https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/may/27/jaron-lanier-six-reasons-why-social-media-is-a-bummer?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Born in the 1940s grew up in the 1970s Kathérine

Well there there is a real group called born in the 1940s but it makes me wonder how about when we grow up if we ever do and what it means

in the course of growing up we discover hate as well as love

I’m assuming that most parents give us some love but I can’t help thinking that’s economic factors are very important it’s not just a psychological health of the parents if you can’t afford good food then it’s difficult to relax and care for your family and yourself.

If you are living in much of the private rented sector there is a lot of poor quality housing there and it’s very hard to get repairs and alterations done

It’s always been hard to live on a small amount of money but what’s the first movie making in the last 4 years because the middle classes think but is very expensive now

Butter is always expensive for the poor

I once found some danish but in our kitchen which my mother had hidden for her and personal use

Then my brother was very good climbing so eventually he was big enough to climb to the very top shelf in the kitchen where mother had hidden some chocolate biscuits i’m not sure who they were for. Well I didn’t get any of them that’s why when I was 5 ft 7 inches tall I weighed seven stone if any mother was still alive I would still wait seven stone almost probably I would have died of starvation because I was not aggressive enough to fight for food in fact I didn’t like a lot of food like meat and fish m could it should be because my brother used to tell me she lives in the field over there well that’s what will be having for our dinner on sunday

Then I was punished for not emptying my plate . But never mind my brother used to steal this anyway

Even on christmas day he was stealing turkey for my dinner plate and I was very grateful because I didn’t like it so I live mainly on chips dried peas and butter beans.

https://www.freud.org.uk/2024/07/09/psychoanalysis-with-children-a-brief-journey/#:~:text=In%20his%201908%20article%20%E2%80%9CCreative,to%20access%20the%20child’s%20unconscious.

verykatty@tmail comb

iamshe@bememail.comeon

sumup@seamail.off

furyjury@wonderland.co.uk

malice@pestminster uk

forebrain@mercy.eden.uk

nobodyknew@palace.uk

miaow@wauling.comeoffit

Talcum powder

https://holisticmentalhealthnyc.com/why-talk-therapy-doesnt-resolve-trauma-and-what-does/

Conversation is a form of play

We take our turns to let the other say

When we pray we hope that God will hear

We send our spoken music without fear

If no one responds what shall we do?

The mouth turns dry our lips are sealed  with glue

I wonder who we talk to as we moan

Repeating cliches drop like  dead grey stones.

You think you speak to me but you are wrong

I hear no music and I hear no song

It’s hard to leave a gap for others words

when we fear their sharpness like small swords

But in the end we must hear or die.

Yet if none will speak they tell no lie

Come back to me, my sweetheart
Don’t leave me all alone.
Come back to me, my darling
I can’t believe you’ ve gone.
I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.
I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.

Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty
And my voice forever young.
Let me tempt you with my spirit
My laughter and my songs.
I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.
I’m crying ‘cos with you I  still belong.

I thought maybe I’d follow,
To see where you have gone
But there’s a hand upon this tiller
That is not mine alone.
I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.
I’m crying ‘cos I’ve been lonely for too long.

The hand upon my tiller
The mystery of the dark
The unknown one who lives in me
And sings like a skylark.
I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.
I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue.

How beautiful it was when the sun shone
And I walked with you,my dear husband, through the gardens.
How happy I was to sit with you by the lake
and to hear the water from the fountain splash.
It's our our favourite music now we cannot visit the sea
To hear the tide rush in,then fall sucking on the shingly beach.
But I see it in my minds eye.
Aldeburgh,the fishing boats go out at sunrise.
I awoke early and saw the sun across the sea
and the boats setting out in the soft light.
Dunwich,the heath filled with birds
the cliff and the beach where sometimes one can find marble
from one of the many churches washed away by the encroaching sea.
And Southwold,the marsh so quiet I heard crickets.
We went across the Blyth in the rowing boat
And saw the place from which our picture of Walberswick was painted...
If only life could be captured,slowed, for a few minutes
for us to receive the beauty and hear the sound of the sea
The everlasting music of the heart

Love drew your face upon my heart

Love makes the tools that we can find

Love like this cannot be bought

In the nets of love we’re caught

By golden threads we are combined

Love drew your face upon my heart

Moved by intuition’s charts

By the fires of geace refined

Love like this cannot be bought

In deep darkness love could start

From the gods love was purloined

Love drew your face upon my heart

From the pits of death we climb.

Love makes the gold we find the coins

Love drew your face upon my heart

Love such as this cannot be bought

Wonkblog

‘Everybody outside of the top is suffering’: How stress is harming America’s health
By Ana Swanson December 13

(Washington Post illustration; iStock)
The stresses of poverty in the United States have grown so intense that they are harming the health of lower-income Americans — even prematurely leading to their death.

A report published Monday by the Hamilton Project at the Brookings Institution finds that stress levels have greatly increased for Americans at all income levels since the 1970s, but especially for low-income groups, as the chart below shows.

The report doesn’t measure stress as we typically think about it in daily life. Instead, the researchers track “stress load,” an index of certain biological markers such as blood pressure, cholesterol level, and kidney and liver function, that they say are “associated with long-term physiological strain.” These metrics are strong indicators of a person’s health and mortality, according to the report.

“The poor have seen really striking increases in the stress load index,” said Diane Schanzenbach, one of the report’s authors and the director of the Hamilton Project.

Can you swallow a tablet now?

No I only got as far as the phone.

Don’t tell me you have swallowed your phone

No I swallowed yours

.Give it back to me at once

How can I do that when it’s inside me? .

Doctor this man believes he has swallowed my phone.

That’s an unusual delusion

But who is deluded?

I’m just pulling your head

Well go and pull  a bird

Don’t be so rude

It’s just that I dont know what’s going on in this place

Don’t worry about that nobody could understand it.

But if you know that nobody could understand it in some sense you must understand it to be able to make that kind of judgment

I see what you mean. We make judgments using some other facility than logic

but we don’t know what we are doing

So it’s not necessary to understand what we’re doing in order for it to be correct

Oh well the human mind has got powers far beyond the computer 

As humans  can only make something which relative to themselves is partial because it was very hard to believe that we could make something more complex than themselves..

Perhaps we’re using the wrong language 

I don’t know what that means actually

I don’t either but can you

get some kind of partial comprehension of what i’m hinting at?

I think so because not everything can be described in simple clear terms

Let’s go out for a drink

Well shall we go?

What about the Swallow and Horseshoe?

I thought you were going to say let’s swallow an horse shoe.

I’m not going down that path again

I just can’t swallow your claim

Digest it

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2024/dec/11/man-88-passes-grade-8-piano-distinction-67-years-after-grade-7?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

When Jesus rose  they asked him how it was

Being crucified upon a cross

I think it must be  trauma someone said

REM might help you sort your head

Jesus stared at them with his great eyes

It isn’t a mere trauma when God dies

Now we have new wars and children bleed

Human sacrifice, where monsters feed.

When Jesus died the sky was black as night

He will rise again and be our Light

Don’t pull me under the water with you  now

Don’t take me to the cavern of the drowned

There’s too many down there already don’t you think?

All pulling on the rope around me wound.

Don’t pull me under the water with you yet.

I’m not ready for another world today

But yes I feel the force of all those hands

And by this family yearning I’m beset

Don’t pull me under the water with you all

Leave me here alone I’m still alive.

Take your hands away from me at once

I don’t want to swim with you much less to dive.

Don’t keep pulling at me all the night and day.

There’s one more act in this my last,my final  play

Posted on November 11, 2017
The summer heat made cobblestones like stoves
The Coronation happened, I know now
We played with melted tar, industrial bairns.

My mother’s hands were black and much beloved
The coal and coke had tattooed her, we sa
The summer heat made cobbles hot as stoves.

In the road, we played our ancient games
The older children passed the knowledge down
We played with melted tar, industrial wains.

The bully boys were cruel , did not heed love
A little boy had tried to be a clown
In summer heat, they beat him on the stones.

We were silent as they flaunted power again;
But in our hearts, we knew we’d let him down
We threw warn melted tar, industrial wains

And in our phantasy, he was alone.
No-one knew who threw the vicious stone
The summer heat made cobbles feel like flames
We played with melted tar, Christ died again

Hope and the infinite brain of being interact
Faith is for the forlorn
Faith is not scorn
Goodness is always approximate
Do bad and become bad.
Fractals made my home infinite
Kill yourself with kindness, instead of others.
Cruelty runs faster but blinder.
Armed struggles are too weighty with meaning.
To eat or not to eat when you are taking antibiotics
Pause before screeching or swearing
Always get washed before you go to breed.
Buy a big bed for when you are both sulking.
Don’t frisk I like to dance

Published by me
poetry writer

The grass was always greener on the other side of the fence where her husband needed to beat a dead horse every day

It was like her washing the clothes in cold water but she was the kettle calling the pot black.

Look at those towels on the washing line they’ve all been tarred with the same brush. And a stiff one by the looks of it

What would you like for your dinner or sorry I mean your snack

I’ve got a tin of baked beans or a can of worms

Would you like those grilled on toast or would you like to eat them straight from the tin with your fingers as it were with some olive oil dip by your side?

I like some sardines now and then but there are plenty of other fish in the sea, you know.

Look at those big clouds I think it might rain if they turned black or should not be if they are already black it will rain come they turn black when they were white to start with.

That’s a very interesting question what makes something gret and black and some white

Well it’s not the same thing as makes horses white black or Gray for sure.

Don’t touch the tiger’s tail it’s not your horse you know it’s not even the toy horse.

Is it a toy tiger? There’s one way of finding out going to its  enclosure because it by the toe and if it doesn’t eat you then it’s a toy

It might be very big

Buses is still a toy but it can’t be transitional object for a baby because it’s bigger than the babies pram

Should we get a larger pram for the baby?

With the tiger by the baby it might fall over and suffocate the child

Well your idea is as good as mine

Are you sure about that

It is what Briton’s have been saying for several hundred years.

Have you got the actual dates yet?

No I’m saving them for Christmas and are you saving anything for Advent

Who is she?

It’s a they

You don’t say anything

I’m going to have another skin coat for Christmas

What sort

Adder.

Well stone the crows

I said it is the Guinness book of records that’s where I found it

Is it anything like green shield stamps? What was the first recorded stamp

Well you’ve got me puzzled alright

Pleased for you I’m so happy I’m going to put the pen down and post a letter this afternoon

The nearer peace, the more savage the acts
Abhorrent to the atheist in us all.
History, undigested ,splits and cracks

As we whites did evil to the black
With little difference, hate in glory calls.
The nearer peace, the more savage the acts

All of us can disremember facts
Israeli hands have gripped and then appalled.
History, undigested ,splits and cracks

As ,with Bomber Harris, Dresden packed
Burned like grass the refugees to ghouls
The nearer peace, the more savage the acts

We deny the healing we have lacked
For Jews we helped destroy, psychotic fools
History, undigested ,splits and cracks

Palestine’s own Arabs are ill ruled
And in return, explode like stubborn mules
The nearer love, the more the hatred whacks
History., unconceivable, directs

https://doaj.org/article/0d8e8356a0a843478413b575b90f6704

https://www.masterclass.com/articles/writing-101-what-is-a-cliche-learn-when-to-use-cliches-in-writing-and-20-common-cliches-all-writers-should-avoid

From the mangled chaos of the lines
Emerge strange forms and all too telling tales
O life satanic and O loss divine

Faces will make then themselves, define
From the compost and the deathly rail
And the mangled chaos of the lines

There is never reason nor a rhyme
As Jonah found when sucked in by a whale
O life satanic and o loss divine

What is living but a life of crime?
Whether trained in Borstal or at Yale
Feel the mangled chaos of the lines

We wander, having leaders well outgrown
Some days it is hell and we just crawl
O life satanic and o loss divine

I believe, in bitterness and gall,
We must hold our spirits as they fall
Dark the mangled chaos of our lives
O love satanic and O loss divine

The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke
The way the back leant curving into space
The dance and danger both are thus evoked

Like a play, a drama, fire and smoke
A dance performed so swiftly and with grace
The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke

The heavy bull is pounding,is provoked.
A threat, a man,  intrudes into his space
The dance and danger both are still evoked

See, the  matador throws out his cloak
A   dash of black, and here we see his face
The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke

The mind needs just a hint to  see the whole
We fill the present with our past distaste
The dance and danger, mirroring dark smoke

 Acting both dramatic and displaced 

The artist may still love what she forsakes 

The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke 

he dance and danger ,life and death evoked

 

The sun leapt like a   glamorous leopard
Crashing  through the mysteries of the  clouds
The  frost and icy air both  shaken,shattered

The Lord to children  seems  like  a good shepherd
King David writes his poetry profound
The sun leapt like a  god, a graceful leopard

Faith  grown  in the dark is what will matter
Belief that love may rise or may descend
Our frost and icy ways are  shaken,shattered

As  the poet’s bruised heart was knocked and battered
God did not console, he was no friend
But a majestic and  devouring  golden leopard

How locked his heart,how might was done and flattered
On his knees he prayed with  head down, bowed
His frost and icy ways were  shaken,shattered

 

And thus it is salvation is endowed
With fearsome beasts, with golden lions proud
The Son of God, a jewelled ,flying leopard,
In the   Arctic air,  a symbol of our rapture

 

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

I can’t write anything new in the moment because I am ill that I put one or two of my own poems here. I was surprised by some of them which I had completely forgotten