Category: poetry

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

When I have fears by John Keats

img_20190529_143523https://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

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?

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

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

 

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?

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

 

The philosophy of poetry

parthenon athens greece
Photo by Josiah Lewis on Pexels.com

https://philosophynow.org/issues/114/The_Philosophy_of_Poetry

Extract:

In his introduction to this collection of essays, its editor John Gibson tells us that the emphasis here is on modern poetry. In modern poetry, meaning is latent rather than overt, or is put into question, and any sense of narrative or anecdote is fractured or subverted. For Gibson, any theory based on the concept of narrative would be inapplicable to poetry in the modernist paradigm. (It is pertinent to point out that most poetry, whether of the past or of the present, doesn’t obey this paradigm.) Yet, if we need different philosophical theories for each different genre, style, or period of poetry (which, after all, are scarcely watertight categories), this doesn’t say much for the scope of theory. We are led inexorably from the generalities of the philosopher theorizing about a particular artform, to the specifics of the literary critic giving an account of a particular poem. In practice, regardless of Gibson’s strictures, many of the contributors to this volume are happy to generalize about poetry as such.

 

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

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

 

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.

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

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,

I think I am invisible

img_20190311_170607Living 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

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.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

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?

 

 

Different points of view

SuttonCourtenay-2.jpg

First posted on September 24, 2015

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

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

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.

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

In times of loss

In times of loss, we each  grieve  in our way
Weeping,mourning ,sad  throughout the day
Yet we still see the sun upon the rose
And see wild winds as through  tall trees they  blow
In times of loss
The neighbours hide, not knowing what to say
The  old man wakes at night and for friends prays
One by one the  tears my eyes will close
I would have gone where one I loved  did go
Yet here I am and here my heart I lay
In times of loss

Argument is pointless, love is key

Compare the BBQ on the hill to Nero fiddling while Rome burned

The burning road with  buses overfull
Old and poor folk crammed ,Calcutta like-
The burning road objects ,its tarmac boils
Swallows a man’s leg,this is no fake.

With hammer and a chisel he’s released
While others picnic on the fire struck hill
They say they do not see the clouds of smoke
If the wind turns East,   those fires will kill

As they ignore the fire above their  heads
So we ignore what we don’t want to know
That we may envy,hate or  wish to kill
That hidden rages make our mood fall low

So as we each choose what we want to see
Argument is pointless, love is key

 

 

 

 

 

The buttercups are burning in the fields

The buttercups are burning in the fields
The sun is hanging low as if to see
The Ash fall to the earth, the level sealed

 

The grass turns brown ,the barley ripe will kneel.
The hares are  leaping,wait, I watch them  flee.
The buttercups are burning in the fields

 

The Honeysuckle  curves like a red  wheel
Hanging  flowers still humming with brown bees
The ashes to the earth   dark riches yield

 

This fiery  land will flaunt its bright appeal
As from the  trees hang ghosts  of still born leaves
The buttercups are burning in the fields

 

The spiders wait, the rabbits ,raunchy,  reel.
What is this Earth  our eyes, all new, perceive
Where ashes to the earth   dark riches yield?

 

Who are we such dark gold to receive
When humans  trick each other and deceive?
The buttercups are burning in the fields
Their ashes  shall redeem as  richness yields