A day of sudden changes.Clouds

When I was young and  almost here
I had a problem with  my fear.
My mother’d not known what to do
And I kept running to the loo
At last the doctor’s mind was  clear
They sent me to a nuclear seer.

The man looked up, the man looked down
I’d never seen him in the town
He asked me if I had bad dreams
Or  ruined  my sleep with howls and screams
I never knew quite  how to say:
The nuclear bomb might go astray.

They told us what to take inside
The nuclear shelter, where we’d hide
Tampax weren’t allowed as they
Might break our hymens on the way
So we had our bags  of big  pads
As  seeing our blood ‘d dismay the lads

We must lie  down in the hedgerows
But not  day dream or take a doze.
In  our mill towns we had  no hedge
It was a metaphor I  grudged.
Later, clutching bags of  bloody cloths,
We  would come out and see God’s wrath.

On the nuclear fires we’d burn
The sanitary towels  society spurned.
I hope before the  bomb comes back
The Bishops will permit some slack
For tampax are  so small and neat
Our bin would have  an odour sweet

We might be turned into grey ash
And our hymens all  out-blast
We’d never  know our clitoris
By a  lover’s soft caress
So get together  while you can
Before they drop  that  bloody bomb.

Most  women have suffered from monthly menstrual bleeding with sometimes severe pain and also they have suffered in childbirth but many never enjoyed sex at all as they were taught nothing about their bodies.And without being aroused sex would be painful.I think it is easier for men to enjoy it but seeing their partner not keen might spoil their enjoyment

When we begin the slow descent  to age
From that peak or maximum of strength
We notice nothing as it has no length
So feel no need to cry or scream in rage
When we begin.

The ” writing on the wall” is on the page.
The well off sink in angst, the workless tense;
We’ve lost our youth, our mind looks for defence
Then we begin the slow descent  of age.
Then we begin.

The music that we hum is  a slow dirge
An elegy falls from every pen to page
I do not  feel it’s good that we should rage
But gently take the  shroud of silk or serge
As in the living earth we all shall merge.
Then life begins again

Too much light blinds  eyes that outward gaze
We cannot see, like Paul on Tarsus Road.
The mystery ‘s inherent in the  code.
When we come to parting of the ways
Too much light blinds.

Not a choice of two roads but a maze
With no sat nav or answer to download
Where shall we be at the ending of  the  days?
What mystery,what horror  may unfold
As we stumble through the  rubble, by fear crazed
Too much light blinds

 
As  with the whores of Babylon we laze
Don’t we feel a touch of icy cold?
Has the   winsome moon become too bold?
Armageddon beckons , who obeys?
Too much light blinds

I’m in deep now,never been this deep before
The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door.
In so deep, the ocean has its own startled floor.
I’m down,down.down.never been so dark , so more

I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am
I think I had an accident,fell over, then I swam.
Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s my man.
I guess I have to  stay   till my time is done

I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain
Would I choose to relive it , if I was born again?
The dark joy is the amazing gain.
But the sorrow is  damn sad, let’s admit it plain.

I’m in deep and it’s over my head
What was I thinking of,when I fell  out of that bed?
I look up and  the sea’s so  turquoise like  that mist   is red
When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.

At first, it was all just black,black pain
But from the bottom of the  well, I looked up with awed love again.
That’s when I recalled,feelings are plain and sane.
Joy is much greater when we’re in the danger zone.

I dunno if I’m  ever comin’ out.
We can’t control it,ain’t that what life’s all about?
I’ll never love with innocence again,nor not feel doubt.
But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.

I’m swimming and the ocean’s so mysteriously bright
Down here we don’t have no day nor no night
Fish nudge me with  big grins  and   teeth white
Sea flowers fondle me and whisper,turn off that light

Do we need permission to be sad?
Do we need a licence  if we groan?
Can  a human turn into a stone?
Is inflicting vision ever bad?

When  suppressed feelings  drive us mad
May we loose that hidden undertone?
Do we need permission to be sad?
Do we need a licence  if we groan?

Who would need these licences when glad?
Who would not succumb when overthrown
Who would like to hide beneath a stone?
Who would have a carapace be sewn

Do we need permission to be sad,
From anyone whose laughter makes us mad?

Grief , a rain of loving tears  flows down
To match the weather that I see without.
I’ve known good fortune, that I never doubt
So may I  wear my sorrow’s tear- jewelled gown?

When winter comes with frost and fearsome frown
Then icicles will droop where my lips pout.
Grief , a rain of loving tears  flows down
To match the weather that I see without.

I  fear not that the seeds of life will drown
Though they are soft and never scream or shout
Yet  etiquette is  broken by each bout
So I must buy a long dark widow’s gown
Grief , a rain of loving tears  flows down.

It came out quite well in French.

Je ne suis pas “English”, je suis comme vous, unique.
Catégories patriotique je critique.
Comme tous les gens qui habitent sur cette île.
J’ai os celtiques encore danois est mon sourire.
Un Indien, Juif certains appellent “astucieux”
Norman, Viking, mêlé à physique.
Je ne suis pas “anglais”

Je ne veux pas blesser plus tous ceux
Qui sommes moqués jusqu’à ce qu’ils perdent leur doux repos
Un mélange de conception génétique des aides
Nous sommes une seule espèce dans cette maligne du monde.
Nous sommes ici parce que deux personnes aimantes ont choisi
Pour partager leur esprit et leur corps tout dévêtu.
Je ne suis pas” anglais.”

Dois-je comparer tous les autres avec ma règle?
Dois-je mesurer et déployer plus d’outils?
Dieu lui-même fait folklorique de l’argile et de l’air
Nous a donné ce monde si étrange mais équitable
Je ne veux pas être un imbécile anglais
Mais chercher à comprendre et à être scolarisés
Je ne suis pas “anglais”

Between the  world of nature and our eyes
We place a boring screen of thoughts like  flies
So miss the joyous flight of circling birds
By interposing far too many words.

How often do we gaze into a face
Imprinting on our heart its dear embrace?
How often are we fearful of that touch;
Is  its    love and hate  now far   too much?

When do we hear the music of a voice;
Leaving our ears empty for this choice?
As receptacles for our  own bursting thoughts
We pour them into   orifices  caught.

So depriving are we to our own dark hearts
We fail to let  all’s thoughts play their  right parts.

I was listening to  a lecture by Adam Philips about Hamlet and he gave me the idea of thoughts as characters or the cast of a play

I’m not “English”, I’m  like you, unique.
Categories patriotic  I critique.
Like all the folk who dwell  upon this isle.
I’ve Celtic bones  yet Danish  is my smile.
An Indian,a  Jew  some call “astute”
Norman,Viking, mixed up in physique.
I’m not ” English”

I don’t want to injure  more all those
Who’re mocked until they lose their  sweet repose
A mixture of genetics   aids design
We’re just one species in this world malign.
We’re  here because two loving  persons  chose
To   share their minds and bodies all unclothed.
I’m not “English.”

Shall I compare  all others with my rule?
Shall I measure and deploy more tools?
God himself made folk from clay and air
Gave  to us this world  so strange yet  fair
I  do not wish to be an English fool
But seek to understand and to be schooled
I’m not “English”

These are exercises as I am new to this form.

Against  sadness:no-one here must weep
Nor lounge  about in melancholy deep
Was Van Gogh senseless to permit  his muse.
For  even masterpieces  ,was the price too steep?
We see the yellow chair  but not his views
Nor his  mind where technique made great leaps.
Nor was his journey broadcast on the news.
Against sadness.

Happiness  or joy is hard to find
When we rest, the News preys on our minds
Yet some are  cold  towards the slaughtered priest
His nose a beak of bone  in old  face   lined
Now Muslims go to Mass and join Christ’s feast
Against sadness.

What rages in the mind make men  kill thus?
In Syrian wars  the  innocents fare worse.
But these are our near neighbours so we weep
And wonder how to end the  frightening curse
The sins we once committed hold us deep
We  hold our hands out wanting to be nursed
Against sadness

A happy  blackbird
Cheeps sweetly from the holly
The black cat sits by me.

A thrush came  here once
I had no camera then
So I just looked out.

A  little black cat
Sits near the house and watches
She looks nervous.

I boil the kettle
Put the coffee into  cups
We drink it slowly

Instead of staying in, I could go out;
But I am held back here  by stifling doubts,
The  heart is sad the sea is deep and dark
I wonder at the minds of those who shout
Is this true ,they must protest to  ease their hearts,
Instead of staying in.

Since the new millenium was here
The world’s been further racked by   violent fear
While in his pram the baby sleeps alone
Assuming carers are  still  watching  near.
Until  a madman throws a knife or bomb
Instead of staying in.

.

The sky is dark and yet the air is sweet
The little blackbird   potters near my feet
For I have scattered crumbs  upon the flags
And feel the air still has its  July heat.
But  madmen rage and knife attacks deplete.
The sky is dark.

People who are uncertain of their acts
With words and gestures  make a fierce attack
Do they convince themselves  or convince me?
Our world is breaking up; we see the cracks.
The sky is dark

http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/rondel.html
Rondel
by Kevin N. Roberts

Our time has passed on swift and careless feet,  [A]
With sighs and smiles and songs both sad and sweet.
Our perfect hours have grown and gone so fast,
And these are things we never can repeat.
Though we might plead and pray that it would last,
Our time has passed.                                         [A]

Like shreds of mist entangled in a tree,
Like surf and sea foam on a foaming sea,
Like all good things we know can never last,
Too soon we’ll see the end of you and me.
Despite the days and realms that we amassed,
Our time has passed.

Aye,Morecambe Bay ,they crossed at times by horse
The boatman knew the tides and river’s course.
The shape of  Langdale Pikes   were seen ahead
And kept back  travellers’  fear of river bed,
There were quicksands,spirits and much worse-
Premonitions of a Chinese curse.

Yet as we stand and gaze who feels remorse?
Cockle pickers all sent here by force.
Not tortured except by what was never said
We  know such  silence  fills a soul with dread.
The death, the grief, the hearse
Ah lass, Morecambe Bay.

Across the sands lie Cartmel and Furness
Ships were built by men  with tenderness
Now all the  yards lie empty and quite dead
While Barrow’s streets  provide men with a bed,
The  streets were  children played affect  my breath.
Beautiful and  sad,oh, Morecambe Bay.
Oh Morecambe Bay betrayed,they caught their death

I’d like to hide myself from human sight
In a  big oak wardrobe with a light
For as my skin is thinner than I like
Every word affects me like  a knife
I’ll come out in the evening for a bite
And look for poets whose words I wish to cite.

In our culture, individual rights
Have been used  so much in manners maladroit
I’d rather fish with Hughes and hope for  pike
Than socialise  as I’m too erudite
And thus I put humanity to flight
I’d like to hide.

Arguing    whether  Brexit was alright
Such matters do not fill me with delight
I hate to argue with a  demagogue  and break
Her temper which she’d hid for kindness’ sake
In my wardrobe I will go on strike
And starve myself  to make room for a bloke.
I’d like to hide

On quicksands we must  travel at  some speed
Pausing,  to the sucking sands we cede.
No rumination nor  excuse will save
Nor will our weeping stop the  steady waves
For  of our needs ,  stark nature takes no heed.

If on our journey should we pause to read
Or   peer   on phone to see where paths should lead?
No, we must walk as swiftly as is brave .
And this alone may give us what we need
On quicksands.

We’d best not stop despite our feet may bleed
As when a bull is charging we need speed
No special clothing nor appearance suave
Will distinguish  us from harlots or from knaves.
We’re at risk as in a storm a reed
Will break and God does not deceive.
On quicksands.

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/rondeau-poetic-form

“The rondeau’s form is not difficult to recognize: as it is known and practiced today, it is composed of fifteen lines, eight to ten syllables each, divided stanzaically into a quintet, a quatrain, and a sestet. Therentrement consists of the first few words or the entire first line of the first stanza, and it recurs as the last line of both the second and third stanzas. Two rhymes guide the music of the rondeau, whose rhyme scheme is as follows (R representing the refrain): aabba aabR aabbaR.”

“Where the rentrement appears in its traditional French form, it typically does not adhere to the rhyme-scheme–in the interest of maintaining the line’s buoyancy and force. But when nineteenth-century English poets adopted the rondeau, many saw (or heard) the rentrement as more effective if rhymed and therefore more assimilated into the rest of the poem. An example of a solemn rondeau is the Canadian army physician John McCrae’s 1915 wartime poem,”

“In Flanders Fields“:”

   In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The challenge of writing a rondeau is finding an opening line worth repeating and choosing two rhyme sounds that offer enough word choices. Modern rondeaus are often playful; for example, “Rondel” by Frank O’Hara begins with this mysterious directive: “Door of America, mention my fear to the cigars,” which becomes the poem’s refrain.

read more rondeaus

Inside my shell I dream of pearls,
Caterpillars,snails with whorls.
I dream contented, all enwrapped
With reverie and dream I’m lapped.
The inner seas will comfort me,
While gods allow my eyes to see

Oh,sweeter than confectionery
Is my worn old dictionary.
The words whirl round and fall to shape
The sentences, which my world drape.
This furnishing is rich and strange
Yet magically self arranged.

Oh,sweeter than the love of man
Is reading works of poets long gone.
And feeling deeply their dark tides .
Upon which our boat may glide.
The sea infinite we float on
Is the same warm sea where ancients swam.

Sweeter still is this spring air
And the blossom spreading fair.
We’ll drown ourselves in deep green field
To the gods of poetry yield.
We’ll rise again and spring up tall
To grow more rich until we fall.

Sweet it is to live and die
And to write my  poetry
Touch me with your ardent souls
My mind and yours shall all  be whole