Random apples
Fall silently
On unknown Newtons
Geometry helps
Numbers transcendental fill my mind
I dream of them in glowing letters gold
Logarithms help me when my love’s declined
Who can do the work, to seek, to find?
Pi , the first, in Temple was deployed
Numbers transcendental fill my mind
Numbers like black coal we sometimes mine
Digging through the layers to find and hold
Logarithms help me when my love’s declined
When I’m sad , I like geometry’s lines
The shapes of ellipse, circle perfect, cold
Numbers transcendental fill my mind
As we progress , numbers seem divine
Their merits to the mind are undersold
Logarithms help me when my love’s declined
Take a pen and let your hand be bold
Draw a comic section , be cajoled
Numbers transcendental stole my mind
Logarithms help me when my love’s refined
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They were fallen, had dead eyes like frogs
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
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A number with address and haughty air
The ratio of radius so clear
And circumference which is all round
The circle I once loved and feared
This measure is not any integer
Nor a ratio of two, which might be sound
It is no number in my algebra.
What can it be that caused the Greeks despair
That sent their mathematics underground?
A number with address and haughty air.
Did they say to God, it is unfair
We all go round and round and round and round
This problem sends us into quiet despair
But God themself hides in such lairs
He or she is found on holy ground
We must seek the truth with our mind’s nwares
God has complex motives, numbers’ ground
She likes to tease and zero has been learned
Oh , the line of radii so dear, so near
Of the circles I did so much revere
I found so severe.
The ground now upward rears
God has never cared
I gave asylum shared
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What makes good people do bad things?
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-travis-bradberry/14-psychological-forces-t_b_9752132.html
This is a very interesting article
“Given the right circumstances, good people can get caught up in some very bad things. More often than not, psychology is to blame.
When it comes to unethical behavior, good people don’t tend to go right off the deep end like Bernie Madoff or Kenneth Lay. Rather, the mind plays tricks on them, pushing them down the slippery slope of questionable behavior.
“Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.”
-C. S. Lewis
Dr. Muel Kaptein, Professor of Business Ethics and Integrity Management at the Rotterdam School of Management, has studied bad behavior for decades. A study he recently published sheds considerable light on what motivates good people to do bad things.
What follows are 14 of Dr. Kaptein’s most compelling findings into how the mind tricks good people into losing their moral compass and going astray.
The compensation effect. The compensation effect refers to the tendency for people to assume they accumulate moral capital. We use good deeds to balance out bad deeds, or alternately, we give ourselves breaks from goodness, like a piece of chocolate after a week of salads. This makes people more inclined to do bad things under the guise of “I’m a good person” or “It’s just this one thing.”
The power of names. What you name something is important, as it can skew people’s sense of reality. If companies assign unethical practices simple and humorous euphemisms (like “financial engineering” for accounting fraud), employees are less likely to take their unethical behavior seriously. Thomas Watson, the founder of IBM, was famous for saying, “Doing business is a game, the greatest game in the world if you know how to play it.” Something as simple as calling business a game can make people less likely to see that their actions have serious, real-world consequences.
Cognitive dissonance. Cognitive dissonance is the discomfort humans feel when they hold two contradictory opinions or their behavior is inconsistent with their beliefs. It’s one of the strongest psychological forces driving human behavior, and it can be overcome with a high EQ. When people who feel they are good do bad things, cognitive dissonance makes them ignore this behavior because they can’t tolerate the inconsistency between their behavior and their beliefs.”……. see link
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Poetry in the making
http://thetedhughessociety.org/poetryinthemaking/
“Poetry in the Making is not a fusty pedagogical treatise on prosody but an attempt to inspire and guide the young “to more purposeful efforts in their own writing” [2]. Hughes insists that a course of creative writing should not teach “How to write” but “How to try to say what you really mean” [3]. His emphasis in Poetry in the Making is not on learning the formal “manners” of poetry but on developing the writer’s imagination and his discipline and courage to engage with and capture his own thoughts and feelings. For Hughes, the most important artists are the inspired visionaries not the craftsmen.
Hughes draws on his own writing experiences throughout Poetry in the Making, describing, for example, the evolution of ‘Thought Fox’, and so the book offers an overview of the author’s poetics, his preoccupations, and his ideas about the creative imagination and the function of art. He believed that all true art was the unmediated expression of the artist’s hidden, inner self which is “the voice of what is neglected or forbidden” [4]. He warned that “to live removed from this inner universe of experience is also to live removed from ourself, banished from ourself and our real life”[5] So, for Hughes, the purpose of art is revelatory and therapeutic; in allowing the inner-life to speak, in articulating its demands, the writer heals himself. “
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Comic sections
Numbers transcendental fill my mind
I dream of them in glowing letters gold
Logarithms help me when my love’s declined
Who can do the work, to seek, to find?
Pi , the first, in Temple was deployed
Numbers transcendental fill my mind
Numbers like black coal we sometimes mine
Digging through the layers to find and hold
Logarithms help me when my love’s declined
When I’m sad , I like geometry’s lines
The shapes of ellipse, circle perfect, cold
Numbers transcendental fill my mind
As we progress , numbers seem divine
Their merits to the mind are undersold
Logarithms help me when my love’s declined
Take a pen and let your hand be bold
Draw a comic section , be cajoled
Numbers transcendental stole my mind
Logarithms help me when my love’s refined
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Yet mysteries hide between the numbers whole
Deep mysteries lie between the numbers whole
Ratios have a logic we accept
But, in between, infinity dwells veiled
At first, one merely counted shark fin whales
Such numbers seem both simple and direct
Yet mysteries hide between the numbers whole
Sheep and goats are counted soon as well
But mystery an hypotenuse reflects
For at such points infinity dwells veiled
A number which gives 2 when squared itself
Can nowhere find a ratio to check.
Yes, mysteries lie between our numbers whole
The Greeks rejected such irrational stealth
To geometry only they chose to connect
For on a line, infinity dwells veiled
On infinite shores, their reason was well wrecked
And those who tried to measure circles found defects.
Deep mysteries lie between the numbers whole
On lines and arcs infinity dwells veiled
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There is truth but not in human terms
The Mayday dances were at Whitsuntide
When round the maypole young folk liked to dance
This holiday is for the workers kind
At Whit, God’s spirit came to his abode
Six weeks after Easter, not by chance
The Mayday dances were at Whitsuntide
There is no truth for a post-modern mind
But words cannot convey a woman’s glance
This holiday is for steel workers kind
There may be truth and humans may be blind
A truth may be revealed by happenstance
The Mayday dances were at Whitsuntide
There is truth but not in human terms
Why was Jesus’ side pierced by a lance
This holiday was for coal miners kind
Now we live the stinging nettles flounce
And striped tygers eye with elegance
The Mayday dances were at Whitsuntide
This holiday was for the workers’ minds
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Like spirit drummers trying for some fame.
The Mayday festival is here again
What have I not done and who’s to blame?
Will this ensure we get torrential rain?
I like to hear the patter on the panes
Like spirit drummers trying for some fame.
Will this ensure we get torrential rain?
Hark , I hear the blunders of a crane
I lit the candle, broke the window frame.
Will this ensure we get torrential rain?
My face is looking gorgeous with its planes
To think of my great beauty, I’m ashamed
Will shame ensure we get torrential rain?
When I marry I shall have a train
I love railway tracks and boy’s own games
Will this ensure we get torrential rain?
By compulsions and obsessions, I’ve been maimed
My soul is twisted and my mind is lame
The Mayday festival is here again
Will God ensure we get torrential rain?
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The last time he used a human word
Thinking about it, in the murder scene
you could probably
base quite a lot of this on God’s twitter account,
which is surely the maddest, most empathic Twitter account
Yet created by non-humans
He’s out there in glorious portraits,
looking remote and godly in sonorous garb.
He follows only two people: Joshua Nazareth and Mary.
Noone never replied to a single email or message
The last time he used a human word
It was in October 2045
Lean close to your Lord and his Twitter feed
He has wells of cologne, luxuriant mysteries, and inhuman loneliness.
Francis came to mind this week with the suggestion
He might have been an asylum seeker himself in the summer of 1953
If one of Europe’s mega-racists had made
A suitable impassively odd bid for
Granchester Meadow and Sylvia Plath’s footprints
Both were mentioned, a story that has since been denied by Ted Hughes
[ its apparel resource. ]
Either way this is a rumour
Saving the grounds for a mile
And playing Lutheran hymns v Real Vatican songs
And, by way of variation, Bach singing to Leonard Cohen in bed
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Stan was polishing the windows again
Stan was polishing the windows again with his black microfibre cloth.The computer was on.As soon as he finished the sitting room windows he planned to look at a google document he was co-writing with hislfriend Annie, on the failings of the British Empire..She only lived next door but they both liked sharing new techniques of various kinds.
He sat down in front of his computer and looked at his email.
There was one from Annie.Joy!
“Hi Stan
I didn’t really want to keep some of those remarks you wrote at the bottom of our document when we were both online, so I have deleted them. We should have gone into chat mode.They were not related to the topic we were discussing so I know you won’t be mind.And if you ask again we can chat either online or in person about sex and people’s lives
With my love, dearest one ,Annie
Stan felt furiously angry and cross. How could she know if he minded or not?
He went dark red as if his head was bursting.What was so dreadfully bad about his remarks?He had only asked Annie if her dead husband George might have been bisexual.Stan had once seen him kissing another man in the bushes in the park.Annie didn’t seem bothered last night.She never gave the impression to me she didn’t like it.Maybe she’s not quick enough to react
Anyway she should not have deleted it completely without asking me first.
He sat down on his old Habitat chair [recently mended free on the NHS by Dave the paramedic,] and he sent her an email saying he was furious with her for attacking his freedom of speech.It was unethical.It was too powerful .He must assert himself.He woul show her!
So he was not going to work with her on any more documents ever again nor chat on IM or Google Chat. Of course he still loved her but his anger was too strong for him to ignore.
When Annie got the email she was comgletely stunned like a cow in the abbatoir ready to be eloctrocuted.She apologised to Stan immediately but he refused to accept it ever even though she begged piteously for forgiveness.
Why did he want to know if George was bisexual, she wondered.Was he saying it to try to turn himself on or me?Or is he just interested in all kinds of sex and human behaviour generally ,like most people are ?But it was not concerned with the document which was about ill treatment of prisoners in India under the British Empire and relating it to other acts of outrage by the Brirish Government elsewhere.
I wanted to talk about us,not poor dead George.Whatever George’s sex life,he’s dead now.So l we should eave him in peace.
Meantime.Stan was thinking about how women were always interfering in his life,correcting him and improving his grammar.Making him cups of tea when he wanted brand and some HP sauce with his lamb chops not salad
He liked talking about bisexuality.It made him feel a sense of wonder at the differing habits and desires of humans.Why couldn’t she just go along with it or at least say something then rather than deleting his words secretly when he was off-line?Though maybe mentioning George was insensitive even though George was dead.
He was a man .He was not going to let a woman ride over him like a steam roller. Annie must learn her place in the scheme of things.
Where is that,asked his beautiful cat Emile.
I’m not sure but it’s not above me.It’s either the same or lower.
Can’t you forgive her.She may be in another dimension,another space alrogether,another universe of discourse?[He’d been reading Wittgenstein again]
Certainly not .No way.Stan answered,
But you love her,you said many times in here.I heard you
All the more reason to maintain some boundaries. Love is not the be all and end all of life for a man!
Next she’ll be cutting bits off me with her dressmaking shears, he cried in outrage and horror!
She’ll castrate me.She’ll turn me into a woman.
She won’t, she’s just a daft postmenopausal woman,said Emile.She wouldn’t ever harm you.she’s very gentle.you know that,don’t you?
She has invaded me,she has crossed my boundary.
Some people would be glad,mewed the cat.He was always hoping a lady cat would come by. and cross his boundaries or more correctly.he would be allowed cross hers.
Meanwhile Annie was sitting sobbing feverishly in her bedroom.She really enjoyed co-writing documents and news sheets with Stan.Now he won’t do it anymore,she whispered . He was really mad with her.He must be feeling upset and aggravated beyond all human endurance.She had assumed too much and now she was paying the price as she lay on her purple duvet cover with two boxes of Kleenex for men.Even finding the Kleenex required for all her sobbing was too much for her.
She cried and sobbed loudly for a while.Her eyes were bright red and bloodshot. She was so very sad she had unwittingly distressed dear Stan.Life is so tough she thought reluctantly.I wish I were somewhere else……maybe in Heaven with George and his bisexual lovers too, all playing harps or mouth organs and whatever else the could find up there.
Still,there were those new neighbours who had just moved in across the road.Two brothers,both very handsome.I wonder if they like writing on the computer,she thought.That cheered her up a bit,though she was very fond of Stan.In fact she loved him greatly and had kissed him gently yet thoroughly many times though she had never actually gone to bed with him ;never known him in the biblical sense.Was that the problem?Too late now either way,she muttered quietly to her goldfish Wayne who agreed with her analysis of the situation.
So in her mind she was moving from loving and adoring Stan to being loving towards yet puzzled by him.Was he afraid of being dominated by a woman?What would he be like as a lover?
But why try to talk about bisexuality?Could he not have thought of something else?Like female orgasms or kissing better?
There was a new book by Betty Dodson teaching frozen women how to have orgasms.Would he have enjoyed discussing female anatomy and pleasuring her naked female body and all the rest,[she always liked kisses on her throat,he knew that.]
Well,she would never know now.That was certain.Thank God I’ve found out what he’s like before things went any further.He might be a little too dominating.Though a certain amount is neccessary for the consummation of love.She was so upset her thughts began to turn towards women.
Would it be better all round to love a woman instead?Especially as I could show her how to have an orgasm having being studying this book for some weeks?Though she may already know,I guess.Still,a change is as good as a rest, so the proverb says.
How do I find a woman who’s into other woman, as it were, she thought.Can I find one on the internet?Will there be a club we can go to? How exciting!
So Annie grew more optimistic.A woman wouldn’t mind a few words deleted from a chat either.So a feeling of mild joy came over her and her sobbing died down.
Stan was sitting in his kitchen feeling superior and dominant.Except Annie had not come for coffee so it was hard being dominant all by himself.He began to feel depressed and morose.Should he change his mind?Would he lose his window of opportunity?
Why is life so trying.Why are women so manipulative, why do they all turn out fakes and bitches,he asked Emile.Why won’t they love me as I am?
It’s partly one’s own character,Emile replied.
Hearing this Stan lost his temper and threw the kettle of boiling water at Emile.Luckily it missed but Emile stalked out and went off to the shed leaving Stan more alone than ever.
How hard life is Stan shouted. I feel like topping myself. I”ll jump off the roof. of the civic centre.I’m going to ring the fucking Samaritans.
Just then his wife Mary walked in.What’s up Stan?
Nothing dear.I just dropped a brick on my toe
Why have you got a brick in here,in the lounge?
I was playing with it.
With a brick?
Well,it has a certain cold masculinity,he replied
Cold masculinity?. Shall I make some drinks?
Yes,please,dear
Oh,look there’s Annie walking past arm in arm with a woman.
I knew George was bisexual but now I see she is also or maybe she’s turned quite gay!Were they both gay?Is that why she only kissed him and never went any further?
Well,it’s not our business,said Mary quietly.
Aha,thought Stan.That’s what you think.If only you could see inside my mind!Inside his mind though ,he was wondering if Annie would ever see him again.But I will not forgive her,I won’t.I won’t!
What he might have said more truthfully was “Can’t”
For indeed,it is hard to forgive people for trampling into one’s sacred space even if it is an accident or misjudgment not a deliberate attempt to dominate.but …….
Life is sweet and yet very hard too.but as it’s the season of goodwill let’s pray it alll works out!
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And let her mercy flow like menstrual blood
She sees her man is going , lives with strain
She wants to make it right, yet is not God
He has not found the peace some men attain
By now his choices and his will have gone
He has chosen his own measuring rod
She sees her man is dying, sees his strain
She has killed the snake of bitter pain
And let her mercy flow like menstrual blood
He has not gained the peace my man attained
She will stand back from this ruined reign
And must hope to make her giving good
She sees her man is dying, what restraint.
The goodness of his death’s not hers to coin
Only her containment of his flood
He cannot find much peace of mind again
She has made a frame; her kindness, wood.
And by this doing, her own grief withstood
She sees her man is dying and he’s strained
He’s not dreamed the peace they may attain
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A poem given to me outside Lidl’s
In the land our dreams dwell in where creation,love and hate begin; where swiftly the deep rivers flow from those lost lands of long ago. I wander through wild poppy fields Underfoot the dark earth yields…. I see the flowering fruit trees start Their blossoms gather round my heart… I hear the sparrows sing with joy And bees their busy wings employ. In those lost lands I saw your face And so I longed for your embrace. Earth to earth and ash to ash Glory,pride and boasting pass. Stay awhile,my dearest one Soon I too will be called on. Nothing lasts but truth is real Keep to that and your ideals.. Earth to earth, we rest in clay We must give all self away Softly on this earth I roam Seeking yet my love and home, for until the very end Love and kindnss may descend. Soft as wings of butterflies Tears well up and wet my eyes. My heart has melted into yours Thus we grow and die like flowers
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Roses have their beauty and their wiles
Grass and daisies have no spikes nor thorns
So we can run barefoot on the lawn.
So why do roses hurt our hands forlorn
When sheep don’t hurt the shepherd when they’re shorn?
We could cut down the roses in our rage.
Their own aggression might bring down their death.
Yet beauty in their form does love engage.
So we ignore their useless, painful wrath.
Recklessly we love a spiky friend,
Enchanted by their learning or their face
But wounds unneeded bring this to an end.
Patience thins , we sever this embrace.
Roses have a beauty that beguiles.
Yet do they need to harm us with their wiles?
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Eagles’ claws
Christian, wise they’ve hacked the creed;
Let thy prayer flow at good speed;
Leak no fright, perform the blues
Erase thy works and writs renew.
Hearts surround you wink and dare;
Thou will help their blood to clear;
Thou canst bring despair and flight,
Storm their faltering halls and bite
Let thine arms escape all joy,
At thy worship suds deplore;
Give us blankets washed for real,
Yearning all the day to feel.
Eagles claws align our veins
Free the ghost her years detained
Perfect lav survived our rears
Made in Devon but they are still here
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No matter how we fail
I’ve got just one letter
written in your hand.
One small letter.
I understand,
One is as infinity
compared to having nought.
I’ll keep this letter
In the museum of my heart.
I’ve only got one photograph
and that is very old
but to me this photograph
is more valuable than gold.
Time has hastened by.
Is it now too late?
But may there be a second chance?
Let’s not accept love’s fate.
No matter how we falter,
No matter how we fail,
We can still forgive ourselves,
and rewrite this sad tale.
One more loving letter,
One more loving smile,
That will be sufficient
To revive a love grown frail.
For once this love was stronger;
Once this love was true;
Accept this invitation
To recreate our love anew.
Give me your hands
Outstretched across the world
Let me find your arms
Where I’m allowed curl.
Life is gone and soon
Love is a silent moon
Outstretched across the world
Let me find your arms
Where I’m allowed curl.
Life is gone and soon
Love is a silent moon
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A geometrically mean society?
Divided they subtract, and add their dangling eyes,
Quibble their modes, and cool their fleas and lies
Or else beget the furnace of the fight,
Forget their means — forget their happy rites
See with deviant arms their wit — additional crew,
The fire is deviating and nobody stings
For souls, and therefore no souls, Betty blings
A fly is in the silk-spot — must he be a spy
For a geometrically mean society?
No, no; there Master Shirter takes his error mean
Inserts it, dips the angle, standardised bassoon
The little oboe mute with pupils dark,
Across the seaboard draws a long set spark.
Arise! take the statistics from the jungles,
There’s a large solid berry in each bangle
Abide with sleet, I must now stray to sow
To No. 7, lost round the circuit play
‘Aghast, my friend! your stats fit very well;
Blair, where does your failure live?’
‘I may not sell.
O pardon me — I fancy him now and then.
Why index sailors lives? I say, Amen
I cannot stimulate, let me no more deceive–
He lives in Epping ,a comedian with thunderous sagging knees
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Not: I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth
I sauntered lonely in a crowd
With coat so shy, like half-veiled hill,
When all at once I saw men bowed
A storm of gold with silver frills;
Beside iced cakes , I saw the bees
Muttering and prancing with the fleas
With coat so shy, like half-veiled hill,
When all at once I saw men bowed
A storm of gold with silver frills;
Beside iced cakes , I saw the bees
Muttering and prancing with the fleas
Deciduous as the jars that whine
Like ankles bought on my E-bay
They stretched on Ted Hughes fishing lines
They were the bargain of the day:
Ten thousand, awesome, happen-stand,
Bossing the Man, who has no chance
The graves beside them nightly bounced, but they
Out-fled the ducking leaves to plead
A poet could not be shut dry
In such a wanton timpani!
I raved—and raved—and little taught
What stealth the throw to me had brought:
For oft, when as I grouch and sigh
To chimpanzee or monkey glued,
They crash with bluebottle and with fly
Tea a mix of cold and shrewd;
And then I start to pay my bills
For today, that’s all my thrills
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Are worms as lonely as a Cain who’s cursed?
I wish I were a worm inside the earth
Hermaphrodite well able to survive.
Then I would not wonder what I’m worth.
Yet a worm must dig its holes and never surf
Are they aware that they are here and alive?
I wish I were a worm inside the earth.
Worms do not have to suffer giving birth
Nor do they demand to meet one’s wife
I wish I did not wonder what I’m worth.
Yet I do enjoy some laughter and real mirth
On my chair with humour, I may writhe.
Still, I wish I were a worm inside the earth.
Are worms as lonely as a Cain who’s cursed?
They never go on holidays or drive
I wish I would not wonder what I’m worth.
Yet we deplete the earth of goodness as we thrive
Into hell we do not run, we drive
I wish I were a worm inside the earth
.Then I would not wonder what I’m worth.
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Tickle my fancy
A mirror is somewhat like a window.Both are made of glass and both will send back an image to your brain.A mirror reflects you back to yourself.A window shows what or who is outside of your residence, be it a hut or a palace.
Ths first mirror is the face of your mother…she reflects you back to yourself and ultimately that is how you develop a sense of self
A window is a way of looking out or indeed looking in if you are walking by a house.We seem to have ambiguous feelings about letting people look in so here many people put lace or net curtains up to veil themselves from the public at large
Now, this is very bad because I am coming tonight to look into your window.Why are you so shy?
Are you doing something you ought not to? Like reading Pasternak and drinking brandy while your cat dances the minuet on the table?
I have read a few articles lately about the poet Sylvia Plath.She suffered from severe depression and wrote a novel called “The Bell Jar” based on this.
Being behind a glass wall is an experience I have heard other people mention.So you can see people but you feel unable to make contact with them.Maybe you need a time of isolation but maybe you got stuck in there:Glass,windows, mirrors there’s a lot of very deep meaning in these images.
So although I do look into windows I am not being unpleasant and I like to go into friend’s houses and sit there talking or listening
If you feel sad and lonely in your bell jar find a group of people who will let you sit and listen without having to speak much.Maybe you can help wash up afterwards..Just being near some kind people can be soothing especially if they will just let you be.Or talk about simple things like flowers and cats and the weather.It’s the animal in us that needs to be be near others even if we feel very sad.
It’s all about balance…alone is good, together is good.And as long as you have a soft tongue .most people will like you.I think we imagine others to be more critical than they are.
To be frank, most people are very caught up in themselves and would hardly notice if you had a tea cosy on your head and a dress made from an old blanket.As long as you are clean and polite just forget about that side of things.Nowadays dress is less important in many countries as more wear jeans, chinos and sweatshirts and that’s the women..
Don’t stare too deeply into people’s eyes unless you are looking for a one night stand… if so do take precautions,like a relative for example but do look a little into my eyes as I am peeking in at you tonight as I pass by to the Pizza Hut with my cat and my partner who will be paying for our meal..I leave my money at home.There must be one night a week when a man pays the bill….My money is for those essentials like the hairdresser and the beauty salon or maybe some novels… a man likes to pay,I find.Even if you have to give them a £50 note from your purse before you leave home. A man is the best accessory I have found and you can talk to them too and buy them clothes and tickle them with your fancy
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You start on the right and go left
“I’m on a whiskey diet. I’ve lost three days already.” Daily Mirror
No, that is not funny enough.They must be lacking in knowledge
But then would you write for a Mirror?
Like writing for a window…. you can write on my mirror, though, if you want to as long as you do mirror writing
ie you start on the right and go left.Then when I see it I will know everything
Build me a mirror at my gate
And call me up on the phone in my house
So I can slip off
and look at myself….
Maybe better in the bathroom
There is “The Writing on The Wall” but where’s that wall?
And the game is up.
We know what you are after.. ……but what are you before?
The newspaper should be The Daily Window…after all we don’t believe the world is just a mirror to us, do we?
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Balanced on this old seesaw
Looking in. we miss the outer world
The blossom hanging from the vicarage wall;
An old man’s hat which by the breeze is whirled
The toddlers skipping in the Shopping Mall.
Now coffee shops are where we socialise
No more we labour over stove and sink.
And listening, hear what would not meet our eyes.
When for one little moment they both blinked.
And yet we long for time to be alone
To breathe more freely, play within our mind
For being far less solid than a stone
Impingements to our boundary we find
As we balance on this old seesaw
We know nothing is static.life is raw.
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Wanting to be earthed
Oh..Lord I prayed sincerely to you
To stick my broken teeth well down with glue
But you did not heed my desperate prayer
So I went to my dentist; had to pay her!
So I feel angry and you are angry too
For you have the entire universe to view.
And you are not my mother, I now see.
You never were and never will you be.
I’m unsure of how to re-connect to you
Especially when I’m feeling down and blue.
Do you need me and for what was I conceived?
My mother was dead angry.I believe
She blamed my soul for wanting to be earthed
Abortion was illegal, not so birth
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For logic is as stupid as no doubt
Did I say my heart is up the spout
And tea is sitting hotly in the tap
The kettle is complaining I’m a lout
And with its metal hand gives me a rap.
Did I say my bed has got no sheets
For I have published them in my new book
And as the cocks and chickens try to bleat
I buy a dress and hey, it’s my new look
Did I say the cat will not go out
For he is never in, you see my joke
For logic is as stupid as no doubt
And torments in its ice the evil folk.
Words are signals telling us we’re light
And so we float away into the nigh
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And yet we do have evidence of Fall.
For someone non-existent God has power
To wreck the world he learns from every hour.
He is not here or there or where at all
And yet we do have evidence of Fall.
Why must men be angry as they boast,
They can prove there is no Holy Ghost?
No benediction, blessing, nothing good
No meaning, nothing sacred, never Love.
For who is zero, who’s in the empty set?
G-d seems ever harder to forget
Men argue with red cheeks and suffer strokes-
While Nothing shall remain and nausea dies,
Let’s enjoy the madness and the lies.
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The hand upon my tiller
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 we’ve been separate 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
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We’ve hidden truth, reality, hence fate.
Controlled by law on what’s permissible to say
Subjected to a fine for our mistakes
We need to understand the reason why
If we perceive the Other is but I
And I am Other to their life today
Will we need controls on what we say?
Appearances deceptive are portrayed
Giving falseness its own name and sake
Better understand the reasons why.
The surface may look better formally
But we can’t see the rage, don’t hesitate
Is it wise to control what folk say?
Perhaps by now such thinking is too late
We’ve hidden truth, reality, hence fate.
Controlled by law on what’s permissible to say
We needed to be told the reasons why
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A paradox
I ponder on the laws to stop hate speech
Racism, sexism, antisemitism
Do they make worse the hatred underneath
Like self-righteous folk hold evil out of reach
Between what is and what is good lies schism
I ponder on the laws to stop hate speech
What lesson does our native history teach?
We gaze into the past through our own prism
Do we make worse the hatred underneath
What wonder do our dreams leave on the beach?
Are some deceived by their scholasticism?
I ponder on the laws to stop hate speech
By gagging those who feel their tensions seethe
And controlling by the law their words and rhythms
Do we make worse the hatred underneath?
And yet if we permit crude criticism
Are their words endowed with some charism?
I ponder on the laws to stop hate speech
Do they almost cause the hatred underneath?
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Time to say goodbye
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I cannot cross
Today the radio has come on twice by itself.The first time it was playing,
The lark ascending which I had at my husband’s funeral, and the second was,
The water’s wide and I cannot cross.
So seems like the other side is coming over to me
