http://www.ikonet.com/en/visualdictionary/static/us/the_nervous_system

“The structure of the nervous system

The nervous system allows our bodies to perceive sensations, to think and to perform all of our movements, both voluntary and involuntary. It is composed of the brain, the spinal cord and the nerves. Anatomically speaking, the nervous system is comprised of the central nervous system (the brain and the spinal cord, which are the interpretation and command centers), and the peripheral nervous system, which is composed of the nerves (the transmission network).”

Human roots cause growth and  so cause change
Grow crooked as they slowly push through soil
Life does not come from what is pre-arranged

As across our underworld they range
Happy, undistracted , though they toil
Human roots cause growth and also change

Life must be creative , must be strange
As one body with another coils
Life does not come from what is pre-arranged

British, German, Europeans raged
Scrambled all God’s  Jews  to  mother soil
Their roots were cut by instruments like plagues

Exterminating people trapped and caged
Who  is mad enough  for Satan’s wiles?
Evolution wrecked in such ways strange

What is missing , why are we   damned fools?
War and  genocide destroyed our Jewels
Human roots cause growth ,eternal change
Evolution’s not to be arranged

I saw my  level path turn steep and dark
I saw a tunnel black without a  light
I hesitated wondering  how to stop
But seemed intent on  death,on sudden flight.

No human being held out their warm hand
They left me all  alone in anguished pain
Yet how should I in that state right decide
What was best for me, what made a claim?

The golden warmth  like clouds from rising sun
Wrapped me all around till we were one
There was no speech ,no person and no blame
No demand, no order, love remained.

Beyond despair I found this unknown care.
A sheet of tears ran down my poor face  bare.

of

Dear Sir,I   must report
That while I was asleeping
On your aeroplane today
My bra was stolen  off  of me
Tell me how it was done.
I had   three jumpers on top.
Thankful, my pants are  still here
Is this a brand new crime?
I know I am  quite obese
But is that a good excuse
For these criminal folk
The bra snatchers of Aer Clingus?
I am afraid to go home
My husband thinks I am a tart
He’ll want more  and more cream
It cost me £39.99 on Amazon Prime
Your enraged customer as was
Mrs  M.Muppet Ph,D [Oxen] .B.A  { Pigs] M.Sc [LSD/E ]  D.Phil [Temporary]

The bones, the shape, the structure all are one
On that  form , we hang our little words.
Destroy the shape  and all  my poem is gone

The structure gives us something to lean on
To aid  creation , to make meaning shared
The bones, the shape, the structure all are one

Inflexibility is death, not fun
We fly upon the breezes as do birds
Negate that fact  and all real life is gone

Vulnerable to pain and hunter’s gun
We must not  live as  if all change is barred
The life, the shape, the structure come to one

Here and there we  drop a hint or pun
Into the patient hand we  drop wild cards
Negate that deed  and all real life is gone

Whose the heart by metal  strips destroyed?
What will be the outcome  what the buoy?
The bones, the shape, the structure all are one
Destroy the shape  and all  my poem is gone

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/89288/why-write-in-form

EXTRACT:

In poetry, one of the best ways to practice technique is to write in traditional forms. But for many writers—and I’ve been guilty of this as well—this notion can elicit not just avoidance but also outright opposition. It’s easy enough to look at the current literary landscape and say there’s no point to practicing these old forms. Most journals don’t seem interested in publishing formal poetry, and though there are some fantastic poets working in form today, they are in the minority. Even when there is a resurgence of interest in form (such as New Formalism), it’s seen as an outlier, even reactionary.

Perhaps some of this opposition stems from a common misconception. Unlike other arts—and perhaps even other forms of writing—readers and writers alike often associate poetry with feeling, not technique. Part of this may stem from a misunderstanding of William Wordsworth’s famous definition of poetry, in which he begins, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. …” His wording encourages a reading in which poetry simply occurs and does so uncontrollably. If this is the part of the quotation that sticks with you, it’s no surprise that you might associate poetry more with emotional intensity and less with the how of its conveyance. But in the second half of that quotation, Wordsworth tempers his original statement: “… it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Those unexpected and powerful feelings are actually being observed at a calming distance from that emotion.

I saw, while half asleep,  her face was gone
She faded, like the mist does at the dawn,
From the gallery of my most loved ones

Ungrounded by the loss, fearful, forlorn,
Skinless like a worm  picked off a lawn,
I saw, while half asleep,  her face was gone

Do not leave me, do not my love scorn
Lost and gone are my beloved ones
I  am human in both ghost and form

Heart constricted, lungs  pant out my pain
Haunted and bereft of human warmth
I saw, while half asleep,  her face was gone

I shall have no mother but that one
Now I have become a dried out corm
Lost and gone are  my beloved ones

Like a little leaf from its plant torn
Gnawed by slugs,  fragmented  till unborn
I saw, while half asleep, her face was gone
With the gallery of my lost, loved ones

The journey to the heart is   made for love.
And those who need to seek obey their call.
Though virtue and her graces smile above,
We see steep paths ahead;cliffs’  sudden fall.

With willingness to cross  fields deep in mud,
To struggle through the tangled thorny wood.
Our  inner eye  perceives the latent good;
Recalls old trees astonished into bud.

As flowers spring up  to tantalize our toes
Encouragement is with much joy received;
And as we smell the fragrance of the rose,
At last we know our souls were not deceived.

For Virgil,fortune favours steadfast feet.
The journey may be long,the end is sweet.

Well done, they said because I cleaned my teeth
I bought a brush,I did not use a  leaf
I swear I ironed them  while on Hampstead Heath
Where all around dead  poppies tried to breath

In the pond   the water’s  dark and bleak
Nearby  soldiers tossed in  poppied wreaths
As if dead  men could swim in English lakes
Well done?

The sun on the horizon left a streak
I wandered, looking at blue plaques
And wondering why Great Britain came to crack
But then again, we are well known as freaks
I  hear my joints as they murmur. creak
Well done, they speak
Well done

All done

The shadow of the lamp upon my wall
That gentle light, that softness without glare
Long lost joy and   happy love  recall

We  looked into house windows when we strolled
But we were careful., did not wish to stare
Read shadows of  street lamps upon their walls

What am I when my love is not whole ?
A cracked half human being needing care
Stranger joys,lost  love, how  can I call?

The shadows move about as  sunset falls
My face is  showing signs of  lazy tears
The shadows  looks so dark upon the wall

His shadow  dear I  miss  in Spring, in Fall
But then it presaged presence on this chair
Strangers, joy, new  love,  how do we fail?

I have seen  the old gods fiery flares,
Burning wheatfields by the Saxon Shore
The shadow of burned sun upon the wall
The missing loves , the shadows deep,the Fall.

Network Rail is planning  to make changes to the platforms in Stations to prevent people committing suicide.Unfortunately , they can’t  do it  immediately so now is our chance.Don’t stop to think, don’t ask for help…. just do what  you  want to do.
We’ve had one Referendum

Suicide rates are high here.Donate to the Samaritans if you can

info from THE INDEPENDENT

Alternatives exist: The white cliffs of Dover  are crumbling.Why not camp on the Edge and see what  happens especially if there is a gale.You may meet Teresa May..

SShe’s more interested in emptying the vacuum cleaner than emptying her self
Well,if we all emptied our selves it would fill many vacuum cleaners
But how do you empty yourself?
I am inclined to leave well alone
What is a self?
We know but can’t describe
Is our self a container?
Like a biscuit tine?
Or a duvet cover,perhaps?
To be full of yourself is not good
It leaves no room for anyone else
Or ideas, grace,love
It’s a mystery

I cannot bite the apple of despair
My teeth reject the hardness and the core
Nor  can I take a path that leads nowhere

We cannot always do what we prefer
Nor find a way to  open all closed doors
I  will not bite the apple of despair

Yet to a human we must not defer
God alone is stranger than our prayers
We cannot take a path that leads nowhere

Our sense of self is qualified,, will dare
To let the dove  fly up from  marble floors
I  will not touch the apple of despair

Human life is cruel, so dark, unfair
And differences  that hurt ,we can’t ignore
We must  not start the path that leads nowhere

Equality, sorority, where flair?
Where the chance of learning how to care
I cannot bite the apple of despair
Nor  can I take a path that leads nowhere

https://onmemoryanddesire.wordpress.com/2013/07/22/on-listening/