Like butter in the sun

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

My heart is soft like butter left in sun.
Much more heat and it will melt and run
Oh, why do we have feelings,why engage
When friendship turns into such bitter rage?

I do not wish to live remote and stern
As if I am so perfect I can’t learn
Pain too deep can mortify the flesh
Turn us into robots fit for trash



All I need is an enormous fridge
Which will make me harder than sweet fudge
I’ll go inside and pray for peace each day
If I freeze to death,I shall not say.

Oh, be of merry heart,my friends and foes
When love comes in, a little hate will go

Revolution

A strange comingling of the mills and moors
Green of nature,smoke from chimneys glowers
While sheep graze their wool is touched by smoke
But higher up the ground is bare of hope

Peering down I recognise the view
Rows of terraced houses share a loo
Women wear their aprons with panache
Boys are playing,give or take a bash.

Miners walking home with faces black
Painters with their ladders and their sacks
Little girls are skipping with their ropes
Cats are watching idly, kittens mope

Which way shall we go, we must decide
The green hill with no walls, the red brick eyes?

Dried flowers

Unconscious of our cruelty, we sin
Yet pride ourselves as worthy and refined
Those who know themselves are modest souls
Who do to those around them little harm

Blinded to our our faults we strut about
Causing pain to others, oh what charm
If we break the rules,we have no doubts
From our errors we can never learn

So I look on your insults and smile
Self image admits nothing makes a change
I shall not keep your sentences in files
Unlike dried flowers in vases well arranged

Yet though you now evade a little pain
Your company will never be the same

Now there is no road

No rought beast shall slouch to Bethlehem
There is no track or pattern to our fate
Once Jesus’ feet were bathed by Magdalen
Now communities of love disintegrate.

The world does fall apart, the centre’s gone
There is no named War, but armies kill
Or single, abject men who carry guns
On other nearby folk will shoot at will

There seem to be no ” better” sort of men
But all lack much conviction,common good
They follow gold with bent accountant’s pen
Calvin’s “way to heaven”, Noah’s flood

Now there is no road nor path nor beast
Confusion,chaos,populism will feast

Air strokes our bare skin



When soft winds blow and air strokes our bare skin
.When days are long like melodies of youth,
when light wakes up the soul from out her sin
Then shall we know when this sweet life is truth?

When flowers droop and leaves are dried and brown;
When water’s short and all the ground’s forlorn
Then do not meet disaster with a frown,
For out of heartfelt sorrow new life’s born


.When winter’s here and all is quiet and still
And nothing seems to move or grow or speak
Then we shall learn the limits of our will
When through the soil the first green shoots will break


.For seasons change and actors come and go.
Yet through such changes, life is what we know

Now speaks the Earth


Now speaks the earth of spring and all its joys.

Now flowers and blossom soothe our  lonely eyes.

So happy are the lovers, girls and boys,

As in the  daisied meadows they may lie.

Now speaks the sun and makes us  want to grow

to open like the flowers for his love

To let the life within us start to flow.

With  blessings sent down to us  from above.

Now every part of nature is in flood

Fresh leaves point down from trees to holy nests

The birds are active in this little wood,

And dwelling on the tree branch breast to breast.

Oh let’s not waste time glued to inner thoughts.

For we may miss the joy which spring has brought

Yet life endures

Since you died I learned to use a crutch
I have noone to lean on, none to touch
I wanted you to die with kindly ease

Now I miss another I could tease

Noone knows what was our special tree
Nor why the pain of loss dwells in my knee
As if I cannot stand or wait alone
Dark earth is softer than these paving stone
s

The trees you loved my neighbours see as weeds
I shan’t recite a list of their misdeeds
Others gossip of my coloured coats
A widow’s weeds aren’t teal, they grin, they gloat

Before you went I saw the cloth of gold
Coming down from heaven to enfold
Then it rose, its satin thick and pure
Taking you away, yet life endures

The emptiness, the void, the loss, the pain
The crash severe we know is for
eordained



The handkerchief pan

In the evening. simmering handkerchiefs
Perfumed the air with odours I can’t tell
Mother scrubbed them, hung them on the line
Then I had to iron them, folded well

Now we have our tissues, we don’t need
Hankies that need scrubbing many times
The oceans  deep are  poisoned  with our  waste
Is the use of tissues a  new crime?

While we did our  homework  after tea
My brother  liked his Wagner at  full blast
Imagine  learning Latin  with that din
Now the time for anger  has  long passed

Bad memories change  by  newly given grace
Evoking hints of  mother and her face

Pen and bell

In this so called office,I am trapped
Trying hard to write and to adapt
I have numerous pens in this my cell
Reminding me of school, the longed for bell

Ten past four, we put on winter clothes
I crossed the Park in fog, it wet my nose
Walking down our street I’d see the cat
Sitting on the pavement, Ginger spat

I put the kettle on to make our tea
The coal glowed low and red like elves in glee
The aluminium teapot never broke
The kettle had turned black , the milk was smoked

I had that tiny piece from others free
That was when I learned that I am Me

Of the green

In the birdbath filled by summer rain
I saw the baby wood pigeon again
So safe  the garden,  birds became quite tame
Secret,silent, sweet,no cats, it kept me sane

The bird was washing,splashing all about
With darted glances,so few I could count
Then it  flew up into a large tree
Holly,maple, apple,I could see

Though it’s winter, sunshine makes me dream
Gazing through the window at this scene
Sap is stirring,rising in soft  light
Making these bare branches a new sight

Love came down and lit up  this,my heart
Then the grace of being  made its start

Carnation,orchid ,daffodil and rose.

How softly sweetly,gently flowers pose
Carnation,orchid ,daffodil and rose.
Intricate the petals that should shield
Yet bees with striped force shall make them yield.
Appearances,both natural and contrived,
Mixed with the wiles of human nature thrive.
As, knowing not, we pluck the apple rare
And bite its flesh,with teeth we burn to bare.
We too deceive the innocent who pass
Not seeing watchers hid behind the glass.
The windows break,the deep earth quakes;
Seized is the maiden ,he  her virtue takes
.Beneath the surface,force and fierceness thrive.
What fearsome, burning God enjoys our lives?

Cleveland Hills

Lying in the heather with you,love
The world below,the cliff edge of the hills
Swainby,Stokesley, Stockton,Saltburn sea
Happy, free, still unaware of bills

The butterflies, the little flower bells
The scent of honey and the Yorkshire bees
I see your face as clear as it was then
But you have crossed the Styx and not the Tees

Yet still I feel your arms that held me near
I see you smile , so happy to be wed
We hitched a lift right to Osmotherly
The entire hill seemed like a marriage bed

There is a place where that sweet day exists
I take your hands and kiss your inner wrists

The future is fiction

The future unpredictable as gas
Its fictions must be written by our hands
On tablets with the clarity of glass
Which crack  like bones  dried out  on foreign sands

The prophets’ meanings , unnnamed, cannot pass
The sentences bind stories till they blend
The whispers and the excess of his blasts
Till all are crucified  by  loss of sense

The arches of the heavens will surpass
The  golden eye ,the mind its telescope
Then all  at once humanity is trash
The microcosm, a particle   escaped

Will Evil  change our hearts  till blood is  brass
The valves  are closing,   polished  into death

When music ends and silence overwhelms

As music went and silence overwhelmed
As in deep despair, I thought to end
When nothing seemed to help me on on my way
Perhaps I’d lost the track and so must pay


Empty now of thought and of desire
The vision of the darkness without fire
The utter loss of any help at all
From the depths, my heart cried out appalled


Expecting nothing, hoping even less
A fire of gold appeared to hold,caress
And tears rained down my face from eyes amazed
While in my flesh I felt caressed and saved


I bowed my head in assent to this good
The crucified, the lost, have understood


Nor rain to flood

Katherine   May 30, 2018

A mood of stillness like a quiet dove
A lack of wind, vast silence gives repose
Symbolises blessings from above.

My trees mature now form a holy grove
The sorrow ruling me has been deposed
To give me stillness with the nesting dove

In such moods, there’s space to think, compose.
To learn the ways of energy and love
Symbolised by blessings from above.

In the crowded Mall, the shoppers shove
The special mood of peace  I fear eludes
We lose the sense of silence and the dove

In public life, we quarrel and oppose
We lose the way to  our fine treasure trove
We lose the symbols and the deep repose.

Give me your hand without its heavy glove
As we caress,   we  value human love.
A mood so stilled, oh, fluttering of the dove
No wind to destroy peace nor rain to flood

THE MEMORY LASTS

midsummer days evoke the trancelike past
where children played in joyous, daisied fields
with buttercups so bright the memory lasts
a freedom that our conscious growth will steal.

those stones and leaves and many coloured flowers
were gathered into images that glow
yet later we forget those treasured hours
when for a while we lived in life’s deep flow

we did not look and see,but felt at one
we lived as did the birds high in the trees
now we write , experiencing has gone
we cannot live like flowers filled with bright bees

to lose ourselves in nature is a joy
which to our adult selves we must restore

The holes and ink are fashion

I’ve got liquid Quink on all my clothes
I thought that everyone would like to know
I’ve got moth holes in my sweaters like small eyes
But my winter coat is still almost alright

I’ve had this coat for fifteen years,it’s brown
It drapes quite well, the maker is renowned
I must put it on to take a walk outside
To see which plants have died and which survived

My husband would be very shocked indeed
My tights have gaping holes upon my knees
The ink has penetrated to my vest
God knows where that Quink will wander next

If your clothes are damaged, do not cry
At least 5,000 moths have learned to fly

It speaks

seashore under blue sky
Photo by Tom Swinnen on Pexels.com

This poem is written in the sonnet form,
And yet I have my doubts about its shape
Though nearly to that structure it conforms
There may be holes where nightmare faces gape.

It looks and speaks just as a sonnet would
And talks of metaphysical concerns.
Do we conclude, as poets and readers should,
That in our schizoid age we cannot learn?

For humans may be decked in clothes of wolves;
And lambs be dressed in lion’s fearsome furs.
Thus, sense is tricked and problems are unsolved.
Landscapes etched, yet details seem quite blurred.

It looks like one,it feels like one,it speaks;
Yet from these words, does human feeling leak?

I could not own my grief

The moment that they told me he was gone
I knew I never more would be at one.
The guilt  is bad, the shame is harder still
That I no longer am  what I would will

That I did not perceive the   your state of mind
That to your heart I seemed to have been blind
That I was not enough to keep you here
That life and death most grievous are  so near

Then  shamed by my emotions I withdrew
Into the prison cell  that no-one knew
My soul was  pierced , I could not own my grief
 Limp, submissive , blown away, a leaf.

Shame is deadly, unexposed to speech
With reddened face and   faltering voice I weep

Swear words are so boring nowadays

Now we’re used to hearing “fuck” and “shit”
What words can we use to let off steam?
Oh, what a twit omitting words like “twat”
However will I have erotic dreams?


Few words are forbidden in our books
Little children learn to swear and scream
On the television, some won’t look
As words like this flow out in lengthy streams


Lady Chatterley, you were the cause
But what will be the affect and effect?
Lawrence, you were eager to enjoy
But who could know what others might detect?

I think I shall say ” sorry” when I rage
Would “lies and curses” draw more to my page?