Category: poetry

A poet can fly

Try writing nonsense, you will be surprised
I have used a comma, that’s the end;
How hard it is to know a poet can lie.

Unless you have a calling,shut your eyes
Do not break where you can also bend
Try writing nonsense, you be surprised

When I read a villanelle, men cry.
Ask the poet never to 1pretend
For cruel it is to find a poet who lies

Triolets bear sadness to the wise
If your aim is cruel, do not send
In learning nonsense, we’ve been ill advised

Rubbish is not nonsense,realise.
Lewis Carroll’s Alice was no friend
How hard it is to know where poets lie.

Sense and nonsense travel in a blend
So it is that fiction can offend
When writing nonsense, you must be composed
How hard is it to learn a poem transposed?

Water can’t be tortured

Water can’t be tortured as it’s fluid.

0h every living creature has its bounds

Only God is infinite in size

Though as a still small whisper he’s been found.

When enraged, our hearts turn hard like stone.

Who wants to live like that for very long?

As if the heart itself was just a bone

A heart without a feeling or a song.

Life and love require a softer heart

We may be tortured by the devil’s Kin

Hope and faith aren’t measured on a chart

Nor do they lie inside our precious skin

The Russian madman starts uncivil war

As we are part blood we’re not immune

As we are part flesh that can be pierced

Our heart will dry up, lose its inner tune.

Humans birds and animals have flesh

So unlike rivers they are put to death

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

Theatre forms the soul

When the fruit has rotted on the stalk
Bruised and broken like the poor in need
When  leaders meet  but rarely truly talk
When children caught in cross fire lie and bleed

Don’t we see God’s Kingdom is a joke
One hundred million deaths in two world wars
Not quick death but tortured bodies broke
They lost once and  love dies in their gore

Utopia, evolution, grandiose plans
Sacrifice yourself for those to come
We saw  the  little children hand in hand
Ground mines blow them up, they could not run

One thing’s clear, God’s here or not at all
The  future’s fiction, theatre   forms  the soul

r

  Thoughts annihilate

Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
No sonnet,villanelle or rondeau there
Nor is it true or false that we are apes

A sentence made from curses aggravates
Makes   even slight hurts something we can’t bear
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

This very poem’s ironic , it emotes
Glares with total rage at  you who care
If it’s true or false that we are apes

This poem,alas, will offer no escape
If it has no rhymes  then I have flair
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

The forms are hung until we get to break
We shatter and we crack the poet’s lair
I think it’s true and false that we are apes

For a metre I will hang in here
Waiting with no patience for a jeer
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
Nor is it true  that  thoughts annihilate

 

Oxford Holy Riddle

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Gold stone from Cotswold quarries young men brought

And built into a way of life for those who bought

Their lives so cheaply,And did not see

The children’s eyes,the ball,.the game ,the tree

Of life that grew in small backyards and gave all

To those who climbed into its arms.

Why should this not be you?

Oh,Eden,I see that you are nearer now

In lowly homes where love is free

Than in the temple, grove,and soft set brow

Of those who worship God in churches built of gold.

Now we must know that this is easy to behold

When sun is setting,and escapes the ashes

Thrown up and floating in the watches

Of the days of voter’e eyes cast up to skies

and,wondering fearful, what will come

when all the secret deals are done.

So take the gold of life and let it fall

Into your children’s growing souls

And let this Cotswold town and spires

Melt into sunset’s glowing orange fires.

The little black  tents,  the  wombs of the night

Opportunity knocked and I opened the door
But that’s not the room I was looking for.
The light didn’t work and I slipped on a book
Then I saw you and your smile and your look

We don’t know what we want until it comes by
I’m too ancient now;who knows when they die?
But while I am here, I’m enjoying the peace
Of being alone, smiling, and writing re geese.

Isee aaaaal them fly by when the sun starts to sink.
How like a wild god; they ‘re gone when I blink.
Then they descend ;they all move as one.
No training in music could teach us that song.

Evoking the beauty of stars far away,
I like to watch geese at the end of the day.
Patterns and poems disclose other worlds.
The hand of a baby; the fingers uncurled

The trust and the smile ; mother is home
She creates entire worlds for the one she has borne.
For chaos and panic are not far away;
Even in adults who don’t care to say.

The little hands touch me so deeply, so well;
How come the world holy is rolling to hell?
How can we kill little wains by the score?
Was it for this that I opened your door?

Was it for this love electrified us?
We were lost in each other, as moved the white dove.
Was it for war that we lent love our wombs
Making more soldiers and building more tombs?

The bombs, they are loading; they’re having parades.
It’s not North Korea, it’s Washington, dude.
Let the tanks roll on Corrie and the Bedouin tribes.
Let the allies laugh blindly as weak Jesus dies.

O take me, dear mother.Please take me away
I can’t see no point in saying my prayers.
The leaders’ religions are making God frown.
The desert is empty, the tents all dragged down.

The centuries of living , so free, so mobile
The Holy Land blessing; they pause for while.
The little black tents, the wombs of the night,
Are all gone to shredders; they’re out of our sight.

By the sea

Photo by Rikonavt on Pexels.com

Her voice was low and kindly yet discreet
Describing all the summer flowers,ah sweet
William,poppy,rosemary, striped bees
A little play we heard when drinking tea

His face was gentle, did not seem aggrieved
He could not see and yet he looked well pleased
Her voice caressed him tenderly and strong
I hoped that she would burst into a song

Loving touch can come from hands or voice
We are not taught such differences or choice
Indeed with teachers stern and parents rough
We may experience touch as cruel and tough

Let our voices do no harm nor hurt
Hell is made of lovers now turned curt


Leave evil for good

From anguish,pain and paranoia flee

Into calm and joyful states of mind

Keep your balance so that you can see

To yourself and all the lost be kind

Do not linger in the shopping mall.

Do not meet the ladies as they lunch

Flee to parks and gardens, flowers and soil.

Flee to sandy beaches,find a bench.

If you feel such hatred, what’s the evidence?

If you have been wronged oh do not sulk.

Much good in life arrives by happenstance.

Do not cling to angry thoughts in bulk.

Exercise your body with romance

Even nasty places give a start

To finding the true path with mind and heart

No fixed àddress

Noone saw me,no one met my eyes.

I felt the life inside me wilt and die

Of no value to the human race

If no-one saw them they would not exist

Leonard Cohen”s name was on a list.

I almost burned away in hot distress

The charred remains would have no fixed address.

Like the Jews who wandered for a space,

No eyes no gold ,no teeth, I am a Jew

I have no tongue to speak, nor language too.

How many tears ?

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 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

Joseph_Mallord_William_Turner_-_Norham_Castle,_Sunrise_-_WGA23182

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

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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

Anne Lamott’s writing tips

rosaalchemyst2019https://writingcooperative.com/anne-lamotts-top-13-writing-tips-7577eb5d5c24

 

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

The tide turns and life alters

Have  you ever had a dream,
That you were all alone?
Have you lived with someone handsome,
With a heart like a cold stone?
Have you drowned in deep,cold rivers,
And been lost in shadowed caves?
Have you lived with too much fusion,
Till you drowned in ghostly waves?
The waves run down the seashore,
Then up they come once more.
The tide turns and life alters..
Deep on that ocean floor.
You were so beautiful and silent,
Like a sword without its sheath.
I  wish I’d let you take me,
The way you took away my breath

Try to be bad

There was a young Catholic from Devon

Whose mind was dead set against Heaven

So he tried hard to be bad

Oh, no luck did he have

Now he’s in heaven with Lenin

Never ever coming home again

Strong at the broken places by Katherine copyright 2007
Trees by Katherine Copyright
Blue by Katherine.Digital drawing

I’m going to give you medication now

To keep the sugar in your blood quite low

He fell, the War Memorial was, his doom

Broke his nose, not coming home

His eye bled and his brain

His cheekbone did complain

Oh, he’s never,never, coming home àgain.

In the ambulance they screamed

Whilst his blood congealed

He’s never never coming home àgain

They asked him could he count

Dying,I lament

God don’t mind dementia in the Saints

Yet I pray

I feel and fear the emptiness of life
Now that I have grieved as a good wife
No-one wants a holiday with me
Stop the car,I see an ancient tree

The future looms and ends with my own end
What will fill the space, perhaps my friends?
Each day is constructed ,falls to dust
I lie in bed untouched by  husband’s lust

My senses heightened by anxiety
I memorize the details  that I see.
The old man smiling , kissing my  cold  hand
We remembered Norfolk cliffs in coloured bands

When  he flew, he pulled my heart away
Now my breast is empty  yet I pray

God on Zoom

Oh God I’m feeling frantic in my room

I wish to pray, Lord are you yet on Zoom?

if you need a laptop I like Dell

Don’t appear too bright,I’m in a cell

I stole some cash and alcohol as well.

Now they’re  going to put me on the pill

Is it contraception I don’t know

I am schizophrenic ,what a blow.

I am having therapy long term

Don’t use my phone I need it for my crime

Now I am mad and Boris rules the land

One fine day this man needs to be banned

Religion is good manners

By Katherine 2013 digital art

Be polite and do not kill your friend

Share your food with others every day

Do not gossip,spite is not profound

Share your sorrows and let comfort stay

Treat the poor respectfully and well

Do not steal a woman with a gun

The poor live close to God so there be still

Do not cause ill feelings hating men

It’s all about good manners I perceive

Do not spoil our sojourn with your greed

The walking frame and the smile

I saw you struggling with your walking frame
Guessed that you must suffer too much pain
I smiled because you caught my sidewards glance
Then  your face too by  smiling was enhanced

So  often older people are ignored
Lost and lonely hidden at the core
Once this man  fought in a  major war
I hope by some fine friend he was  restored

I saw him disappearing  down the  road
His posture more erect,  his back less bowed
And in my heart I felt the smiling too
 Enchanted by the essence , by the cue.

I got on a bus,  ignored my phone,
Smiling   still I  pushed the door key home