God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone

God is a place we rarely  find alone
His spirit  guides us  past the demons wild
God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone

God gave his prophets  sweet  dark honeycombs
By his word they were struck, beguiled
God is a place we rarely  find alone

The Reed Sea parted  should she risk its foam,
The woman heavy with an unborn child?
God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone

The spirit called a dove  by Leonard Cohen
Caught, entrapped  endangered and   then sold
God is a place   where we  kneel, atone

Shall he  leave us bread or  graven stone?
When we feel afraid, his  love enfolds
God is a place we rarely  find alone

On we wander,  hear  the whisper frail
If we listen well we  will not fail
God is a place we rarely  find alone
God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone

To you my villanelle I plight my troth

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To you my villanelle I plight my troth
A poem both  dignified  and full of play
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

In your form I’ll never insert oaths
Neither will I boast  of making hay
To you, my villanelle, I plight my troth

I’ll take you in my boat to the North Coast
From you I expect  no  greay reward nor pay
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

You are a welcome visitor to host
Though you look both diffident and fey
To you,dear villanelle, I plight my troth

And when my friends come round we’ll drink a toast
To wordsmiths and to poets  on their way
We love your form and elegance ,oh both

On my bed at night I gently rest
Knowing that I wander  as your guest
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

Upend…. the meaning

64406214_10217149919073512_6037183327507578880_n

Photo 20 19 copyright
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/upend#synonyms

Synonyms & Antonyms for upend

Synonyms

beat, best, conquer, defeat, dispatch, do down [British], get, get around, lick, master,overbear, overcome, overmatch, prevail (over), skunk, stop, subdue, surmount, take,trim, triumph (over), win (against), worst

Antonyms

lose (to)

Photo copyright E.  Limbrey

 

 

 

 

Candles

Candle light at Christmas or great Feasts
Softens  all our troubles in its peace
Reminds us of the soothing  kindly light
Protecting us from darkness in the night

Yet candles may fall over over and ignite
Burn down our homes and fill our souls with spite
Nothing is entirely good or bad
This  is true yet it has made me sad

As I lie in reverie in  my bed
I see the long loved faces of souls dead
I smile as these sweet images pass by
Then sleep and dream on with a grateful sigh

Will I one day be passing through your mind?
May all your dreams and reveries be kind

And BTW why are you using Tide?

Would you be more gentle,dear,I cried
She pushed my head as if  it were a stone
I only want my hair washed not to die

And BTW why are you using Tide
Shampoo is much kinder,on I moaned~
Could you be more gentle,dear,I cried

I ‘m glad you don’t  use Ariel,  suicide
She wrote about the Moon, her  love and home
Did she want her hair washed not to die?

In Spain she  bought sardines so she could fry
In the wilds of Devon left alone
Ted was  getting famous, not his wife

I re-enter time ,I let  her dye
My hair is purple when  rinsed  from  the foam
Did Plath want her hair  dyed not to die?

Marriage holds a  breeze but not a storm
The  rose had pricked her finger with its thorn
Could we be more gentle if we tried?
We all need human love or we will die

 

 

 

Where is the world?

The boundary of my self is my own skin
Fragile, and so sensitive,  yet home
Most of what I call me dwells within

Some may have it thicker, some too thin
Some are cautious, some  have heavier bones
The boundary of my self is  my own skin

We  lose the  most beloved of our kin,
We who lose  a lover, still feel torn
Is what I call my self all   held within?

Unconscious feelings lead us  into sin
For  these malicious feelings  let’s atone
The boundary of my self is merely skin

Losing love’s  akin   to losing   limbs
No more around the wild woods may  we roam
Is what I call my self  just held within?

Unwilling, from our mother’s womb we’re thrown
She suffers as  we  leave our  perfect home
If the boundary of my self is my own skin
Where is the world when we call it within?

 

 

Poetry and painting

 

blue and red illustration
Photo by João Jesus on Pexels.com

https://hazlitt.net/feature/why-we-should-treat-poetry-painting

 

Extract:

“Perhaps because poetry is art made of words rather than pictures, readers expect it to communicate more directly. And certainly, some poems are fairly straightforward, in the same way that some paintings are clearly of horses, so that even the title “Horses” is unnecessary. But some poems would certainly gain aesthetically if they were freed from the burden of explanation. Poets themselves, I find, can be resistant to the idea of including notes or epigraphs, feeling that a poem should be self-contained and include all the necessary information. There are plenty of poets who neither provide notes nor contort their poems into self-explanatory shapes—these are some of my favourites, but I have to read them with one eye on the poem and one eye on Google. Who’s Count Westwest? What’s nanofluff? Who’s Joe Sakic? Curatorial text that takes care of some of these immediate questions, and that also provides some interpretative remarks about the poem and how it fits into the poetic tradition, might help new readers appreciate what they’re looking at.”

Once my hand wrote , thoughtless  as a gnome

My punctuation kept me sane and well
But question marks appear and  give me hell
Do I put it here? or at the end?
How can I   calm my mind  yet be on trend?

My spelling too has  driven me insane
Once my hand wrote , thoughtless  as a gnome
I’ve confused its and it’s  and  so much more
I ask my self  if I  can read a score

I cannot add  up money in accounts
And feel  such relativity devout
The phone calls, the utilities, the  noise
My cat won’t  purr  when I feel so  annoyed

I think I’ll leave out all the little signs
Enemies must read between the lines

The parting

My intellect has parted from my heart
Two now dwell within one person’s frame
I am double, I cannot restart

Like a weary horse with heavy cart
I do not want to play  for little gains
My intellect has parted from my heart

My eyes are sad although my tongue is tart
I am the object  of my own disdain
I am double, I  will not restart

Is this the journey with no  written chart?
SatNav  bears no solace for my pain
My intellect deserted this poor heart

Google Maps have missed this savage shark
Which bites and bites but will not kill   the flame
I am  two, dissociated, stark

 

Did I make an error  I can’t name?
Hold me in your arms,love keeps us sane
My intellect has parted from my heart
I am   cut in  two, who wrought this harm?

 

 

 

 

The British turn to verse

administration architecture attractions big ben
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/brexit-britons-poetry-writeapoemaboutbrexit_n_576f87dae4b0dbb1bbbad011

 

Jo Duffy@JoDuffy91

Bigotry hijacked the vote
Unleashing real dangers
Now we’re strangers in a country
That doesnt’ welcome strangers

The bus was cancelled so we had to walk
They blamed Eastern Europe   for the pain
I listened to the idle,foolish thought
I fear  it’s Jesus crucified  again.

Is that leap unjustified, my friends?
It seems God’s punishment will never end
He made us  leave the Garden of Delight
Even though we’re English and quite white
We blamed the blacks and women  and the Jews
Yet mother’s breast was emptied and abject
Look upon the world we may have wrecked
Get to work and sweat and toil  all day
Mathematics, war and bombs  shall prey
To gain salvation we must  love and work
Life is hard and often it will hurt
Acceptance is  survival   and remorse
Jesus came  without the use of force

Play with our doubts

Fear of chaos stopped me looking  out
I could not see its value   nor its  gifts
To see new sights we need to live in doubt

So I  travelled on established routes
I got to places happily and swift
Fear of chaos stopped me looking  out

We often wonder what life’s all  about
Then we hurt our kin, oh love, oh rifts
New wisdom   comes from  fine creative doubt

Forgetting  this we find life full of threats
We swallow drugs and wallow as we drift
Fear of chaos stopped me looking  out

We suffer all  to find what will enchant
Then we are raised high by all we’ve missed
To see new sights we need to  feel our wants

Alert yet indolent   the  wild flowers wish
To  entice honey bees with honeyed flesh
From the Void, God’s word made mountains shout
To see new sights we must play with our doubts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lights go out

And the pure of heart  will see right to
The beginning of the end of me and you
There are no men, the women look again
There’s something in the fire looks like my pen
But who can write when  all the the lights go out?
The women are not women,  the men are  not about
The shadows dance with winds  on lighted walls
The fire burns  redder and the devils  call
It’s hell in here, baby , keeping  living just for you
Who knows what  to do
With the pointed dancing shoe
Half a pair and the women cannot bear
Labour’s lost
Tell  us what it cost

t

I could see the Pennines

I’m looking for a pavement cracked and worn
But now the council put some tarmac down
I make my images from  objects scorned

Artweaver and Pixlr have been warned
I  use  their tools, their feathers,  and their down
I’m looking for a pavement cracked and worn

My hands are full of lines,my nails are torn
My eyes are narrowed,I  intend to frown
I seek my images in objects scorned

I want  the dead, I want our old brick home
I want to dwell  on  moors near Darwen Town
I’m sure their   features  will be cracked and worn

I remember bilberries  and limestone
I  remember larks,  birds free from   bounds
I make my images from  what love scorned

If I  could see  the Pennine Hills  I ‘d drown
To Anglezarke the water’s rippling down
I’m  looking for the place where I was born
The  cobblestones,the kerb ,the  marbled halls

 

 

 

The future

The enemy we  need  is close at hand
Like a secret lover  right next door
We’re always ready with an army band

Today, it is the husband who’s condemned
For dropping baby’s rattle on the floor
The enemy we  love is close at hand

The wife too is quite useful, here she stands
Her pinafore is torn, her heart is sore
She’s turned the sound down on that bloody band

Cain and Abel, was the killing planned?
Look down O God as we  your  skills deplore
The enemy we   want  is close at hand

We have no  theatre, war  is  on demand
And always it is just and it is fair~
We singalong  and wave our bloody hands

An enemy,a scapegoat, a caged  bear
Absorb the torment  we have just prepared
The enemy we  need  is close at hand~
Don’t kill them all at once, the future’s planned

Peace and War

birds flying near body of water
Photo by SamIro on Pexels.com

 

http://www.teachforpeace.org/PEACETEACHWEB/WarPeacePoetry/POETRYWARPEACE.htm

Today is Not a Good Day for War

Today is not a good day for war,
Not when the sun is shining,
And leaves are trembling in the breeze.
Today is not a good day for bombs to fall,
Not when clouds hang on the horizon
And drift above the sea.
Today is not a good day for young men to die,
Not when they have so many dreams
And so much still to do.
Today is not a good day to send missiles flying,
Not when the fog rolls in
And the rain is falling hard.
Today is not a good day for launching attacks,
Not when families gather
And hold on to one another.
Today is not a good day for collateral damage,
Not when children are restless
Daydreaming of frogs and creeks.
Today is not a good day for war,
Not when birds are soaring,
Filling the sky with grace.
No matter what they tell us about the other,
Nor how bold their patriotic calls,
Today is not a good day for war.

-David Krieger, March 2003
USA

The fragile voice

 
bonfire surrounded with green grass field
Photo by Vlad Bagacian on Pexels.com






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 one 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

Love is often near us

Love must be so pliant ,
like a blade of grass,

Bowing to the wind,
till the storm has passed.

Love is enigmatic
Like the sphinx’s smile.

Waiting for an answer,
Nothing is on file.

Love is often near us
Yet we do not see.

Sometimes where we are
Is just the place to be

New mental illnesses.

7985150_f260-2

Art by Katherine

1,Passenger Rage Disorder

This is worse in aeroplanes especially when  they have left the ground.Someone gets upset  and no-one can get out.A few bottles are drunk and then used as weapons
Murder on the Orient Airline

In the worst cases.some passengers stay enraged for ever or  are tried for manslaughter

2.Omnibus psychosis  brought on by  hearing bus  stops or traffic lights speak to you when you are very tired and weary.

3.Brexit-phobia

You  keep passing out whenever you hear the words, Brexit ,foreigners, immigrants referendum,Michael Gove  or Boris.Even  the word cocaine might  bring on panic attacks

4.Hysterical blindness
Stopping an aircraft taking off by mistaking the exit chute door for a toilet door.BTW wait till the aircraft takes off so your wee will evaporate before it reaches the heads of the general public under your flight path

5,May Madness
Calling  for Elections night and day.Refusal to appear on TV when it is a job requirement

6. Paranoia and Fear  of foreigners caused by being cut off from your own Shadow which may be far worse than any European immigrant ever was.

7,Entitlement Psychosis caused by  reading P.P. E  at Oxford and writing essays   after using cocaine instead of tea.

I never knew that  modern bus stops speak

The bus stop says its out of use  this week
Men are digging up the road again
I never knew that  modern bus stops  speak

I wonder will the street lamps follow suit
Their  voices like  the chiming of Big Ben
The bus stop says its out of use  this week

Maybe I can find another route
Will railway stations stutter like shy men?
I never knew that  modern bus stops speak

How to travel ,hearing voices break
Pity and compassion   hit my pen
The bus stop says its out of use  this week

I fear my travel plans  have gone astray
The journey I am on will never end
Did you know that  modern bus stops speak?

From the dark grey sky the rain descends
Evolution staggers round the  bends
The bus stop says its out of use  this week
I never knew that  modern bus stops  speak

 

Poems for Europe

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/may/18/poems-europe-10-national-portraits-ahead-of-european-elections

Extract:

Kosovo

Magazine Kosovo 2.0
Poet Shpëtim Selmani

On the first day blood was created
on the second day death
on the third love was mentioned
and then there were no days left for us

Cocaine is dangerous

rosaalchemyst2019If you take cocaine it can cause the coronary artery to spasm.The blood can’t get through and you get severe chest pain,even a heart attack
It’s not worth it.
Try meditation and stop mixing with or imitating the  corrupt elite and their  hangers on.Stress is better dealt with by  listening to music or listening to the Silence
Be with yourself sometimes
You don’t need  artificial highs.

The mind’s door swings

gray battle tank during daytime
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
When we’re chilled by illness or bereaved
The  spring tides of  the seas of memory  lust
The mind’s door swings,  the  torture scene’s retrieved

Children   have no power and  cannot leave
Adults  fearful,wild, and, more, callous
Caught too soon  by fools and madmen’s weaves
In Europe where the vicious wars' conceived
Children  dwelt in terror,to their cost
As dreadful  memories stole their minds like thieves

Are  souls mature  enough to learn  from such deep grief
When we feel devalued with no past.
When we’re struck by hardships,we still seethe.

Adults have  the power to look, perceive.
Each child is Jesus,tortured on his Cross
This is the horror of  our memories

My heart is   pierced  by children on the News.
Echoes shake  this heart till black and blue.
Whether  felled by error,war ,disease
With patience, may we tolerate unease?

Culture affects what “voices” tell us

mountain
Photo by rehan verma on Pexels.com

Rebecca Solnit: Our Words Are Our Weapons

Extract:

“Mental illness is, however, more often a matter of degree, not kind, and a great many people who suffer it are gentle and compassionate. And by many measures, including injustice, insatiable greed, and ecological destruction, madness, like meanness, is central to our society, not simply at its edges.

In a fascinating op-ed piece last year, T.M. Luhrmann noted that when schizophrenics hear voices in India, they’re more likely to be told to clean the house, while Americans are more likely to be told to become violent. Culture matters. Or as my friend, the criminal-defense investigator who knows insanity and violence intimately, put it, “When one begins to lose touch with reality, the ill brain latches obsessively and delusionally onto whatever it’s immersed in—the surrounding culture’s illness.””

The honey pence

gray and white tabby cat
Photo by Linnea Herner on Pexels.com

Blue toads enlarged in a yellow  flood
And surry I could not blather soist
And be one babbeller, ling I grud
And  clacked one fur- eyed as  ice blood
To  tare it blent  as a wander floweth

Toen blooked by wither, as bossed dax air
And having unhopped the wetter shamed
Oh, goss, wit coast  flash  yet stanted hares
Oh as for thit, they possing  gloired
Had corn them unweilded about das  Rhine

And writh in mourning cheaply dazed
In weaves no step had tradden tslicks
Oh, I whipt the wrist for loither sthays
Shirp glawing love leads on to try
I  dothered if I sheid leve knapsacks

I rell ye telling this wuth a lie
Somewhere riges and roges tense
Two  toads day-verged in a  giraffe, and aye
I took the one I wunt  blud to cry
A sprat is  maiden, by honey penced

I’m chased by signs,equations and cats’ eyes

My nightmare lives in bed,  oh fire,burned bright
I’m chased by signs,equations and cats’ eyes
After  I’ve turned out  the bedside light

I am far too weary for a flight
I see  the art and love yet all’s awry
My nightmare  comes to  bed, oh heck,oh might

Can you tell me  more about my sight?
I seem  no longer to get eggs to fry
Before  I have put on  the bedside light

The Hebrew letters  make my heart turn white
Denoting  both infinities not pi
The nightmare re-occurs, obnoxious site

Then its almost  Grecian  at its height
The tragedy of theatre, does that lie?
Forget about the bed and its gold light

The cat  bemoans it’s eyelessness  and  sighs
We’re not in Gaza yet but  don’t say  die!
My nightmare lives in bed but I shall write
After  I’ve turned on my little light

 

 

Is the paper ruled  when it arrives?

The equation so familiar is  gone
We cannot represent the world by signs
Seen and mocked by scholars,  all is done

Reality imposed  this skeleton
Where is the human feeling, once benign?
The equation once familiar is  gone

Deferential calculus. what fun
Simply wanting others   to resign
Seen and mocked by scholars,  all is done

Thinking  at that level breeds no pun
Nor does using paper filled with rhyme
The equation too familiar is  gone

Can we bring it back, can thought be won?
Mention en passant both space and time
Seen and mocked by scholars, has God come?

 

Why  write mathematics in straight lines?
Is the paper ruled  when it arrives?
The equation  evil speaking  is  far gone
Seen and mocked by scholars, shot by gun

 

 

Courtesy is everlasting

since i lost you i have lost
the keys to my heart
the front door key
my phone
and my money

now all i have is a large tube of ibuprofen gel max strength
and some feathers from the tail of a baby wood pigeon
that flew into our house when i left the back door open

maybe i need better boundaries
closed doors
and windows

the wood pigeon was so strong its agitation rocked the front door like a thundergod
like you,it did not realise
there are easier ways to leave
than smashing through glass
leaving shards to pierce my heart
not to mention my feet

become a better leaver
have mercy on those other lovers
for charm wears thin but courtesy is everlasting
like love itself