When I wrote in a poem that my arm was paralysed when I planned to write
something hurtful about someone who had hurt me,it really happened
I wrote the beginning and middle but the revenge I could not write at all
So has my conscience got control ……I didn’t think,I just felt puzzled
I could not move my hand or arm until I decided I was not going to retaliate
After that I was able to finish the poem.
Unfortunately I usually have to work it out for myself

On Monday morning he was mad wih me
I asked him what I’d done to make him hurt
He said I thought too fast and talked too slow
Then he lay down flat and looked inert

So I try to think more slowly and talk quick
It makes me stutter ,stammer and go mute
My tongue got tied in knots I swallowed it
I can’t eat or speak,he thinks I’m cute

Best to stay with nature and your form
If men get angry that is their concern
Why does being a genius and a wife
Make men envy me until they burn?

I wonder if I should go mute again
Then my lovers will not suffer pain

h

At last my one ambition is fulfilled
I have a desk where I may write at will
No more the dining table or a board
A two desk family is safely moored
Men must have their study if they write
Though grandad was a coalminer at night
And Father was a writer in gold paint
Embellishing the Churches with quotes quaint
He also did The Stations of the Cross
Then he died, what torment ,oh what loss.
We went to see his grave and said a prayer
Jesus was so quiet,was hardly there.
But I believe in love and always will
Now I’ll write my poems with a quill

I meant to write a poem of revenge
To hurt the one who shot out glacial words
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Through the Oxford. my sharp eyes had lunged
My vile emotions then were further stirred
I meant to write a poem of revenge

First he wooed me , showed his cultured friends
Sweet the words and soft the voice I heard
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Would retaliation my heart rend?
Down the vultures rushed ,carnivorous birds
As he wooed me with the words he wrung

My arm was disengaged by unseen hand
I could not write, impossible cruel words
I meant to write a poem of revenge

Lady of Macbeth, who’d wash in blood
When evil can be overcome by good?
I meant to write a poem of revenge
I hated once but Good controlled my hand

He was good at acting not at sums
The Latin teacher hit him on the head
How can teachers hurt some mother’s son?
He was good at acting not at sums
Premature and fragile, yet he won
He was the only man who shared my bed
He smelled of honey, bee hives in the sun
The thought of mathematics hurt his head

B

My husband entertains me in the night
He pulls his face and grins with expertise
I shake with laughter at this funny sight
My husband entertains me in the night
While I sleep I dream he is alive
He sings and dances till I am at ease
My husband entertains me in the night
He pulls his face and grins, he likes to tease

Trees are deeply rooted,trees can’t walk
They don’t sleep nor do they stay awake
Trees can’t sin because they cannot talk
Trees are deeply rooted,trees can’t walk
Can’t exclaim when they espy a hawk
Trees will bend and so they do not break
Trees are deeply rooted,trees can’t walk
They don’t sleep nor do they stay awake

Searching in this city I may find you
Then you will desire to come back home
In my savaged heart I feel this true
Seeking in this city I may find you
I’m searching all the places that we knew
From Greenwich up to Amersham I roam
There is nowhere in this city I can find you
I grieve for you will never come back home

I sang this to my husband when he was dying.I did not consciously know he was dying
My mouth opened by itself and I began singing ,unwittingly giving a performance to all the other
people in A & E
When I was little my dad sang it to me when he put me to bed.
I seem to have inherited his habit of humming or singing a great deal….

Striding Edge ,Hellvellyn, Cumbria, from tourist a guide

Baggage handlers at Berlin’s new airport have reported receiving electric shocks from scanners in yet another problem to befall the troubled project, which is widely seen as an engineering catastrophe.
From the Guardian Newspaper

If you’re feeling real depressed again
Get free treatment down here in Berlin
Put your arm into the scanner, not your bag
The shock will cure you with a short time lag
If it’s not enough, you must sneak back
Stick your other arm in for a shock
It’s a bit like vaccination, some need two
Yet only one is needed for the flu
In Germany the home of engineers
This scanning error reduced grown men to tears
If you can’t afford to hack Berlin
Put your finger in a socket to begin
The shock is scary, it will make you run
Exercise like this sure beats a gym
If you are unlucky you may die
Then you’ll see the stars up in the sky
If it’s not your time come back to us
I fear you’ll need a cab, there is no bus

Katherine  September 6, 2016

I miss the hand that used to hold  my hand
I miss the eyes that  used  to  comfort me
The needs of love don’t  feel like a demand
I miss the hand that  caressed  my  held hand
I miss your love  and miss you as a  friend.
When you gazed , your eyes lit what you’d see.
I miss the hand that used to warm  my hand
I miss the eyes that  used  to smile at me.

I miss your arms around me in the dark
I miss the early morning,  thoughts unspoke
On Purbeck Hills; the  Easter singing lark
I miss your arms around me in the park
Poole Harbour’s beauty is a living spark
Sharing silent glances as we walked
I miss your arms around me in the dark
I miss the mornings, though we   rarely spoke

Silent sharing ;  company in  love.
With strangers,  we must  manufacture talk.
To be silent ;the domed sky above
To be silent ;  spaciousness of    love.
With strangers, how their talk can jolt and shove
I held your hand and stroked it when we walked
Silent caring;  symphony of  love.
Not strangers blindly snatching in the dark.

Hannah Arendt, an émigré from Nazi Germany.“The result of a consistent and total substitution of lies for factual truth,” Arendt wrote in her classic volume The Origins of Totalitarianism, “is not that the lie will now be accepted as truth and truth be defamed as a lie, but that the sense by which we take our bearings in the real world—and the category of truth versus falsehood is among the mental means to this end—is being destroyed.”

What woud happen here if Boris Johnston’s followers rioted,burst into Westminster ,some armed
and five people died?
I think he’d be in a police cell waiting for his trial
Surely inciting people known to be unstable/crazy to do what these Americans
did is also guilty of a crime- depriving someone of their life.
What will happen in the next week?

May the hordes not stress you
May the cord pull for you
Hail Mary, show your face
My guardian angel is quite a sight
To more horror and misdeeds, make all not prey
Be, just for today.|
Be just, for today
It’s Art in heaven
Well, bless the frail.
Our heart should need no pay

To develop bad taste or at least to tolerate it
To stop telling children Micky Mouse is twee.
To comb my hair more than twice a week
To stop thinking men are like women before disaster comes down
To decide where to keep the Radio Times
To stop drinking Twinings Breaakfast Tea in the afternoon
To make the bed before 11.30 pm
To decide what things one does not need beginning with smart watches,matching cutlery and
washing one’s clothes very frequently [ what is that?]
To laugh at pain

Katherins  December 2, 2013 

• Bands of rhyme will be crossing the UK tomorrow.. streams of poetry will bring rain in the eyes.
  Season’s Tweetings to Sinners if all repent
  Shadow of silence are folding over like an envelope.
  The spice of wife..pepper.
  Hop around the roses
  It’s best to saunter nowadays.
  When inside out, a cat can still scratch.. with its reversible catclaws.Try one tonight.Just unzip the cat and it will spring into the heir…to the throne or is it the air all round
  Until the end of all rhymes I’ll be loving you
  Time feels all wounds…and fills holes
  Maps of the iceberg have melted..
  Two hearts that beat as none ever did.
  I wait for the lime to be ripe then it will be a lemon.
  If you have a man,wash him weekly in a tin bath…don’t blame me if you get drawn in…..mate in the bath … saves washing the sheets.

Language has different rules.A language can be looked at as a game with rules.But the rules vary,That’s why perfect translation is impossible.Many different perceptions are linked into the vocabulary of each language.And the rules for combination are unique to each.
Like dancing…each society used to have its own form of dance though here it’s died out.Irish and Scottish dancing still exist and are very similar.People entertained themselves by singing their unique songs and dancing together… and playing their own instruments.. violin,tin whistle,piano…
Sometimes you make a friend from another culture.Sometimes you hurt them because your singing and dancing may have seemed similar and then one of you took a step which was not part of any dance the other one knew…. so feelings are hurt or the mind is puzzled.Unless you have very deep trust
You may think they are wanting to hurt you.But it maybe you were doing the foxtrot and they began to waltz, feeling it would be lovely to waltz with you.
Then they tread on your toes,you slap their face and it’s the end of a good friendship.But thinking of it as a confusion of dances may give the event a different meaning which ascribes no blame,just confusion natural in such a case

Created by Katherine

Everything is whirling round my mind,
The lack of government ,  the words unkind
That the poor are  short of food and  clothes
We deny it, everybody knows

Sudden gusts of wind  mock  these old trees
Does the  lure of nature  disappear
When  the butterflies have gone away
Yet the stinging wasps are here to stay?

Once tortured  now abandoned refugees
Can’t make phone calls,  have no mental ease
We make our own defences into walls
We  do not want to hear their their poignant calls

Oh,Lord God take the beam from out my eye
I want to know the  truth before I die

Unexpressed emotions never die.
We hurt the ones we “love “without a sigh
We fall downstairs and break a bone or ten
We find the worst in all the hopeful men

So now the awful feelings have increased
Someone else is joyful at the feast
We sulk and mope or crack the china mugs
Break our ankles stumbling on the rugs

Now we blame the others for our pain
Why did noone notice yet again?
We are not the centres of their world
Too proud to say we’re sad in a few words

Decent friends will give us words that heal
If we show emotion, show we feel

Great, once
tea for some
planted in rows
drowned in Boston
once fair rose
Britain lost

Deep in the cold hard soil worms dwell
Yet I did hear the sparrows sing today
They sounded very happy, truth to tell
Deep below in horrid soil worms dwell
And in the Irish Sea the rollers swell
Here nervous people watch the USA
Deep in their cold truth we numbly dwell
Yet I have heard the sparrows sing today

 

To write a poem I dreamed an undreamed dream
The woods in France deformed by dead young men
A nightmare complex in its perplexed themes

In our dream the narrative has means
To make those killed communicate again
To write a poem I dream an undreamed dream

Later, in another war, trains steam
To take the “insect” Jew, no longer “man.”
A nightmare simple in its evil themes

The little pearls we half see, as we scheme
The evasions we ignored but which remained.
We read a poem, we dream an undreamed dream

Who we are and who we might have been
At 4 am in isolated pain
The Nightmare Complex, come to share your screams

Can any see the world as poets aimed
To recreate the moment where we change?
To write a poem embodies sufferers’ dreams
Nightmares dark and piercing,mobs that maim

Who am i
The one who writes?
The confluence of streams
Of DNA and lies
Breed evil in many hearts
People
Bust into the Capitol
Shots were fired
Let’s keep streaming
Out to sea.
I may not exist
But I have a view
I don’t like these actions
Nor mobs who would kill
The world in turmoil watches
Democracy is clear
Hitler didn’t have TV cameras
It must matter.
But see Jesus
No exemptions
The weak
Get it

Flip the switch and turn malign
The devil has your new designs
In the mountains make your kill
You have got the nerve and will

When you’re done, don’t bother me
Yours the face I shall not see
You who alternate and swing
Like a bird, be on the wind

You could explain, you pity lack
Evoking memories too black
I forgave you three times ten
I won’t forgive your hurts again

You are not the only man
Who thinks the world for him is run