You cannot fry your bacon in the sun

My egg would look too pallid for much fun

Fry some wholemeal bread if fat has run

Ear your breakfast,then the day”s begun

God measures noone by their diamond ring

His diamonds are the humble following

They help their neighbours silently good willed

And all their anxious hearts are gently stilled.

They have no need to boast for they’re secure

They act with intent good or even pure

They suffer pain and see that others do

They feel the dark emotions yet unglue.

Who are these Saints that we can take a view.?

When I look I see they’re me and you

I want an emotional range coat

Where can week find them today.

Under the heap of a haystack

But as usual we have to pay.

By Katherine

With bits of love. (No nuts)

Free Pelargonium with pots and gloves

Where is Pelargonia anyway?

They never have a war there.

He gets the hots for doves

She gets the shots for glue and yellow fever.

Shall we believe her?

With yachts of the above.

With affectless faces.

Effortless groceries

Affectionate grimaces.

Lord, adversary.

Lord.he curses.

Lord. Oh,Lord it’s Percy.

https://www.spiked-online.com/2018/01/16/what-is-the-point-of-poetry/

EXTRACT

Why we can’t ignore the working-class identity crisis

¨It is no exaggeration to say that the working class in Britain is in the throes of an identity crisis. It is particularly noticeable in those towns which a few decades ago were thriving centres of industry – former colliery towns, for example, in the Midlands and South Wales. Places that are far from Westminster; places which voted overwhelmingly for Brexit.

Identities here were once strong, tied to work and community. But in recent decades this proud demeanour has been replaced by something closer to humiliation. That’s why the ‘take back control’ rhetoric of the Brexit referendum resounded so powerfully in these parts of the country: the idea of ‘globalisation’ is here synonymous with the destruction of old industry and its replacement with insecure work in warehouses and call centres, much of not even done by the locals.

In Rugeley, as in many other working-class towns, identity – particularly male identity – was at one time  something that was forged by work, something that was shared¨

We complain because the tea is cold.

Or that our wedding ring is not pure gold

In the world small children live in fear

Or have no food at all and death is near

Everything is relative yet clear

The cold hand on the heart the soldier’s spear

I still like this very much

The confusing swirl of violence broke down walls
And panic rushed in through the holes and gaps
I saw folk taking photos, checking maps,
Their phones gripped like a weapon that appals.

We see then what comprises our defence.
The connection to our family and friends.
The need to make a record of the end.
The need to look again till it makes sense.

I felt a well-known numbness cover me
My heart needs its own time to feel the pain
The world I live in is not safe, that’s plain.
From Al Jazeera to the BBC.

The masks of innocence deceive.
Hatred of this kind is misconceived.

Doctor,I think my husband has something wrong with him.
Thank God, I thought he was dead!

Doctor,I have a pain in my bed
Oh,do stop moving,

Doctor,my head feels strange.
Can’t you just laugh it off?

Doctor,where is the receptionist?
She’s at a reception.

Doctor,you look worn out.
I shall take two aspirin and see myself in the morning.

I hope to get well enough to go somewhere were euthanasia is legal then buy a flat.

Try Tunbridge Wells.

But it’s not legal.

Come on Don’t be so cowardly

It’s braver to live.

When you leave this place turn right for my house or left for the Jewish Cemetery.

But Jews are forbidden to use euthanasia

What about Jesus?

It wasn’t Euthanasia!

It was Eastern Asia.

But was it Moral?

I have no sense of direction

Why are. doctors a topic of glee

Cutting us up and it’s free

No we pay our income tax

Try to impart the facts

We pay to ensure our new knee

The doctor told me to relax

And to stop learning so many facts

So now I write fantasy

I Joke about empathy.

My morals are getting more lax

I am going to feel very angry
Will he let you?

I feel intense hatred for my wife
That’s very kind of you

I feel very down
Is it better than goose down?

I hate my brother
I bet he does too.

I hate my untidy habits
How do they feel?

I don’t want to work nor rely on a man
Your grammar is excellent

I am getting tired of hunting for new recipes
Why not buy them?

Shall I have a cheese sandwich or a bacon one?
Have you no eggs?

Shall I take a Master’s Degree or go round the world?
I’ll be interested to see that

I hate shopping for clothes
How about stealing them?

Will I ever get better?
What do you think?

Have I got a virus as I fear?
No, you have it while you are relaxed.

Shall I take the Oxford entrance?
No, leave it.

Shall I read Medicine?
No, swallow it

I do hate the way buttons fall off my coat
I don’t like gravity either

I am afraid of topology
You are so conceited

I hate it when my thoughts circulate
Well, you can feel what you like, they are yours

I wonder if I can afford Freudian analysis
I do too

I hate clever people
Don’t come any nearer

Thank you for eroticising me so much; this is ironical maybe.

Why was I crucified so frequently as a child?

Don’t use fratricide any more to “help” me.

Please never sanctify me if you care.

He keeps practicing on me.

I thought it was real.

If you hurt me I am will not criticize you I will kill you.

(This is too aggressive to be ironical)

If you can’t stop witticising I will devour you

How many criticisms can I take?

They are free

The hero of the novel was downsizing

Keeping back only poems without rhymes in.

It took ages to decide

What words are true rhymes

A fact that to me is unsurprising not.

A

He played with patients and their documents learning about grief

He played with Nations and their Elements increasing the bereaved

He bombed the Ukraine and it’s Monuments smiling with glee.

She was impatient re impediments wanting more thieves

In the Name of God, what can we plead?

Knock down the monuments give us some peace

He played with patients and their documents learning about grief

He played with Nations and their Elements enlarging the bereaved

He bombed the Ukraine and it’s Monuments smiling with glee.

She was impatient re impediments wanting more thieves

In the Name of God, what can we plead?

Looking at the garden as a world
The overgrown becomes a rich terrain
Where myriad living forms seem uncontrolled
But make a balanced whole in shades of green

What I hear are calls from nesting birds
The sway of breeze among forsythia’s gold
The patterned snails, the slugs cannot be heard
Nor can the slow worm’s wiser words be told

The pattern is a natural life, a wood
Where Cambridge monks had ponds and fruiting trees
Ten Cedars tall were chopped till dead
But still remain their long striped bees

Small in your eyes, infinite in mine
Such marvelled worlds can’t be designed

Most of our bodily functioning is controlled by our Unconscious mind.

Our dreams are composed by some genius in there too.

Where do our ideas come from?

The much hyped power of the will is useless in many ways

We can’t go to sleep by will power for example.

So trying very hard or worrying all the time are not going to get us far

Although it does take work to produce anything

It seems that Cooperation between our conscious mind and and the Unknown is needed.

In religious times it was

Submission to the will of God.

We can create by emptying our mind of ideas and waiting

But it is very hard to wait.

And it’s not under our control as to what is produced.

Like with people cooperation may work better than force.

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 plants are 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
for 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

R

, 16 March), it is fair to say that prayer, so understood, doesn’t work.

I wonder if there is a study to measure the effect that prayer has on the person praying? Prayer, for many of us, is not magic, not seeking the intervention of a lofty god whose reluctant arms need to be twisted. It is, rather, a participation in and a growing in compassion. It is we who are changed, through contemplation and stillness, centred on divine love.

The remedy s not terror.

Educated at the Academy of Mirrors

Malice through the Looking Glass

The puzzled eye.

The Devil’s lie.

The hilarity of colour.

The polarity of arrows

The foolishness of follows.

The salvation of our cherries.

The fruitlessness of berries.

His eyes caressed me to like two lightbulbs

They were hot but unfeeling.

I said turn off the power.

He said,the higher power.

I didn’t know God lights our lamps

His hands were smooth as silk.

I asked him what he used

A Brillo pad, he claimed

Do you believe that?

Don’t