The thundercloud of anger  hangs down low
As if it were not human in its start
Exploding rage will bomb the crops  below

The trickle, when blocked off, will grow and grow
A  sulk  becomes  a threat, a ruinous art
The thundercloud of anger  hangs down low

When the feelings like young rivers flow;
When we do not feed  resentful hearts,
Exploding rage won’t harm the crops  below

If we don’t retaliate with blows
But hold the pain as if in counterpoint
The thundercloud of anger melts  and so it goes

In every heart, an hatred is disowned,
Or venom lodges in the nerves and joints
Calm the rage, don’t harm the crops  below

How difficult it is to  play our parts
Without the rage destroying lovers’ hearts
The thundercloud of anger  shrinks to show
Our firm desire to save the crops below?

When insults and wild taunts were sent to me
It was the grace-mucked ego of the man
He  climbed the titles of my poems like trees

Where once he had imposed a love of knees
Instead, he used bad language like “foregone”
His insults and mild taunts were sent through me

He followed me in a secret up this tree
He liked to  compound  interest, just for fun
He wrote my poems and tested my gee bee.

We know that hate  can cry and love can gleam
At best, he  varnished ladies  till  they shone
He consummated love with  almost  three

And yet he had his welcome dignity
He wrote real swell as if he were a  man
He might have caught me if I charged him free.

The closeness of a bond  can overcome
The hatred  that’s engendered being twins
His interest and his haunts were  agonies
He used the titles complimentarily

Caution’s a necessity  nowadays
Once it was the province of the shy
As everywhere our private life’s displayed

For getting information we must pay
We use search engines and their words apply
Is caution called a  virtue nowadays?

Some folk fear so freeze in their dismay
They ruminate and never can decide
But everywhere  our private life’s displayed

Others are too trusting in their ways
Fools rush in and other folks deride
Is caution a necessity today?

For politicians, eyes and ears are wide
But lips are tight, as over us they ride
Caution is the virtue of the day
Yet everywhere our private life’s displayed

If you hear voices as did Joan of Arc
Don’t let on,just be polite and smile
Those who speak with God find it’s no lark

I used to sit with my dad in the park
He liked to talk and I  was soon beguiled
Do you hear voices as did Joan of Arc?

Inside my heart, his conversations sparked
When he died,my life went into file
Those who speak with God find it’s no lark

I put my games and dolls in cupboards dark
Silently, I  filled my heart with ice
Do you hear voices as did Joan of Arc?

I was mute until God’s angel spoke
He told me I  would know much love despite
Those who speak with God have built an Ark

I never would be rich in money bright
But love would come and go like a spring tide
Do you hear those voices, Joan of Arc
Those who  hear from God don’t want to talk

A day of travelling to the Testing Zone
The path lab always full of blood and pee
You must not take some others, take your own

Across the suburbs, blossom overblown
Pacifies the pavement, road and me
A day of travelling to the Testing Zone

Undress, bin bag  your clothes,you’re not at home
After scanning, you are clothed anew
You must not steal from others, wear your own

I hear a ghost, as if my loved one groans
Away, you thoughts, I am already blue
After travelling back to my own home

I wish I were an animal alone
Not subject to a doctor’s point of view
You must not ail like others, ail and moan

I wish I were the Queen upon my throne
Or in a bed with Leonard Cohen’s blues
He lived  and he  composed in Testing Zones

I guess it’s either X rays or gurus
We’re grateful that our parts are now un -lewd
A day of travelling to the Testing Zone
I must not hurt the others,a moron

Why was cruel torment thought virtue,
Imitating Christ, re-crucified?
Did these holy virgins leave a clue?

Some pierced their own bodies, blood was due
Did that lead to later genocides?
Why was sadomasochism virtue?

I refuse to stand to see that view
But ignorant of the past, I can’t deride
Did the holy bothered have a clue?

Hurting our own bodies, sexual clue
Did they all unknowing, gratify?
Was such sexual torment overblown?

Heretics were burned, their souls were soot
Burnt offerings,  yet again a sacrifice
Such thoughts the Nazis had, they killed the Jews.

Attention seeking Christians deified.
What being is a God thus satisfied?
Why were death and suffering a virtue?
The holiness of sexual love was never known.

I  dislike  an image of an arm or  head
Cut off and separate from the holy whole
Nor a  leg that has no mate inside the bed

I like to see us as complete instead
Then I want to viscerally feel the soul
I  dislike a cut off arm, big toe or  head

Symbolically, without my  mate.now dead,
I confess I feel confused about my role
Like a  leg that has no mate  and feels like lead

But what is it that makes a whole when we’re in bed?
Two human beings bodily enthralled?
I  dislike to see a  man without a head

Could we sleep with cats and rout the dread?
I don’t like seeing parts when they play roles
Like a  leg that has no mate nor even peg

I hate to see a  frog inside a bowl
I can’t eat fish, their eyes look so appalled.
I  dislike  the  image of a  cut off  head
And  a  leg that has no mate but hops instead

s

I have  filled my mind   with  dreams   and thoughts
I have drawn conclusions  that seem real.
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

As Ted Hughes said,  his fishing was the sport
Which brought both meditation and a meal.
I have   studied minds   and  dreams   and thoughts

We see ,like that,   new images are caught.
In silence and in noticing  the feel
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

What we find may not be what we sought
At  first ,it may not show its wise appeal
I have  found  my mind   through  dreams   and thoughts

In the night the images  take flight.
God’s lioness  destroys what  is  congealed
What’s of  value’s not by effort wrought.

Like a butterfly, a flowering dart
Of love and beauty  which was once concealed
I have  found my mind  by  dreams, my  wordless thoughts.
What’s of  value’s not by effort bo

Confusion melds the disparate into  one
We forget distinctions and combine unlike.
Paranoia  circles   like a  shrieking bomb

We’re acting in a film and come undone
The villain and the victim pass our sight
Confusion melds the disparate into  one

The victory of deep  secrets comes undone
At most, we hope to see  the ghost alight
Paranoia  panics   thus; oh,  shrieking bomb

The light of ages is not made for fun
Some are merely nibbled, some take bites
Confusion melds the disparate into  one

At last, there is the silence of the tomb
After death, we  choose the sacred rites
Paranoia   circles  in the  shrinking room

What can happen, what is given rights
What we see and what is our of sight
Confusion melds the disparate into  one
Paranoia  sparkles  like a speaking bomb

Each day overlaps the one before
The end is not as sudden as the clock’s.
Now I sort out stuff from off the floor.

In our dreams, we  find the  image store;
Turn the key and open up the box
Each day overlaps the day before

The future, too, lives partly in our core.
Yet  there is an energy  that blocks
And tosses symbols back, not wanting more.

Did contempt give birth to  Storm troops at the door?
For armistice is but defeat half cocked.
Each day  remembers half the day before

Dishonour is a path to further war.
Respect must  be the way to better plots
Now I tend the injured on the floor.

The message hides inside  grandfather’s  pot
Where once loose tea  with brandy used to sit
Each day lingers  on the day before
Now decipher what the liars saw.

The eager sunshine gave a brilliant start
A little spur to those who lie in bed
But now the day is growing fierce and dark.

My dreams crowd on the boundaries of my heart
I half remember confusion and hot dread
The surprising sunshine gave a better start

I thought I had not slept much of the night
Yet images of colleagues filled my head
And now the day is growing fierce and dark.

Why was Jesus called a living Light?
The metaphor, electric, confused hell
The fiery sunshine gave a  fearsome start.

In strong sunlight, patterns seem so stark.
Nature’s shapes and metrics better read.
I see my own shape matched up in part.

I  lie alone where once I was well wed.
No arms surround me now but those of God
The gift of sunshine made the angels start.
But now the devil hurls a savage spark.

The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm
They have their form, their shape, their wistfulness
What is dead no longer does us harm

Thus being dead is no cause for alarm
There is no need to suffer loneliness
The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm

As they age, they look like a dead palm
The sort we got in church had comeliness
What is dead no longer does us harm

The secret of long life is keeping calm
And looking at the world with gratefulness
The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm

Meditation on dead flowers is balm
We fear no longer our own death’s fullness
What is dead no longer does us harm

Waste not time in hateful wilfulness
We sing with love our own dawn choruses
The dead flowers in the vase have certain  charms
What is dead no longer may  alarm

I had six inky pages of crushed notes.
From a villanelle I tried to write
Corrections,edits, what I thought, I wrote.

Some of it was cliche or was quote
It was a very private, hidden sight
I had six pages of cramped inky notes.

Should I  reveal the work I  do, first thoughts,
Or keep you in the dark about my rites?
Corrections, edits, what I thought, I wrote.

There is  no answer only many “oughts”
Should these hidden jumbles come to light?
I had six scrambled pages of my notes.

My first thoughts of a theme are scarcely taut.
The   process opens windows shut and tight
Corrections, edits, what I thought, I wrote.

First, the  buried feelings must be caught
For my deeper thoughts, I watch at night.
I had six scrambled pages of my notes.

Passionate the feelings that ignite
The work of  poets with  their fiery sparks
I had six inky pages of handwritten notes.
Corrections, edits, what I  caught at night

We’re not drowned but dumb, inert, we float
Glancing at the News  with great alarm
As if we have no choice, no voice, no throat

We  signal no one, so there’s no lifeboat
And all alone we suffer greater harm
We’re not drowned but dumb, inert, we float

The organ shudders with its final notes
No more to play toccatas, no more charm
Do we have no choice, no voice, no throat?

From the others, we grow more remote
Feel we’re suffering from a dreadful storm
We’re not drowned but dumb, inert, we float

See the powerful, how they, selfish, gloat
How we long for comfort and for warmth
Do we have no choice, no voice, no throat?

Now we pray for peace and seek for balm
Will our human world gain greater calm?
We’re not drowned but dumb, inert, we float
As if we have no choice, no voice, no throat

Christian rites clothed Europe but skin deep
Forced  conversions led to spiritual death
Under fragile skin, barbarians sleep

Savage wakening; hatreds  outwards leapt
Till all of Europe burned with a  vile breath
Christian rites clothed Europe but skin deep

The military, the  rulers, the elite
Killed young men to vent imagined wrath
Under fragile skin, barbarians slept

At the side, the devil has his seat
See he smoulders, brilliant, violent, tough.
Christian rites clothed Europe but skin deep

G-d’s  own chosen , sacrifice  complete
Jesus  dies so  many, many deaths
Under fragile skin, barbarians sleep

Depart from me, you tricksters, feral, wild
Dressed as gormless youth or aged man
My  home is poisoned, by you struck, defiled

My hair stands up, my temper restless, riled~
Will impose a duty on your clan
Depart from me, you tricksters, feral, wild

Now, the rule of law has judged your trial
From this city, you are ever  banned
My  home is poisoned, by you struck, defiled

Flames  like hell  with length more than the Nile
My hatred is immense in all its strands
Depart from me, you tricksters, feral, wild

The judge has spoken, now the words are filed
In the past, you’d burn with iron brands
My  home is poisoned, by you struck, defiled

Over England, over Europe’s lands
Workless men are roaming in their bands
Depart from me, you tricksters, feral, wild
My  home is poisoned by your tricks agile

The kindly burglars knocked down my nice wall
They said they did it to prevent the Fall
What could I do to repay
Such actions that need never have been made?

They were  fallen, had  eyes  like  the  dead
As if they carried backpacks filled with lead.
I gave  some drinks  while others went upstairs
To see what women keep inside their lairs.

As my clothes seemed piled in jumbled heaps
The very sight gave these thieves’ hearts a leap
Underneath the surface all was neat
Except for towels  all mingled with red sheets

I have no diamond ring or even pearls
No emeralds green sit on my large armchair
They realised they would find nothing here
Except for many bottles of brown beer.

Remember that the Fall has taken place
So ugly hearts  may seek your sweet embrace

If you’d like to write a villanelle
Try simple rhyming verse to start you off
You need two lines that rhyme and scan as well.

I like Dylan Thomas Celtic’  soul
Do not go gentle, go out very rough
If you’d like to write a villanelle

What’s the topic, whose the need to tell?
Penetrating words like bullets rush
You need good lines that rhyme and scan as well.

In your writing, do the words compel?
You need to read, then haunt a  burning  bush
If you’d like to write a villanelle

Reading feeds you words that shape and mould
While songs  fine music  time will never crush
You need good lines that rhyme and scan as well.

Who can see the fire in god’s  real love?
Who decode the angels’ wings, now crushed.
If you’d like to write a villanelle
You need two lines that rhyme and scan as well.