea’s unrest
While Southern England’s racked by Brexit’s heat
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So then you learned that you could hate as well
Was this the apple,then,your mother’s breast
Which father thought was his to oft caress?
And when ,in deprived rage,you bit to test.
In anger he would ever you harass.
So then you learned that you could hate as well,
For punishment struck hard in your small heart.
Your memory was wordless ,could not tell;
Though pain and anguish made your soft skin smart.
As unknown as the journey to your birth
As shocking as the grief of unmeant wrong..
As frightening as the gauging of your worth
As sudden as the ending of a song.
Impossible to foretell or to prepare,
The ambivalence of the heart starts here.
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Into a little crack a seed may fall
Hiding in between two garden shrubs
A little fruiting tree has grown unseen
Now it’s filled with blossom humbly borne
That decorates the patient garden green
I see it with delight from up above
The window gives me visions ,maps of space
I see the blackbirds, hear them sing at dusk
Now all nature finds its proper place
Into a little crack a seed may fall
A tree grows up and cracks the paving stones
Thus are the mighty broken,scattered, scorned
All they leave are heaps of whitened bone
The humble may be raised without request
The proud are filled with hatred of the rest
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When I have fears by John Keats
https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/when-i-have-fears-by-john-keats
When I Have Fears
By John Keats
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/when-i-have-fears-by-john-keats
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You may be my saviour
With a Bible on one hand and a wash cloth in the other
I find that sex is difficult whatever or whoever
My arms unable to embrace, I feel I am in danger
Despite that you’re my husband and not a total stranger
I guess you really cherish me , thank you most sincerely
If I caress your loving face,maybe you will feel me
I only wish I might kiss you without the microbes knowing
I cannot even wipe my nose, I think it needs a blowing
I wonder now how we got wed, you must have been quite crazy
For wanting to get married to a scrupulous young lady
All too soon we shall be old and arthritis will afflict us
I’ll throw the Bible overboard then God cannot detect us
And then I shall be able to pull you even nearer
For I sincerely love you darling, you get ever dearer.
Dearer for just loving me and all my weird behaviour
Are you sure it’s not Jesus but you who are my saviour?
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Call it a sonnet
The fashion forward women walk by me
I can see what I don’t want to see
Their leggings cling audaciously and close
I ask for mercy from the Holy Ghost
Now I fear I called erroneously
God won’t mind what organs all can see
If he wanted excess modesty
He’d have put it on the BBC
I guess it’s economic for no more
Can girls afford the dresses Eve once wore
Although I made some out of purple sheets
From Eden I arranged the Fall in pleats
I confess to stealing sewing bees
Now I suffer psychotherapy
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Be still my heart
On the day. forlorn, we had to part
I helped you go as birds rise from the nest
Oh, hidden anniversary of the heart
I do not need to keep a special chart
I remember every glance and kiss
Before the day on which we had to part
People order me to make a start
Create a life of pleasure, should I wish
Oh pain, oh anniversary ,oh my heart
This bleeding of my heart, my joy thwarts
Yet still I live in spirit and in flesh
Since the sad day we were made to part
I fear those dreams that criticise and harm
The words of others pierce my tenderness
Oh, recurring anniversary in my heart
Comfort me, surround me with your arms
Protect me from the Visions and the storms
This the day we knew we had to part
Oh, love, oh memory, oh, be still my heart
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What do we worship after God is dead?
What do we worship now when God is dead?
What golden calf or lover is adored?
No holy book or ancient prayer is read
Who do we worship now when God is dead?
We are lost souls, oh urgent is our dread
What do we worship after God is dead?
By adverts, propaganda we are fed
Our mind is full, such images are stored
Which leader may we worship when God’s dead?
Who can make a structure, who restores?
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Being Women
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Sadness in its force has an allure
The memory of my loss still gives me pain
I do not wish to feel it anymore
The butterfly is battered once again
The waiting with its vigilance is strained
As if a monster shuffles to my door
The memory of my loss, oh heart of pain
Who for love will risk this sadness named?
Who is criticised for spirits poor?
The butterfly, the storm will come again
Life is hard and wildness can’t be tamed
Sadness in its force has an allure
The memory of my loss still gives me pain
Leaving Sodom, salt dissolves in rain
I must look forward with a vision pure
The butterfly find pleasure once again
The loss of movement we may each endure
The ills of age won’t have a final cure
The memory of my loss will fade with time
The fluttering flower gives joy yet has no fame
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The philosophy of poetry
https://philosophynow.org/issues/114/The_Philosophy_of_Poetry
Extract:
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I’d be afraid of a nuclear accident in my chest
She thought she’d like to be a poet
Calculating her vocabulary was ironic
She wrote free verse in stanzas three lines long
With a short intermission
She learned innocent and good people
Attract the Evil and that even people who have suffered
Are not less susceptible to wanting power or worship
She learned idolatry is rampant in men of power
“Men” is naturally inclusive
As you will know if you went to Eton
Or even to Mass in 1956
Why would I want Jesus’s soul even if he is God?
I’d be afraid of a nuclear accident in my chest
There’s danger around the sacred,we need to know
Satan did have the best lines
Jesus did not answer the questions
We had no right to ask.
I find it’s useful to work with abstract concepts
Otherwise I might suffer too much
Whatever “too much” is
It could be epsilon or delta, you know what I mean?
Isaac Newton.Mercury.The dentist.
Leibniz’ dots.Whatever
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Let me be the caller who is heard
Let me touch your mind with silk, with words
Let me feel your colour, let me sing
Let me be the artist who is heard
Let me see the heartfelt flight of birds
Let me catch you with my golden ring
Let me touch your mind with silk ,with words
Let my love be judged as wild, absurd
Let me see the lightness of your wings
Let me be the artist who is heard
Let me be stirred up by what occurs
Let the bee live even when it stings
Let me feel your mind with silk,with words
Let me be no noun,I am a verb
Let the sunset come and darkness bring
Let me be the caller who is heard
Let me hold you close and comfort bring
Let me love you little, let me long~
Let me touch your mind with silk,with words
Let me wander with the music heard
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Inhuman cries
On the theatre, I saw two big signs
One said Entrance, one Brexit did show.
Can we never leave if we go in?
We have chosen, what we cannot know
Is it a bleak satire or device
To gain attention from the passersby?
Brexit is no Play, in law it’s real
.Am I now a foreigner or a spy?
The biscuit box said Torture Freedom From
Do Peek Frean want to saintliness aspire?
It was my inner mind that made ” Torture”
Whether waterboarding or pure fire
Etched into my mind the shock, the lies
People locked up, chained, inhuman crimes.
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My red-haired neighbour loved her high heeled shoe
My red-haired neighbour loved her high heeled shoes
She dressed in cream and black when she went out
Her smart appearance called in many views
Even when she fell and was much bruised
Her eyes so sharp drove off marauding louts
My red-haired neighbour saved for grand cream shoes
She dyed her hair blood red, oh men confused!
Though she was ninety she was never stout
Her dear appearance wondrous was well viewed
By the Daily Mail, she was bemused
She meditated, used it wrap sprouts
My neighbour dyed her hair and matched her shoes
Suddenly her blood its power would lose
Her nights out and her cooking were in doubt
She so stylish no more could be viewed
She went to Mass on Sunday, sin to rout
Her hair fresh dyed, she died where God’s about
My red-haired neighbour loved her pretty shoes
In her coffin, may she be amused
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We may find our love like a lost coin
With his solid fancy, he built up me
Then loved his own creation with full heart
As soon as he perceived discrepancies
He struck me with his words like poisoned darts
Never did he love me as he thought
It was his own creation, it was he
He threw such rage that in it, I was caught
I am not perfect, that is nothing new
Experiencing such fantasy is pain
It all takes place inside the owner’s self
The people whom we saw won’t come again
Love is a but a dream built up in stealth
How do we escape this wish to find
Another being perfectly designed?
Is it by accepting our own flaws
We are freed from dreaded dragons’ jaws?
We may find our love like a lost coin
If we search the drains to which dirt’s drawn
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The lost embrace
The sparrows sing as if to draw me to The present moment’s gravity and grace Our contemplation of life’s nature new What other attitude is worthwhile now That I no longer see your loving face? The sparrows sing as if to greet me too Eden is still here, we miss the clues We miss the ardent touch, the lost embrace Our contemplation of the world renews On my face, the tears are jeweled dew In my body, I feel held, enclosed The sparrows sing as if to greet me too Now the blackbird sings as if on cue Inside my swollen heart, I feel its grace Contemplation of life’s nature new I saw your soul in your transparent face. And crisscrossed lines from struggle left their trace The sparrows sing as if to draw us to The contemplation of the wildness true,
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I think I am invisible
Living in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
Watching television,I heard somebody speak
A robot does my cleaning and it does not ever smoke
I think I am invisible, I wear a dust grey cloak
Maybe I’m a loser; my bones already creak
Living in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
Noone here can touch me, now maybe they will joke
But my heart is feeling empty and I know I am a freak
A robot does my cleaning and it does not even smoke
The council can’t afford replacements for any mugs I broke
I see a few young people drinking coffee in the street
Weeping in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
If I tried to drown myself no doubt I would just float
When I go to a farm shop, the sheep won’t stop to bleat
A robot does my cleaning and it does not even smoke
I am serving my life sentence, but it seems incomplete
I can only walk ten yards, arthritis in my feet
Living in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
A robot did my cleaning, the dumb thing never spoke
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Even when it’s suicide to smile
Taunt no longer idiots on these isles
For like the Lord they are not English pure
They voted for the stupid and the wild
In appearance, May looks fairly mild
For the old, she has a faint allure
Being the chief sweeper of church aisles
Boris Johnson Turkey has defiled
He cooked his goose in rapeseed oil uncured
As befits the madmen and the wild
Michael Gove’s own head his heart defiled
Yet save him from the deserts of the sewer
Taunt no longer morons on these isles
The NHS is poorer mile by mile
It’s good if you are dying on the wires
Even when it’s suicide to smile
Mrs Thatcher, never paid the toll
She wrote a cheque and signed the counterfoil
Taunt no longer MPs on these isles
We chose among the cunning, the most vile.
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Beech trees are so British, I am Welsh
The bonsai tree is now a thick green hedge
By my mended garden wall of brick
Beech trees are so British, they are Welsh
My genes are mainly Irish, it’s alleged
With some from Denmark making blonde hair thick
The bonsai tree is now a thick green hedge
My metatarsals Celtic I begrudge
I could bear them were they Arabic
Bleached feet are so British, they now belch
Through the EU quicksands, I can squelch
Even if the dirt makes my legs black
I need no tree, I need a stony ledge
Immigrants are dying of their lack
Kill them all, we’re British we love flak
We don’t mind a flower from somewhere else
Elm trees are so common, yet they’re Dutch
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Can’t God see it’s May?
The temperature fluctuates each day
Snow on hilltops, sun on sandy shores
I don’t mind, but can’t God see it’s May?
I just bought a handbag on E bay
It’s cream for summer, winter must declare
The temperature fluctuates each day
Bipolar is the weather in its way
But we need sun and ask for nothing more
I don’t mind, but can’t God see it’s May?
Linen, silk, and cotton lead astray
Women with no money left to pay
The temperature might be hotter one fine day
See five cats are sleeping by the fire
On the woollen carpet, they could play
I don’t mind, but can’t God make them gay?
Every night for all my friends I pray
Now I’m running out of words to say
The temperature fluctuates each day
I don’t mind, but can’t God see it’s May?
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Different points of view
The old red wall is dressed in stems of wood
In wintertime, we see the ancient bricks.
In springtime come the tender flower buds.
We see no more of Jack Frost and his tricks.
Which vision is the true one, we may ask?
Just as with the faces we each show.
But is there any virtue in that task?
Reality is impossible to know.
Each perspective gives an insight new.
The more we see, the more we realize.
Other cultures have a different view.
The argument is futile and unwise.
As when and where we stand gives us our view.
l shall perceive life differently from you
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The music and the line
The perfect violin and artist fine
Soften hearts as hard as an old oak
Make the music holy and sublime
In a shop, I looked at new designs
Music played, I even felt it spoke
With perfect violin and artist fine
If only such great moments came again
Kiss them as they fly or deftly float
May their music holy be divine
As the trees smell sweetly in the rain
So in darker times, love is evoked
With open heart and sentiments, each fine
Love and justice need to be aligned
Played on like an instrument, they speak
Make their language holy and sublime
Punishment for blindness comes with time
The innocent offensiveness of rhyme
The perfect instrument, the art, the mind
May our music be the texts we find
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Shivering on the peak
Shivering on the top of sheer hillside
The effort is made worthy by the view
Here where lambs won’t play nor goats make strides
Shivering humans love a sheer hillside
My whole self rejoices, is renewed
As with body, so it is with mind
Shivering on the peak, I stand astride
The effort makes me worthy of this view.
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Certain of succcess, a daemon proud
I saw the spirit slip into the hall
Behind a nasty woman,blonde and loud
Black its look , it danced through our front door
It was the time foreseen and yet I ached
As I laboured under heavy clouds
I saw the spirit slip into the hall
Where did it hide,up high, or under floor?
Certain of succcess, a daemon proud
Black as ink it danced through our front door
A cup of tea and peace, does that appal?
Extinction is assured, it is allowed
I saw the spirit slip into the hall
Life’s not ours and wishes don’t endure
The living human heart to this must bow
Black as midnight, dancing through the door
Yet his death will not my spirit cow
He fell to dust to dance in sunlight now
I saw the darkness entering, allured
Black and slight it danced proud and assured
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Take me to the heather moors
Oh,mother make my supper
I’m coming home to die
I have no fried or lover
And God won’t tell me why
Oh, make me apple dumpling
And boil it on the fire
I don’t know why I’m crumpling
I never learned to lie,
Oh, boil the sooty kettle
When you can hear the train
I’m not on my mettle
I shan’t come home again
I am sick of living though
I’ve tried to learn the game
I got the feeling you must know
When sorrow turns to shame
You can keep my green suede handbag
And my Nivea face cream
You took them off me anyway
And ruptured all my dreams.
You tried your best to conquer me
But that was your mistake
For ]’d have given you freely~
All you chose to take
Power was your blind motive~
And love was never free
But even children notice
When their soul wants to flee
But I shall eat your food once more
Before I take my rest
If you had not been greedy
Life would have been no test
Mothers eat their children
When they cannot let them go
And smile and smile as they pass by
And noone knows it’s show
Take me to the heather moors
Make me a little grave
Do not weep ,for I shall sleep
With wise men and with knaves
Some day is the last one
But only Jesus sees
The sorrow and the tragedy
Of Auschwitz’ silver trees
The birches are so beautiful
As were the gays and Jews
They died in cultured Europe
It was not on the News.
Once Europe fought within itself
Now we tried to be good friends
But now the general public think
All that’s at an end
The past cannot come back again
We have no Empire left
The people who rule over us
Have failed in all their tests
Take the boat on now, my dear
And throw me overboard
I’d rather be the food of fish
Than perish by the sword
And in the space that I have left
Plant a nutmeg tree
For here I was and here I loved
Who knew my destiny?
r
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The sun, a stranger,sidles through the door
After deeps of darkness light returns
The sun, a stranger,sidles through the door
As welcome as a payment hard to earn
The solstice comes, surprised, green nature turns
We feel it in our hearts, in their deep core
After deeps of darkness .light returns
Dreaming by the fire, how much I yearn.
I long for dales, becks, sheep and limestone floors
As welcome as a payment truly earned
Yet from this darkness I have much to learn
To trust the unknown Force, its truth,its lore
Out of darkness . sun and light return
In the centre of the world, earth burns
Dramatic and devouring all before.
As the blacksmith holds us, we shall learn
The dark and light make patterns on stone floors
We make bread and wine , it is no chore.
After winter darkness light returns
As welcome as a payment we have earned
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Reason cannot teach us how to dance
What time is it, the old man said to me.
Time for conversation with no fee
We have to pay the therapist to hear
Why we feel we need to live in fear
Friends are better as they know our ways
Know when we are having a dark day
But everyone is suffering angst and dread
For God has gone away to haunt the dead
The old man prayed when he awoke to dark
Asking Jesus for some light, some sparks
But why wait till the end is drawing near
And angry ghosts pollute the atmosphere
Enlightenment is what they called it once
But reason cannot teach us how to dance
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Living fire
Alone in my small room ,end-state despair
I wondered what to do ,go here or where?
I tried the doctor and the priest and then
Knew there was no answer from a man
I saw in my mind’s eye a tunnel black
To which I was dead heading on my track
Abject and broken by a lover’s death
By his own hand, he tested out God’s wrath
Then I was held by golden clouds of fire
I felt the kindest love , the Lord’s desire
The tears ran down my cheeks in one great gush,
Acknowledging acceptance without wrath
And so I turned to life and to my work
Pain and torment shall not make me shirk
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Silver birch
The crisis of the West is here and strong
God is dead ;we do our many wrongs
We worship kitchens made from silver birch,
Like trees beside the camp of Auschwitz cursed
To whom does guilt or even blame belong?
The birds, unknowing, chirrup,sing
We may guess the endgame,see forked tongues
As ancients knew the Bible,verse by verse.
The crisis of the West.
To the screens we criticise,we throng
To see the drowning victims where seas fling,
We have no scales to measure what is worse.
The knowledge or the sense of errant worth.
The language of the heart is scarce and terse.
The crisis of the West
How my heart speaks 