Sometimes I imagine I can hear your voices

Light and moving like music

Sometimes your voice had laughter in its music

And his was like that too in my recollection although at the time it did not seem so to me.

And I am here with the same voice with the same music and the lightness

But you are not here to answer me

Where have you gone!

How can you leave me like this?

I see you running across the park

Swinging on the swings and climbing trees

And we hear our mother, she’s calling us home for dinner.

Yes there’s the music the laughter and the sadness in your voices

They alight and they float away on the wind like leaves

And I am left here.

Religion’s  a truthful invention

It’s a topic I feel I can mention

The myths and the dreams

The poetry, the schemes

We live well with love and attention.

Some insects have consciousness and they can care for injured members of their family. They probably havs feelings. I’m not sure what it would mean to say, can they think?

One thing we do not share with them is that we have money.

That is the source of a lot of our problems such as income tax and other taxes which were only invented once we stopped wandering around the forest eating berries and killing wild pigs. 

Sometimes I wonder what it’s such a great idea to give up being nomads?

Certainly many people hate any kind of tax. They also seem to hate helping other human beings even the ones living near them.

I think it’s true that the poor give more money to charity proportionately than the wealthy do.

It seems like nuclear power that many human inventions and discoverers can be used for good or evil. Sadly at the moment things seem more negative than they have been.

Weaknesses expose some people to commit crimes or also commit sins in the old-fashioned terminology.

Where is the wisdom that we should have for so many hundreds of years of so-called civilization?

What do you think of the name Horace?

Do you favour a patio or a terrace?

Were you privately schooled?

Did you break all the rule?

What’s your name is it Johnson? Oh, Boris!

https://lithub.com/imagination-is-not-enough-why-fiction-needs-fieldwork/

Archimedes’ pocket calculator in working order but without the pocket.
Cleopatra’s nightdress fm [washed and ironed]
Aristotle’s chair with footstool and TV remote
Abraham’s hat [unworn]
Isaac’s laughter [ CD]
Euclid’s ruler [plastic]
Zeno’s hair [combed]
Ten live Greek tortoises with name tags.
Book of Numbers [ In Hebrew]
Fifty limericks and Wordsworth’s hair [1 only

Job’s watch (automatic)

Isaac’s belt

Eve’s best apron

Eve’s halogen hob (new,other)

Job’s hanky.

Adam’s apple

Recipes from the Bible.

Jezebel’s handbag (goatskin) . Nearly new in good condition apart from scratches from her nails.

King David’s piano plus keys. Sorry no music as scroll unrolled

Nero’s violin in working order (scorched)

Scattered pools of rainwater gleam on the dark paving stones

The road disappears under an arch

A family approach smiling : conversation occurs

The dog jumps with delight

By the river, a cat hides looking for water rats on the bank

The terraced houses by the water look contented and prosperous

The third one has new curtains.

A man walks by seeming nervous, nothing to do on Sunday.

Turning the other way I see the huge tree by the large end house

Then a sharp turn on to the bridge

Small bridges here remind me of Thames bridges

These are secret hidden and beautiful like little treasures.

Here comes someone on a bicycle better step back.

Now we walk towards the pub with another bridge in front

But I forgot, you are not here. The last time I drank grapefruit juice.

I have not had any since then.

Last night I dreamed I was in the garden with a big hedge on my right

The shrubs were leafless and as I pressed my ear against them I could hear laughter and I knew that it was you.

The secret garden that we never enter

Then you cried hello hello. You sounded merry

That was a small heaven

And always the river flows down the contour lines as it was designed.

And the people change but everything is still the same

I went into a coffee bar and asked for a black coffee.They said I was a racist
They said I was stupid for wanting an irrational number of cakes.
I went to Burnt Oak to register my husband’s death.

Then they had the nerve to ask if I wanted him buried or cremated.
I went to the hospital for an X-ray.They said I didn’t look as if I was 18,I should bring my mother.

So I said, with or without the coffin

I wanted a Burning Bush at the funeral but God said he don’t come here anymore.

I offered a lamb chop up as a sacrifice.God said, I may be dead but I’ve not shrunk.

I asked for a toasted beef sandwich but they said it takes too long to toast beef

We went into a car park but it had very few amusements and no grass.No cars either.
We opened the car door with a coat hanger once when we lost the keys.Now with this electronic system, what could we use instead?
I rang my own doorbell last night as I felt so lonesome.Then it fell off the door.So I told myself it was lucky I had come by as I knew how to fix it.It’s just glued on like ethics are on politicians.

I saw a spider in the bath so I told it, it can only have 2 baths a week.

My neighbour gave me a blank look.So I filled it with laughter,

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/101584/poems-of-anxiety-and-uncertainty

Poetry Foundation Homepage

Collection

Poems of Anxiety and Uncertainty

Confronting and coping with uncharted terrains through poetry.

By The EditorsShareCourtesy of Preconscious Eye via Flickr

When major parts of our lives seem to change in a flash, we are reminded that poetry can help us to cope with new realities and assess the unknowns ahead. When we are stepping out into uncharted terrain, alone or together, poetry can capture our emotions. It can share our vulnerabilities and scars, along with our strengths.

Poets are seekers and questioners. They explore the unknown and help to give it shape. The insights and wisdom in the following poems below are hard-won; more often, it is simply the naming of the fear—personal, spiritual, or political—that offers solace, reminding us that

“A new study published in the journal Science looked at results from 11 different experiments involving over 700 subjects and found that the majority of participants reported that it was “unpleasant” to be alone in a room with their thoughts for as few as six minutes. The researchers discovered that most people would rather administer painful electric shocks to themselves than be left alone with their thoughts. This effect was particularly strong for men, who overwhelmingly preferred the shock (64 percent of male participants as compared to 15 percent of female participants).

A beautiful photo Mike Flemming

On Monday morning Stan had to go to the shops in the centre of town to buy some special easy threading needles for his visually-other wife Mary.Somehow,most puzzlingly,she had lost all of the eight packs he had bought for her in the last year.He had suggested letting his mistress next door do the hemming and stitching.But Mary was determined even though sometimes she took 14 minutes just to thread a needle.But she was very patient.One might almost say she was saintly but he did not want her to get conceited so he kept his thoughts to himself. Now what will I wear.Stan thought over-anxiously.. People no longer dress up to go down town instead they dress down to go up to the town,in a very real sense. The art of living is to choose the most simple solution to any problem and Stan recalled he only had some navy trousers,some white and a few coloured shirts and one light teal colored jacket. He chose a coral coloured shirt and looked in the mirror.. I look wonderful, he thought very humbly. Why has God kept me so youthful? Surely not so I can seduce more women? We know God may be merciful to scissors,or is it sinners?Well,let’s just say God can be merciful but for some reason,we never know till it’s too late whether it’s to us. More haste,less speed,he conjectured. Or is it, More paste,guests feed? He stood in the hall combing his hair with a tortoiseshell comb and brushing it with a large nail brush He looked again at his image. His amber eyes glowed like neon lights on the main road to Knittingham in winter. His dark hair looked very full for his age. His teal jacket had been well pressed by the dry cleaner, Jacob Weissmann. And his coral shirt was new as Mary had been out buying him more clothes lately.She had grown tired of seeing him in one solid color,especially grey or brown. His navy trousers were a bit old but quite alright for Knittingham. As he gazed into the mirror he began to feel odd.Then he saw Emile who was standing on the chest of drawers behind him performing a dance.. solo! Why are you dancing,Emile? Stan asked politely. I am amused by seeing you gazing into the mirror for so long, If you don’t hurry it will be lunchtime before you get to the Needle Shop. Alright,growled Stan hoarsely.At least I don’t wear make up! Now there’s a thought…maybe I’d look better…what shade of foundation would suit me?Would I need lip balm and perfume? Hurry up,said Emile unkindly.More taste less greed. What does that mean?asked Stan. If you taste the food and eat slowly you will enjoy it more and thus need less. Very clever,Emile.Shall I buy you some cough sweets in the pet shop. No,I want some codeine linctus,Emile answered. I want to go high,high. I want to reach the sky. what will I do when my love is away Will I be happy on my own? Lend me your ear and I’ll sing you a song I’ll try not to sing out of tune! My God,Emile.Whatever has happened to you? I blame the old chalk and opium medicine someone spilled on my breakfast. Well,go and lie down but drink some milk first.At last Stan got out…it had taken him two hours to get ready At the bus stop there stood Anne their neighbour. Hi,Stan,where are you going. I’m buying sewing needles for Mary. I can lend her some,she shrieked. Well,she has to use special ones nowadays. Oh,so she does.I forget as she looks normal but is in fact suffering constant trouble since her Vitreous-vasectomy.. or was it hysterectomy or vivacity?. Well,never mind.You know she’s not normal. Who is normal? Let’s just assume we will recognize it when we see it,he whispered warningly. This bus is very late.I wish there was a proper seat here..my knees hurt. I hate this plastic seat.Why has the wooden one gone? Apparently the council are afraid of homeless people sleeping on them. Well,everybody is at risk of homelessness with this economic crisis, Anne shouted in a fury. No,beggars can’t be losers,he responded. Very true,she replied, As they have nothing so they can’t lose it.The more you have,the more you fear losing it. This bus is very,very late,I wish I had a horse or is it an horse? A goat would be o.k.Speed bonny goat like a word someone flung.. Over the page to Fly.Anne burst out laughing so her face was as red as her coat from Artigiano.Her blue tights were a perfect contrast and also matched her lipstick uncannily.Where she bought it was a mystery. At last the bus came.They got on board and the driver called out, You both look very merry! Too many looks create more wrath,Stan replied warningly. Well, why dress up if you want no attention.the driver gloated. Hello,darling, he said to Anne,Are you free tonight,babe? Why? she murmured. I have two tickets for the Rolling Stones and no woman to take! he replied boastfully. Now,if it were the Rolling Bones,I might be interested. Your wish is my command he muttered, I have my smart phone here,I’ll see what’s one elsewhere. He kept trying but the virtual keyboard was playing up again. Eventually the passengers got annoyed and asked him to start the bus. As I’m half an hour late,I should be coming back now so I’ll do a U turn and go back But we want to go into town,every one howled. There’s many a blue word spoken as a jest,sang the driver. Stan said,Please open the door,we shall dismount here. Crikey,you don’t half talk posh,said the ,driver. He leaned over and gave Anne a French kiss. Now look here,Stan said,leave her alone.She’s my mistress. Cor blimey said the driver,who are you,King Henry the Eighth? I say,Stan,I can see Mary.It must be tea time. Stan ran into the house and put the kettle on..then he made a pot of tea. Hello! said Mary. Did you get my needles,Stan? I’m so sorry,Mary.I ‘ve had such a busy day,I never got into the town. And where is my supper. In the womb of time I see,it’s chick pea dahl and brown rice again or egg on toast. But I’m not complaining.Keeping house is a big job.I know it only to well. So they sat with Anne and Emile,who even had his own cup and saucer now.They were weary and soon ,despite the tea, they were all fast asleep. Like you.

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2026/jan/29/women-uk-50-plus-midlife-menopause-struggle-mental-health?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Norman MacCaig at 80: None a Stranger: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00w003d via @bbciplayer

Norman MacCaig at 80: None a Stranger: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00w003d via @bbciplayer

Monitor, A Poet in London: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p022kr11 via @bbciplayer

“Some think that sloth, one of the capital sins, means ordinary laziness,” I began. “Sticking in the mud. Sleeping at the switch. But sloth has to cover a great deal of despair. Sloth is really a busy condition, hyperactive. This activity drives off the wonderful rest or balance without which there can be no poetry or art or thought — none of the highest human functions. These slothful sinners are not able to acquiesce in their own being, as some philosophers say. They labor because rest terrifies them. The old philosophy distinguished between knowledge achieved by effort (ratio) and knowledge received (intellectus) by the listening soul that can hear the essence of things and comes to understand the marvelous. But this calls for unusual strength of soul. The more so since society claims more and more of your inner self and infects you with its restlessness. It trains you in distraction, colonizes consciousness as fast as consciousness advances.The true poise of contemplation or imagination, sits right on the border of sleep and dreaming. ……….and hoping for redemption by art, I fell into a deep snooze that lasted for year.

In my dreams I travel deep and low
Into the loving world of long ago
The jacket on the chair ,it smelled of smoke……
The funny tales, he sang, he laughed, he spoke

So faint the memory, strong are its remains
Security and love in our domain
The brushes and the stipplers all stood by
For no-one told his tools that he would die.

On his shoulders, like a queen I rode
So safe and happy on the path he trod.
His voice was clear and he could whistle too
In those days men were used to do

And  love shone from him on my mother dear
She smiled and made us cakes for Sunday tea
What  tragedy to leave  his children five
But in that distant space ,he is alive

The fire as red as any glowing rose
We were dressed so well in  home made clothes
Too happy, needing no words to relate
Our sense of being in this  generous space

I can’t get back to them, I cannot swim
The passages too wet , the light so dim
Yet I feel it in my body faint and clear
Death is not the end of those so dear.

Deep inside our minds, ancestors live
And   to out hearts a depth and breadth they give
Yet missing him,I hover near the place
Where I might dive into his dear embrace

The  table where we  banged our little heads
The chairs so close together like a bed
The teapot  always full, the sugar bowl
The fire, the kettle , pussy cat and coal

The fireplace had its oven  nice and warm
Looking at hot coals made me feel calm
The children seem to play in that   far space
And all around  is love  and on  and on I gaze

https://lithub.com/poetry-and-poets-in-a-time-of-crisis/

“We only know that the immediate signs are bad. Deep, potentially irresolvable fissures in our democracy have revealed themselves, along with an epidemic of rage, as well as hopelessness. The results of this election were, for at least half the country and much of the rest of the world, a massive shock. Yet even had the results been different, we would still have been in a time of crisis. All the local and global problems were already there, and remain.

I am the father of a two-year-old son, so even before the election these facts worried me deeply. Since Trump’s victory I have felt even more spiritually sick, adrift. I keep looking around for a father of some sort, but mine has been gone nearly ten years, and there don’t seem to be any others available.

Since election night I have been experiencing an intense lethargy. During the day, as well as in the middle of the night, I am visited by sudden, destabilizing visions of the future. All night, intermittently, I feel them pressing into my mind. These visions bring anxiety and high alertness, though for no immediate perceivable danger, which in turn brings paralysis, and diurnal exhaustion.

I am a poet, which means that my areas of expertise and concern are language and the imagination. In the days after the election, shattered and exhausted and frustrated and angry and intensely anxious about the future, as so many of us are, I felt certain it was essential to begin to ask, what does this crisis mean for poets, and poetry? What, in these times, must we do? Can poetry help save us?

I have always believed that poetry has its own special role, distinct from all other uses of language. I agree with W.S. Merwin when he writes, “poetry like speech itself is made out of paradox, contradictions, irresolvables … It cannot be conscripted even into the service of good intentions.” He then goes on to explain, however, that circumstances can challenge this belief:”

Town centre 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57615/logic-56d23b4c891a9

Cain and Abel fought the bitter fight

Like baby eagles, sharks and all that bite

For parents stand aloof as if amused By sibling killing sibling for their food

This may be the crime original

So common it may seem to be banal

Inside the heart of love lurk greed and hate

Genetics brings destruction as a fate

So hatred precedes love if any grows

As dead egrets have no claw to show.

Families have their scapegoats all will harm

No-one seems to notice wild alarm So Cain was not unusual nor mad Indeed he was a hero, that is sad.

One tension-relieving exercise, the tantrum, involves lying on your bed, banging your fists against the mattress while waggling your legs The Guardian 12 Feb 2021

Stan was outside polishing the brass doorstep.”My, these microfibre cloths are wonderful” he thought.Mary was out taking a load of stuff to the Oxfam Shop.Suddenly he heard a loud cry., then he felt a pair of hands fondling the top of his bald head. ”Eeh, no rest for the wicked, even at 81,” he screamed.He staggered to his feet and rubbed his knees.”Just give me a hand” , he said,”‘l have to stretch my hamstrings.They tighten up so.” “I’ll stretch them for you!” Annie whispered roguishly.Stan leant forward to touch his toes and she could not resist the temptation to give his bottom a hearty slap. ”For Pete’s sake, Annie” he shouted faintly.”Someone might see that. ””Don’t worry , there’s no-one around at this time of the day” she tittered. “Oh, yes there is!” It was Dave, the paramedic.He had been lying behind the wheelie bins, all three of them standing plaintively in the tiny front garden. ”I’m an MI5 spy, and I’ve been reading your blog, Mr Brown.” “I’m not called Brown” , said Stan nerdishly. ”Refuses to accept reality, “Dave wrote in his little notepad with some blood he had taken from himself earlier, ”Jesus Christ!”, said Stan. ”Now , now, ” said Dave,”that’s not your name, ”No my name is Tan, not Brown, you’ve been reading the wrong blog!” “Stan Tan!” Dave appeared crestfallen, ” Any chairs need mending today?” “My what beautiful ears you have ,sweetheart,” he said to Annie, “They look like sea shells.” “Your eyes are like shallow pools in Lake Windermere during a thunderstorm.”Annie replied womanfully.”Are you still a transvestite?” she faltered incoherently. “No, I had a mystical experience and now I’m a Zen Buddhist” “How did that happen? ” demanded Stan querulously. “Well, I was knitting myself a Shetland lace sweater in pale blue mohair, and I suddenly had the feeling that everything was interwoven.Going forward or backwards, sideways or straight ahead, it is all part of the warp and weft of life.”” Mistakes don’t matter” he continued idly. ”Oh,yes,they do,”Annie said pouting her full lips., coated in cherry pink lipstick by courtesy of L’oreal of Paris and New York,lip balm by Yves St Laurent, peach foundation by Lancome also of Paris,toning smokey grey mascara by Max Factor,handbag Annie’s own,deep burgundy 70 denier tights by M&S, Grey pointed ballet slippers by Bally of Switzerland.[also available in black, red and teal].Raspberry lingerie by M&S. “As I was saying..,” Dave dived back behind the wheelie bin. Stan polished the brass and Annie disappeared in a puff of smoke. It was Mary’s famous imitation of a bicycle bell that had alerted them to her imminent return from the Oxfam shop. “Don’t they make bike bells anymore?” Dave boringly wondered as he carried on reading the new life of Emily Dickinson “A loaded gun.” He thought it was an army training manual but, hey, mistakes don’t matter! Or do they? Read more at your local newsagent

The end of Essex Road, the slope, the gates,

The entrance to the park, the green invites

The swans and geese are wrangling with their mates.

I idle on a bench and contemplate.

In indolence quite diligent I write

The end of that old road, the curve, the gates.

I must embrace this life, enjoy my fate

The scent of hot damp trees, the feel of sight

The swans and geese are mingling with their mates

Oh joy of greeny grass, oh glorious state.

Oh dandelions and weeds, mosquito bites!

I like the way the road slopes through the gates

Oh heaven above, oh,earth beneath, all’s right

The celandines are brilliant with delight

The swans so white are gliding with their mates

The end of this dear road, the curve, the gates.

Some wondered in which Bank the Saviour saved

I spent my adult life in puzzles mazed

No more to play in parks or climb green hills Wondering was it true that Jesus saves.

On green hills, the Herdwick sheep would graze

While in the town, the people swallowed pills

I spent my adult life in puzzles mazed

On the sunny side,old people prayed

For pensions were too small to pay the bills;

Some wondered in which Bank the Saviour saved

I may have been obsessive in my ways

Keeping my accounts was quite a drill

I spent my entire life in puzzles mazed

How many sins.such thoughts would prey

Of self torture,I have had my fill Wondering is it true that Jesus saves

Jerusalem upon its rocky hill Cannot show but maybe it can tell

I spent my adult life in puzzles mazed

Wondering if it’s true that Jesus saves.