The language  we  each tongue is metaphor
A kindly person’s neither soft nor warm.
But using words as symbols, man allures

What we see has never been before
Stereotypes negate  the need to learn
The language that we speak is metaphor

We learn enough; we wish to learn no more
Our walls defend us, aid  in keeping  calm;
To see the world unchanged has some allure.

Our speech is not split off from senses’  glow.
A sentence must connect  the shapes to forms
The language we configure’s   metaphor.

From parents and from neighbors, out words flow
We do not speak   when we lack   loving arms
Yet seeing the world unchanged has its allure.

Risks of newness, doldrums of dull calm;
Let creative humans consecrate and charm.
The language  we all speak is metaphor
So by  great symbols, to shared worlds, we’re lured.

The gray sky and the dullness of the trees
Confirm my heart’s aloofness from this earth.
Yet both await  the movement of the  breeze

Stasis  makes me numb, yet I believe
We shall outlast the pain and feel of worth;
Despite this sky and frost upon the trees.

Carpe diem, would I ‘d hands to seize.
Am I evil, am I under curse,
Waiting for some movement in the breeze?

As winter came, I lost all I believed
But I shall travel , though in emptiness
Despite this sky and frost upon the trees.

Where is that communion I received?
Why must I go through this frozenness,
Waiting for some movement in the breeze?

Why do humans feel we are deceived?
Must we suffer all these little deaths?
The gray sky and the dullness of the trees
Like me await  the whirling of his  breeze

I  thought he said he would import a loo.
What else would a virgin like me  think?
He said,I love you,baby, yes,I do

I  thought grandad  had died when he caught flu
I knew his health was always on the blink
I   wrote, you said  you would import a loo.

I fight off men by spitting super glue
I  wondered why the Queen  had pressed my link
She said,I love you rabid, yes,I do

English people always take the cue.
And peer  into  homes  through a little chink
I   say, you  have  a  super portaloo!

What makes any English virgin  blue?
It’s cold enought to make a polar blink
I  thought you said  you would, in part,  be true

I wonder why the Pope  says crosswords stink
And God stares down to watch him using ink
I  thought  John said he would import  gold too.
Then said,I love you greatly, yes,I do!

War and cities grew up hand in hand
This is a fact that pacifists  all know.
Each city wanted others’ wealth and land

Excuses   cited ,open doors were slammed.
To steal another’s goods made cities grow
War and cities grew up hand in hand

Criminal in truth were their  commands
Strong and vicious acts were  never slow
Each city wanted others’ wealth and land

Too, beauty in a woman  made demands
The suitors gathered with her husband ‘s foes
War and cities grew up hand in hand

And science    gained  opponents’ libraries crammed.
This is how we stole what we now know
Each city wanted women,wealth and land

In modern  times we made some rules  for war
But now post-truth we wander  around  Troy
Warhorses  and weapons  new,  undammed
As cities  tried to steal  the other’s  wealth and land

A red chair decorates my sitting room
Coral red,as if  from  deep sea bed
My  sweet poinsettia  tolerates my gloom

I  turn on radio 3 for   Schubert’s  themes
While this remains, he never will be dead
The red chair speaks salvation from  our doom

To read  of  politicians and their schemes
Makes a noise like thunder in my head
My  poinsettia  aids me  with  post Brexit gloom

Yet is it right to shine a like a sunbeam
While  refugees   trudge silently ,unfed?
The red chair makes a   holy space  for dreams

The rich   plot  death and wealth by legal means
Jesus   hangs alone forever,  dead.
Do churches turn their  vision from this scene?

I observe  my loaves of seeded wholemeal bread.
While  children of this world  starve underfed
The   chair    I write from in my  dreaming room,
With a  red poinsettia, haunt my  dreams

I gave my cat a little  pointed hat
To make him seem  less serious than before
To help him  sit in joy  upon his mat

Tell me why does butter come in pats?
And why have polished handles on the floor?
I  lent my cat a little  silken hat

Wherever I go, there the cat is sat;
My tenses are amix  I do deplore
Yet I’ll  help  the grammar please you  on this  writ.

Would a  little cat vote Democrat?
Would liberty create the wish for more?
I  lent my cat a little   knitted hat

On the door I hear a ra ta tat!
From Amazon ,I’ve bought a breast of drawers
To help my puss   be tidy on his mat

Cats are never restless nor much bored
They pay no tax and often are adored
I gave my cat a little  cashmere hat
What would Father Christmas make of that?

Like a newborn infant left on rocks
My skin feels tender and my heart is sad
I’d like to creep  inside an empty box

I have turned away my  every clock
Whilst I try to improve how I’m clad
With my a newborn infant  on  grey rocks

The people of this world seem   like lost flocks
Like sheep, they folllow men who’re dumb and mad
I’d like to  hide  inside an empty box

Against my ribs my loud  heart seems  to knock
I gasp for comfort even   from folk bad
Like a newborn infant left on rocks

I feel akin to prey, like the red fox
Which o’er long  moors and meadows  has just fled
I’d like to  hide  inside an  metal box

This sorrow seems to sap my own red blood
And in the sky I see  black thunder  mad
Like a  little infant left on rocks
Without your   heart’s embrace I can’t come back

The villanelle won’t jell,I feel dismay.
I know they’re hell ,but they distill my thoughts
A triolet would work if I could play

I boiled the villanelle  to sell    today
I do believe I’m feeling underwrought
The villanelle won’t jell,I feel dismay

I planned to sell the whole lot on Ebay
But someone gave a hint I never caught
A triolet would work if I could play

I appreciate the values of wet hay
My teacher never mentioned  poems  caught short
The villanelle won’t sell,I can’t  display.

Some will plight  their  troth and others  pray
The teacher saw the writing  she’d not taught
A triolet would work if I could play

I wrote a poem with words I had not sought
Is it vice  to pay when we’ve not  bought?
The villanelle won’t jell,I  say,hurrah
A  violin would work if you could play

My muse has gone to Hades, is that hell?
I   sing for her  while my heart palpitates
Lord, I’ll be  in  demonic  space as well

I think my little cat has  lost her bell.
On my plight, I sit and meditate
My muse has gone to Hades, is it hell?

The cat can’t phone, if only she could  yell.
I  hear my thoughts  and manic,  agitate.
Soon I’ll be  in  demonic  space as well

I wish that animals could use a cell.
All they can do is eat and procreate
My muse has gone to Hades, Villa Knell

I hear that poets should show but never tell
All I can do  with wit is cogitate.
Will  I   fly   to inner  space as well?

I earn enough,more than the going rate
I use black pens and you should see my state
My muse has gone to Hades,  give her hell
Damn,  I  am   lured to  ink dark  space as well!

Did I write a villanelle,do tell!
I broke the rules and caused  dismay and doubt.
Did I write a parable as well?

It helps a lot if one knows how to spell
But rules are guides that  we may need to flout
Did I write a villanelle,do tell!

Near the sea of Galilee befell
The miracles  which hint but do not shout
Did I write a parable as well?

Have you tried to write inside a shell?
Have you read the Bible inside out?
Did I write a villanelle,do tell?

This afternoon I was not feeling swell.
The doctor is most kind  when he’s about.
Did I write a parable unwell?

Some folk don’t like government by louts
Demagogues   shout loudly up the spout
Did I write  the villanelle from hell?
Did I write a parable as well?

I’ll have to write a villanelle,oh hell.
My conscience gives me trouble in the night
I don’t know if  tonight I’ll do it well.

At least I don’t need work that I must sell
My conscience is a devil, well,not quite.
I’ll have to write a villanelle;it’s hell.

But people  won’t read rubbish on their cell
My conscience  will   unravel , what a sight
I don’t know if  tonight I can  write well.

I’d rather laze about and  with you loll
Do we need instruction  in delight?
I’ll have to write a villanelle on hell.

Down ye demons; in  my rage I’ll yell
Do we need perception  to do right?
I don’t know if   I  ever  will   see well.

I wish an angel would descend   tonight
I hate to argue hotly or  to fight
I’ll have to write a villanelle, pell mell.
I don’t know if  I’ll  know I have done well.

No clouds and now the sky ‘s dark pink
The stems of leafless shrubs are red
The  sun is peering through a chink

No husband by me now to wink
Nor kiss me when we go to bed
No clouds and now the sky ‘s dark pink

No man to soothe  me with  a drink
No comfort for the heart that’s bled.
The  sun’s still  peering through a chink

The  trash collectors lorries clank
No man  will recall aught I’ve said
No clouds ,no sun, the sky ‘s dark pink

I drove  up to the bottle bank
But have few   beer cans since he’s dead
The  sun’s still  watching through  that chink

Time to go where dreams are shed.
Oh, gambol  nightly round my  bed!
Oh , and now the sky ‘s dark pink
The  sun  and moon speak through the chink

The point of living is to feel alive
Not caged  by  too high walls or steely fence
We want to love,be taken by surprise.

Our  wounded mangled self we can’t deride,
Recalling  fights and  struggles lived  through once.
The point of living is to feel alive.

We dither to and fro in puzzled ways
We feel the anguish, still and quite intent.
We want to love,be wakened by surprise.

The self’s spontaneous, not a thing contrived;
Formed with love and  hate,with all intense.
The rage of living is to be alive.

When washed away by feelings glad,immense
That cross our borders without our lament
The  hope,the need of living is  our life
We want to  give and take  yet fear surprise

Paper flowers

In Richmond they  have voted Goldsmith  out.
And Labour tore themselves apart like wolves.
The Lib Dems   are back  here without a doubt

To Theresa May, the   numbers are a clout.
What  lesson will she learn. what will evolve?
In Richmond they  have called Zac Goldsmith out

Labour’s hopes are running down the spout
Uncertain of their leader,votes dissolved.
The Lib Dems   are back  in, without a doubt

Here  work and love  no longer seem to  count
And pendulums  swing wild  like goaded bulls
So in Richmond now,  they  showed Zac Goldsmith  out.

I meditate   and yet I hear the shout.
Of  people  wild in Richmond,Leicester,Hull.
The Lib Dems are  in business, without doubt

The wise cat ponders on the window sill
Wondering who might  have to pay  the bill
In Richmond  now they  voted Goldsmith  out.
The Lib Dems  live; dispel  your  needless doubt

Trial by life’s an undoable  tryst
Sad days of darkness must come to an end
Trial by life’s an endurable test

 
Send for the minister,send for the priest.
With her long pointed  nails ,she has  her garments  all  rent
Trial by life’s  unendurable  tryst

The priest is  no longer  either sacred or blessed.
The succession  has faltered with  bitter dissent
Trial by life’s an endurable  test

The  people must now to each other confess.
The Tabernacle’s  empty ,for who paid the rent?
Trial by life, who can endure such a   tryst?

We need to look into  our own hearts that curse.
We need to take shelter,though torn is the Tent
Trial by life’s an endurable   test.

Who  gives the verdict,which judge is not bent?
Who can decide whether we should assent?
Trial by life:what a  blow ,what a   fist.
Trial by life:  the unbearable  last

The past is present  till we  listen right
We  did not  wish to hear the words that grieve.
The past is present, must we voice  our plight?

Some  bear burdens, others  wander light.
By strange anxieties, I have been besieged
The past is present  till we  listen right

Some are listeners,some have second sight.
Of my visions I have been bereaved
The past is present,  we must voice our plight

My voice once silent, tension made to bite
By present pain,  my grieving is obliged.
The past is present  till we  listen right

I suffer deeply; others think it slight
By images and words,  this sense’s derived
The past is present,  welcome it, invite

I pray my  tear ducts opening ends the blight
Response to pain can never be contrived
The past is present  till we  listen right

In the depths ,the tears will be received
From  this watering, new thoughts are conceived
The past is present in  wild dreams at  night
The past  lives till we  hear and see it right

How to write a villanelle

The first and third lines are repeated throughout so they are the key.
They also form the last two lines.

So write two lines.I use  five beats [iambic pentameter]

I have lost my mind  in dreams   and thoughts
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought

A villanelle has 5 stanzas of three lines and then one of 4 lines

I decided to alter the first line after musing over it.And I altered it again when repeating  it because I like to do that.My thoughts change it as I move alon

Dreams, my  wordless thoughts.
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

You 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 a  mind  by  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 bought.

Well, a first draft…. why don’t you try?

Why did you  shout at the French police?
Hallucinating  bulls who  cross the sea.
Know  what I thought mirages must  cease.

You  say you’re wrapped in jelly  for  the geese
Yet you  have  heard voices  speak to   me.
Deluded, you  cut out a   flounce  for peace

The prodigal will  not  have  a watch  unswitched
What seemed  good now will not   say, Hi Di
Such wry  messages  are  all  untidy,  creased.

My  specious  grace by worry is now teased.
I would have graded all the people’s  wee
You  shut out  my dance by wearing fleece

Those  who  feel  commotions are the least.
What’s  a bum?Whatever let it be!
So , from  messaging, I  made  a frieze.

In   private parts, I shall curtail your lease.
No longer   yours, I   want   the BBC!
Why did you   snack on the ounce of peace?
Now my Cohen oranges make beasts.