It’s like an old dream,I’m running but slowly
Like that film, Chariots of fire,men running on a beach
Someone slowed the film down so you could watch
Each leg rise slowly then come down
And they panted,but very slowly
Like a mammoth climbing Scafell.
I’m running to meet you,you’ve come back
I stretch out my arms for you and you smile
And smile and smile.
But you have gone
A few weeks after Annie moved into the house next door to Stan,he met her when he was seeing his wife off to work.
Why does your wife not have a car she enquired suspiciously?
She is trying to keep slim,Stan told her.
Well,she’s not been very successful,Annie said scientifically.
She might be much fatter than she is now if she drove a car,he stated ponderously
That’s true,muttered Annie meditatively
I am your new next door neighbor.she continued
Yes my dear, said Stan,I have seen you sunbathing in the garden in your bikinis.
How come, she asked scientifically?
There’s a big hole in the fence.
Is it legal to look at women through a hole in the fence?
asked Annie.I know it’s illegal to look into their bedroom windows.
Is it really,asked Stan nervously,I had no idea.
How about women looking at men through a round hole?
Oh,they can’t be bothered to do that,she told him charmingly.
Well,said Stan,clearing his throat,I think I owe it to myself to tell you that I love you.
Wow,you’re quick off the mark,the lady said saucily.
What do you mean,you owe it to yourself?
Nothing,said Stan,I could not think how to word it.I mean I wish to unselfishly love you and admire your ripe body and your cute sense of colour.I love your teal trouser suit.And you sing sos well in the bath.
You didn’t mean you owe it to yourself to take advantage of me?
Not unless you want me to take advantage of you,the gallant old man informed her.
And you can take advantage of me.I make cakes and biscuits,wholemeal bread and I am training my cat Emile to do statistics on an i pad.
How extraordinary,Annie whispered.I didn’t know cats had an “I.” let alone pads.
Well,they have pads on their paws,he informed her intelligently.
True,she said,but where are their I’s?
Where are our I’s ?he responded in a manner to rejoice the heart of Mary Midgley or Susanne Langer two of Stan’s favourite writers on philosophy,logic,symbols and ethics.
Not that he practiced the Ethics but he liked to know what he was doing wrong.It’s more fun that way.If you sin,sin big!
A man who seduces women merrily one after the other may have no idea it might be wrong.Neither might the women.
Why is it wrong?Surely it’s better than killing people or leaving the lid off the jam all night so the wasps get into the jar?
Still,not many men get the chances that Stan got.No-one suspected this kindly,handsome practicing Catholic was a womanizer despite his blue beard,green eyes,white skin and red hair.And his slim yet strong figure clad in navy trousers and white shirts all the year round.Maybe his wife did but she preferred to read Aristotle in bed and dream about mercury… those little silver balls are so cute!
Well,as we know,Stan is about to make Annie his mistress but in such a cold wet summer,where can he take her to do the deed?
The shed?The public library? Cafe Nero?
I owe it to you not to tell you yet.That will give you time to think of a solution for this sweet old man and his naughty but nice neighbour.
Like,how about the confessional in the local Church?
Whatever next?I owe it to myself to keep it secret as you may come along and spoil the fun.
Stan went indoors and washed up in the boiling hot water he kept by him constantly as he owed it to himself to be ready to make a hot drink at any moment he fancied and by gum,he did fancy like no man has ever fancied before.So his daemon tells me.
Next time:Why did God create Stan and why does it matter?
Pray, Father,I give you my blessing
That’s the wrong way round.Never mind,Tell me your original sins.
We don’t have to confess those surely.We are born like that.
I mean I am fed up with boring sins like theft and swearing.
I don’t know if I can think if any sin except I bought my husband some soap called Allure.If it does allure he might be unfaithful and it will be my fault.
Don’t worry about the future.At least he will smell nice in bed.You should get Chanel Number 5
It might confuse the cat in bed.
Why, do you make love to the cat?
No, but the cat sits on top when we do it.
So what’s the problem?
If the cat hates Chanel Number 5 he might leave the room and love without the cat is not what we are used to
But it’s not a sin!
Oh dear.I can’t think of anything else.
You must try harder
Do you mean to remember sins or to commit more?
Whatever,it gets really boring in here.
Would Jesus say that?
He didn’t speak English.
Won’t he have learned in heaven?
I know on earth everyone online must know English but they have no Internet in heaven.
How can you prove that?
Heaven was there before it was invented
So was England!
I see what you mean.But if they had the internet it would make them sad to see us being so cruel to the vulnerable.
But only if they knew English!
Well for your penance write to the Council and ask for unisex lavatories.
I thought they were all the same except some have differet handles.
I mean that there will be just lots of loos for all races,sexes and genders.You won’t have to prove your are biologically man or woman.
OK,Father and I will keep a diary of my sins online
Will it allow comments
I’ll have to see how I feel.
You feel nice to me.
How do you know?
Because I am your cat.
How did you get in there?
The priest is in love with me!
I DON’T BELIEVE IT!
When I bought the batteries
They said, where are you from?
I said, I come from Darlington.
I’m British and I’m glum.
Your accent is not English
Your smile is much to warm
You must be from a Nordic state
You’ve come to do us harm
I asked them why it mattered
What my background was.
They said we don’t like foreigners
Because,because,because.
I asked to use the toilet
They said, you must give proof
That you are a real lady
And not a man in truth.
They did not accept my gender
So I had to wet my pants
And my old man was angry
He hollers and he rants
Must I bare my organs
To prove I am female?
Or will I be arrested
And thrown into the jail?
Soon I shall not go to town
Because I feel so bad
That toilets are not unisex
And foreigners have fled.
Apparently a new law is being passed which says we have to prove we are male or female biologically before entering the boys’ or girls’ bathroom
This is a really good idea because it will create thousands of new jobs.Because every toilet outside of our own home we will have to be inspected to make sure we are in the right toilet.So a new job of willy inspector is to be created
Men and boys will have to show their willies to the guard outside the toilet and if they have none they will be sent to the girl’s toilet.But that is harrassment to make them show they are trans in public.Surely that is not kind.
But as revealing your willy in public is a crime you may get arrested for indecent behaviour.The next minute you will wet yourself.I foresee a big rise in sales of nappies.Then you will be in prison awaiting trial and there are no toilets as the government can’t afford inspectors in prisons
The numbers of judges will rise and even the judges will have to bare their willies if they want to go to the men’s toilets and then they will be arrested too which is whimsical
It could be that 50 % of the population will be employed inspecting others’ organs
Then the next hard question is: what if the willy inspector wants to go to the toilet? Is this like Russell’s paradox?
Meantime, how will people queuing for the ladies prove they are ladies biologically ?The best way is to make it a crime for women to wear clothes.Then we can all see whether they have willies and it could make some of us more neurotic
We can manage without clothes like the Patagonians
.Of course some men might be affected by naked women in their offices but there is always a difficulty which can be over come.The main trouble here is for trans females.The answer is to let women trans or not use separate cubicles in the toilets so nobody will see their organs of whatever kind.
We’ll see more new crimes like women arrested for walking round the shops wearing dresses.Then the police will undress them in public.Remember France last summer?
So we will need more police and we will have all the clothes shops going bust.
Why not have just one lot of toilets for everybody.No urinals,jusy lots of cubicles? I never liked urinals.They are a form of abuse to women… harrassment, you’ve seen nothing yet.They are just so men can show off
And suppose some men like exposing themselves?They’d be at the toilet 10 times an hour.When would they work?
The whole thing is a farce.
Let’s all go behind a Bush.
After loss comes shock then follows grief
We learn in little steps the loved one’s gone
Unless we want to lie and make believe
Courage helps the heart and helps perceive
The wounding blows that hit us one by one
After loss comes shock and, later, grief
Unless we wish to spurn and not receive.
The grace which comes with truth can be foregone
When we like to lie and make believe
Without mourning, no-one can conceive
Creative living may have been and gone
After loss comes shock and, later, grief
Forgo your friendship with those who deceive
Find the source of love which dwells within
Do we wish to lie and make believe?
Misperception is the home of sin
Attacked,deceived , wrapped up in virtual din
But after loss , we must digest our grief
Unless we wish to live in make belief
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
The sacred, silent space unoccupied
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.
We centre our whole self on the absurd
For iPads cannot pass through any eye
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
God no longer feels inclined to share.
The golden cloud of angels cannot fly
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.
The altar’s stripped, the rituals are nightmares.
The ancient priest says Mass and wonders why
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
A virtual wall stops grace from being shared.
Jesus is made flesh and , silent, dies
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.
No man is an island,John Donne cried
But now there is no truth to satisfy
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/articles/detail/92189
“Poets are seekers and questioners. They explore the unknown and help to give it shape. The insights and wisdom in the following poems below are hard-won; more often, it is simply the naming of the fear—personal, spiritual, or political—that offers solace, reminding us that people are connected by our worries and doubts as well as our joys. By resisting closure and easy answers and sounding out the darkness, these poems remind us that poetry has always been able to cope with uncertainties, ambiguities, and shades of gray.”
There were three of us on this motorbike,
Father Dan with me,
And he had Jesus in his bag.
That makes the total three.
Transubstantiation, oh my Lord
I looked at his bag.
Is Jesus really inside there, I thought?
Should it have a tag?
It’s a secret never told
But Father Dan gave it me to hold.
So I had Jesus in my lap,
No wonder there’s a hole a gap.
We zoomed off up an unmade road
As fast as Dan could go.
I felt bewildered and bemused,
I loved my Daddy so.
Father Dan took back his bag,
And went inside our house.
I got my marbles out to roll,
And I ate a chocolate mouse.
So Three of had taken a ride
And after that my Dad had died.
I saw Father Dan say Mass today
With holy Jesus,so I cried.
Seems like a dream, I’m riding in this car
He’s kind; he’s bright ; he likes to drive and chat.
We’re intellectuals; ha ha ha ha ha!
I wonder if the house is very far.
I’m happy not to map read; I sit back
In my dream, I’m cosy in this car
The motorway is salted, frost to clear.
In the fields, looks like they’ve emptied sacks.
The cars spin round; so merry, like a fair.
I like the softened meadows’ silver stare
M25, I thought I’d not be going back
In my dream, I’m flying but to where?
This frosted grass has beauty debonair
Once stubble used to burn and make skies black
Crossing Essex, flames would fill the air.
The dear child sits behind me, tra la la!
I like his magic and the way his marbles clack.
He likes to hear me humming, fah la la
Oh, how he drives well in the fierce sun glare.
He never swears nor shouts; he brings good luck
The sun lights boldly trees with branches bare.
I feel relaxed, enjoy the comfy car.
His little boy asks, Daddy is it far?
I look up our small street,
To see if you are coming.
I don’t know what time it is,
But I think I hear you humming.
You sang sweet songs for us,
And you could whistle well .
You wore an old tweed jacket
You loved us,I could tell.
I look out there each day,
But I can’t see your tall, thin shape.
I saved your Woodbine packet,
It made me feel some hope.
What does death’s door mean?
Where has Daddy gone?
When will be the welcome day,
When we hear his songs again?
I’ll hum like him all day,
I’ll dream of him all night.
I hope he won’t be angry,
If his cigarettes won’t light!
He can’t write his own songs now.
He went too far away,too soon.
I’ll write down what I think he sang,
And I’ll invent the tune.
I hear him singing now,
He dwells inside my heart.
And though I still can’t see his face,
I recognise his Art.
The sun shone at the rubbish tip so I used it as a pen
Prose at any other time is acceptable but in the late winter we need poetry.
A solitary ghoul hid invisibly in the wardrobe with my dresses and whispered poems into my ear.
That’s my excuse and I never use it.
A hole full of invisible banging ghosts annoyed us all day and the
sea gulls annoyed us all night.
Or perhaps it was the other way round?
A bowl full of tomorrow’s roses will be welcome tonight at dinner.
A rubber sole of discretion for spies is available on demand.Apply carefully
Getting a fiery heart helps you to keep warm but it can burn out faster.
Abandon whips and shades of grey.We want roses all the way
About traces of flu…wash them away with TCP or hot Tea
Above soared the swallows and one bit my tongue …was that wrong?If it was I am Wang
Do the rich prey on humans ?
Absence makes the heart grow in yonder green valley where a pretty lady lives.
Absolute power disrupts dissolutely and powerlessness is the same
A face in a hole depicts existential nothingness in graphic
detail.
It’s a cartoon for tea today
God save our butter beans.Long live the baking queens~
Long may you hear sunbeams at night
God waived our dreams.
Too many fools are stewing in all our state offices.
Did poinsettias come here from some other place or are they natives?
Immigrants?Send me back to Saxony to the farm my ancestors mowed [My name before marriage was Saxon]
Too many people let out their wrath.On immigrants
Achilles.. no deal
Too many fools embroiled in governing others
The finger on the dial keeps looking for the loo.
We are in this boat together
Sailing across the bay.
Some have an easy voyage,
The wind is blowing their way
I wish I could always be sailing
Across an ocean with you
And never reach the other side
though it may be in view.
I want to see the sunrise
Across the dappled sea.
The ripples of the water
Reveal a new world to me.
One day this boat will reach the shore
Unless destroyed by storm
And I shall have to leave your arms
Where I have been so warm.
So just before we get there
I wanted you to know
That I shall always love you
Wherever you may go.
Herschel Grynspan spoke the words of all who suffer in a strange land because of hate and fear, discrimination and prejudice, race and gender, and envy. Compare his plea to those of Shylock in Sha…
Source: Herschel Grynspan’s and Shakespeare’s plea for humanity
It seemed a good idea at the time.But the timing was wrong.Shakespeare was my boyfriend’s friend.To be honest he was a cat.So to preserve my modesty I slept with the cat and not the boyfriend.Just another natural disaster in every day life.
Still,a cat has eyes unlike a flea which is what I sleep with now;
I know only because it bites me in the night!Possibly it was from the cat and became a multitude like my sins .which are mainly of omission.A few are cultivated and the rest grew like weeds.I feel such shame when I think of my life,sleeping with everything but a human being. Intimacy with moths does not contribute to literature or any other human undertaking and yet it saved a man from torment loving a woman with such a strange personality.So that is good.I also wrote a few plays
A midsummer night’s scream.
Julius seized me.
Richard the Blurred
King Fear
MacDuff,the pudding
Hamrent
Hamerous
Hams of old England.
Nymphs and Leopards.
Liebscreamsche
Nietzsche’s word was my father.
Who won the Bore?
England’s screaming peasants blend
Death ,where is thy King?
Foreigner’a rile us.
Boldlock the beloved
I made a few dollars selling myself to an owl
.Beyond that my life is herstory.
Can I get bail?I hope the judge is lenient
The summer heat of Monday disappeared
The brightness of the sky filled me with love
Winter is still closer than we feared
Now in the gale the trees of birds are cleared
Grey rain clouds will congregateI above
The summer heat of Monday disappeared
In a winter storm, I am not scared
I watch the channel of the soothing dove
Winter is still closer than we feared
I’m lonely, sitting restless in the chair
Even death can feel like a rebuff
The ardent heat of Monday disappeared
The trees are calmer now, as if they care.
I feel I ‘ve lived with anguish long enough
Darkness is still closer than we feared
The tress are sacred standing in the grove
A second is eternal in rheir love
The summer heat of Monday disappeared
Winter is much closer than we feared
http://www.artsreformation.com/a001/dr-rightwords.html
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Poetry and Prose: Choosing the Right Words © 1997 by Dorothy E. Robbins   A good vocabulary, gained through reading good poetry and prose, enhances poetic expression This is a poetry column. Why would one discussing how to write good poetry encourage the readers to read good prose? Of course, we know that prose and poetry are closely related and parts of the language of every nation; both are means of communicating ideas and, obviously, one uses the same words for both. The conclusion is, therefore, that a well-read person has a larger vocabulary than one who reads little. This is not just a great asset, it is essential if one wants to write either prose or poetry and write it well. We want to see today how reading good prose helps one write good poetry – as well as discover through this how these two differ – as they very definitely do.If one has a large vocabulary, one can pick and choose to find just the right word. And choosing the right word can make a difference in several ways. For example, which word would you choose if you were creating a poem using one of the following lines?
Perhaps you would say that the word “weep” has a softer, more sympathetic sound. You might also realize that the alliteration between “weep” and “when” is pleasing to the ear and heart. Now, listen to the remainder of the poem and think how different it would have sounded if the word “cry” had been used. Note, also, other uses of alliteration that help to emphasize the ideas and lead one to the conclusion and climax at the end of the verse.
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‘She held me in her arms and caressed me
Though she is 87 . I am 93.
I felt a warmth run down my outside leg
The dog had peed on me, though taught to beg.
There was nothing else to do but strip right off.
When she saw me nude it made her froth
Are we not too old for pleasures rash?
Why do you not get the loving crush?
Get into bed and caress my left knee
For it gives excess suffering unto me.
Why go to bed when you need physiotherapy?
I read that lesbians enjoy sex,so why not me?
Well do you wish me bite your outer ear?
No,I prefer the love without the fear.
Why not hug and kiss and say night prayers?
We can get to sex by gentle layers.
No,we are too old we cannot wait
We might die and it will be too late!
Well,if I die there are some younger folk!
Ah,but they don’t talk the way you talk.
So why are we in bed just to converse?
I just desired to be me and perverse.
Well, let me rub your back with chilli cream
If it hurts your bum ,you’ll have to scream.
What will the doctor think if I’m all red?
Just tell her this: a tiger shared your bed
But would a cat be able to apply
This chilli cream to me at its first try?
I guess I’ll have to do a Ph.D
Called, what the cats I love have done to me.
Do you think I am a masochist?
I fear I cannot answer till we’ve kissed!
And after that my memory is quite blank
If I am not a virgin,I’m a crank.
To think I had to wait till 93
To know what my own sex could do to me.
Of all the seasons, I love most the Fall
When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves
They love to toast themselves in summer sun
And want no shelter from the Western wind.
While squirrels hide their nuts and batten down
For winter on this European isle.
For those who wish there is the Shopping Mall
Where they forget thin nature now bereaved.
For children playing ball is joy and fun,
With grazed legs and knees forever skinned
Meanwhile the rich put on their evening gowns
And after dinner, dance and woo a while.
But many like myself desire the call
Of knotted hedge and bent aslant old trees
Of damp long grass and hares wild on the hunt
For winter madness makes all beasts grow thin
We in old wool coats will crouch and frown
In camera, waiting with our hearts docile.
Yet,there is a threat in hearing, Fall
As if our forebears could have lived quite free
Unclothed and loving, dreams of human’ haunt
As if we could wind back the reel and film again.
Knowing this impossible we’re drawn
To fall ourselves and sleep and never smile.
The world itself is dance, it is a Ball
If we lose our thoughts and merry be
Give ourselves what we most truly want
This world was made for us to span and scan
Every plant for you and me is grown
And so we smile and smile on Europe’s isle
Cod rows on crust
Cod raised on toast
Salmon sand witches
Herring aid chips
Fat beef and moan.
Lamb chops home groan.
Chicken. if you ask it!
Beef minces with harlots and turned hips
Toast lamb bundles with sweet potted toes;
Greasy pudding with meat spores and sprouts
Jelly sets
Free carnations with milk
Figs in a blanket.
Busted tarts.
Lemon mice.
Yoga hurts,wide selection
Creme brew-lay.
Bavarian looms.
Jam and rubber sponge with dream
Ill bred and battered pudding with real raisins and bastard.
In the gusts of wind small children dance
The leaves, though brown,seem lively as they’re blown
These ancient leaves seem merry as they prance.
Falling down and bouncing , happy chance
It is an act more dangerous to the old
In the gusts of wind our children dance
With such leaves, a cat may find romance
They tickle him in places far too bold
The long dead leaves seem merry as they prance.
This cat and I now share sardonic glance.
His eyes are golden with a hint of cold
In the gusts of wind , all children dance
Though we don”t worship God, what is the chance
That love itself descended from that throne?
The lusty leaves seem merry as they mince
Here I stand ,by sadness overthrown
Till some human calls to take me home
Yet in this gale, the children can’t but dance
Dynamic leaves show passion and entrance
grief is a house that disappears
each time someone knocks at the door
or rings the bell
a house that blows into the air
at the slightest gust
that buries itself deep in the ground
while everyone is sleeping
grief is a house where no one can protect you
where the younger sister
will grow older than the older one
where the doors
no longer let you in
or out”
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Yesterday the sun was fearsome gold
The sky of cerulean blue was summer warm
Yet now I tremble in the dreaded cold
Where are those arms in which I once was held;
Where the smile and where the loving balm?
Yesterday the sun was fierce with gold
Once, with love I was made kind yet bold
I rested on the strength within his arms
Yet now I tremble in the stealthy cold
My heart is crying. for love now seems withheld.
And no protection shields me from dread harm
Yesterday the sun was warm and gold
With his body I once wished to meld
I gave myself to hold him then so warm
Yet now I tremble in the stealthy cold
Grief can cause both tears and wild alarm
Yet music or the song of birds is balm
Yesterday the sun flew starred with gold
Yet now I clothe myself to live with cold
Give sorrow words, to understand this grief
All losses make a mighty river flow
Contribute your vision to our need.
Your tears will raise from death the holy seeds
Your pain a sacred catalyst for growth
Give sorrow words, to understand this grief
Nothing shall be wasted,not a leaf.
I know we’ll take and keep a sacred oath
Contribute your vision to our need.
The words when chosen bring us to relief
As a person lives so shall they sow.
Give your sorrow words, to understand all grief
Inside our heads and guts, our feeling seethe
Love is here yet all of us will die
Contribute your vision to our need.
Nothing in this poetry’s a lie.
Every human soul will say,goodbye.
Give sorrow words, to satisfy your grief
Contribute your visions to our needs.
