We’ll need a passport if we go to Wales Snowdon is not English,I bewail One can reach the summit on a train To see old England and the Labour pains
We’ll have to go to Cumbria, is it ours? There is no border yet,no Northern Powers Hellvellyn and Great Gable are not small The Cumbrian folk might link them by a wall
The banks and braes of Scotland are not ours It’s cold and wet up there,don’t be coward A foreign trip will need no aeroplane There is not yet a Motorway to Spain
Wales and Scotland sundered from our land Foreign travel there will give no tans
Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves That come and go on beaches , wet the sand The sea is always moving as is love
The unconscious is a language dark engraved We cannot read unless we can descend To rhythms as natural as the rippling waves
Rich and strange so different from above What we find is not what we intend The sea is always moving as is love
What’s in authentic nature that should save As colours interact, by brush to blend? Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves
Yet ,in a poem, what part of us can bathe The mind , the heart, the soul, the writing hand The sea is always moving as is love
The golden seas, the oceans can command The ships that sail, the whale, the hidden ends Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves The inner sea is moving , tender love
The BBC is flooded by complaints People missed their favourite shows last night Prince Philip died, “they” say he was no Saint
Much appreciation he had earned When lesser men might well have taken flight The BBC is flooded by complaints
The Queen will ache like every widow aches This weeping will not show itself in sight Prince Philip died, he was her much loved mate
Her tears might well if all the childen spoke Keeping her new mask on will denote The BBC is flooded by complaints
This is not the time to hurl out cruel taunts Get your pen and write as I have wrote Prince Philip died, “they” say he was no Saint
The children of Victoria caused much hate The Kaiser and the Tsar in the same boat The BBC is flooded by complaints Prince Philip died, “they” say he was no Saint
To the depths The trees’ roots wind beneath the grass So green and perfect,neatly mown .The roots entangled,serpents mass, the fruit trees which now groan. Another,richer world beneath, Where the roots stark homes do give To tiny creatures which yet seethe, And all our darkest shadows live. From here a serpent malice took From our neglect of what we hate. We see the surface , do not look At what lies deeper ,till too late. And so we live, so often blind To the depths of our own minds
Adam,Eve, the apple and the snake We know the story well,we are quite smart Their children filled the earth with crude mistakes Adam,Eve, the apple and the snake God is not in charge of what we take With the nuclear bomb, the earth will break Particles light nightmares,man awake Where are our little souls and human hearts Adam,Eve, the apple and the snake We know the story well,we are so smart
Near illiterate, they watch TV Not Nigella not the BBC They ask the educated to sink down Come Dancing ,Benny Hill. the maddened clown
No more does learning merit due respect Nor do they treat the erudite with tact They do not wish to study or discuss So any leader vicious wins the toss
Does it matter much if sights are lowered? They felt shame at school and were ignored They do not think they’ll benefit from books But watch the behaviour of an errant Duke
The lack of cash,the shame, the rage, the crash No surprise some vote for sociopaths
Decide with me Past walls of heaving lies. Past politicians who shall be the Bride? Decisions fly like demons on the tide. Grab Satan”s tail and take a free and evil ride.
I fear no pill Can help the poor and reft. All of their payments Are to be Put to the cracked Test. We do not help For passive is our state. Send us to Bedlam for we are adrift.
Post modernism Says all stories are good But we must sift them With our heads of wood. I fear no evil For soon I think I`ll be Driven to seek asylum Where the angels swim at sea
I will always love Hugh, though John gave me his home We married very hastily,but were by chance in Rome
There’s no place lacks combs There’s no grace in Rome
Come to Jakarta or send me a bone I wanted a mere threesome, though I feel best alone
Life is what happens when we are busy making puns Come now to supper but don’t eat any guns
Imagine all the people living life in grief Imagine there’s no laughing, imagine nothing feels Don’t read a comic, only books have leafs Then in the Autumn they fall out unsealed
So you want the Loons to play with Cirque du soleil to swing away with They’ll come if you don’t lie
Success is like a swinging rope Up and down, the monsters joke
I decided to be a graduate but never learned to read Thinking is of little use especially at speed
Do something useful,sweep the floor Have some coffee,clean the door
I voted Labour all my life I got married for the strife Now he’s dead, I am quite lost Noone warned me what it cost
Haarold Willson our PM Very clever decent man I will drink a toast to him Though maybe not one for old Jim
The family tapestry is full of holes I want to mend them, will I be believed? Maybe a few pleats and then a fold The family tapestry has got huge holes And places where we scorched it with hot coal The cat has got her claws in, an own goal Oh,Lord, I think the ghosts are here like thieves The family tapestry has got huge holes I want to mend them now before I leave
Now my birthday comes again Send me paper and a pen I think a villanelle is good When the trees burst into bud Though its form is never fluid Love alone will never do it But grief is what will damp my eyes Tears and ink produce new lines. I love to feel the pen in hand My old friends will understand The ink once made from powder dry Mixed with water for supply We had a monitor it’s true But like a prefect tasks to do The old brass jug stands full and proud Now then children, two’s a crowd
“You mean you’re comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it? Yes. Mrs. Whatsit said. You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.” ― Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time: With Related Readings
