When you struck me,I vibrated like a kettle drum,
then as smaller percussions and repercussions
echoing from all the glassy surfaces
creating a balletic geometry of sound tracks
in space and time.
When you knocked me down,
I fell against her and her and her;
we were like a row of skittles
and we all went down with the lifeboat;
The infinite chain of being is.
When you hit me,the Fall spread across the world
Now there is no Vertical
All is undivine and graceless.
By the Rod it’s ruled
When you left me,I left myself,the world,the rocks,dry land
I weighed down sank to the ocean bed
with coral eyes
gazing.
When you struck my mind
I became an instrument of a foreign power
Singing a song I didn’t know.
When the glass was smashed
the splinters flew into all our hearts.
You didn’t know what we couldn’t see.
I lay on barren ground and gave birth
To my own Creator in the desert.
In the land which dreams dwell in
where love and hate and life 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 now I long for your embrace.
Are you real, am I deceived?
From this earth we all must leave.
Earth to earth and ash to ash
Glory,pride and boasting pass.
Leave me now,my dearest one
Soon I too will be called on.
Nothing lasts but love is real
Remember that and your ideals..
Earth to earth, we rest in clay
We must give all self away
Softly on this earth I roam
Seeking still my love and home,
for until the very end
Love and kindness may descend.
Soft as wings of butterflies
Tears well up and wet my eyes.
My heart has melted into yours
Gently dancing in the sun
Wildflowers grow;
they bloom,
are gone.
With no thoughts,they have no cares;
Yet their lives are gentle prayers.
May I walk in such a way
That I am alive to this day.
So I see with widening view,
And joy and sorrows embrace too.
Then my time will come, like yours...
And of us nothing endures.
As to the earth our bodies go,
All are one;it shall be so
The letters of the Jews as strict as flames
Or little terrible flowers lean
Stubbornly upwards through the perfect ages,
Singing through solid stone the sacred names.
The letters of the Jews are black and clean
And lie in chain-line over Christian pages.
The chosen letters bristle like barbed wire
That hedge the flesh of man,
Twisting and tightening the book that warns.
These words, this burning bush, this flickering pyre
Unsacrifices the bled son of man
Yet plaits his crown of thorns.
Where go the tipsy idols of the Roman
Past synagogues of patient time,
Where go the sisters of the Gothic rose,
Where go the blue eyes of the Polish women
Past the almost natural crime,
Past the still speaking embers of ghettos,
There rise the tinder flowers of the Jews.
The letters of the Jews are dancing knives
That carve the heart of darkness seven ways.
These are the letters that all men refuse
And will refuse until the king arrives
And will refuse until the death of time
And all is rolled back in the book of days.
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
Images made by me using Microsoft Paint program old version
Your skin glows like an old lemon which someone left in the fridge for two years or more.
It blossoms as rudely as the nastiest weeds in springtime.
My yearning heart rises to your thunderous voice and leaps like a pig at the whisper of your name,Hardknut.
The evening ascends like a donkey riding on a great Kentucky Fried Chicken Wing.
I am calmed by your old vests that I carry to clean the car headlights with in fog
And I hold them in my hand when I have run out of Kleenex tissues. It’s either my eyes or my bladder
I am filled with dismay that I may need to dry your tears of shame with old worn out knickers
Yet you ignore mine as ever.You appear to forget I am a woman.
As my right eye falls down onto my blue shawl, alas it reminds me of our unmade blue springform bed once more.
I shall not forget it for my self esteem is low and falling
and it’s a year since I changed the sheets. I changed the last ones into light bulbs but it wasn’t easy
In the hushed yet noisy night,I listen for the last tweets of the autumn and look forward to an icy winter of miscontent
sleeping with the cats on the internet highway
My overheated heart leaps into my hot green mouth.
My lipstick is fading away with shock. It’s called Wensational Rose but it’s not sensational enough for me
I wait in the faint moonlight for your secret bank check
So that we may strive as one mad being
in search of a golden ring
Symbolic of ambivalent married love that has passed its sell by date
But still has some intrigue remaining.
I never met anyone as dreadful,sweet and ugly as you.
I love you,Nameless.You are mine forever
Or so I believed foolishly..but I prefer a cat now.
Apples hang low near the ground.
robins chirrup all around.
sun on glowing maple leaves
gives a red glow that deceives.
Autumn air is flowing near,
though it's still bright summer here.
wind dismays the flowering rose
as with arrogance it blows.
Leave me one flower for my eyes.
Leave me roses,as I sigh.
Leave me not my dearest one.
Soon enough we shall be gone.
What remains is love alone.
If your heart is not of stone,
Fear not sorrow,fear not woe.
Into this earth all must go.
It takes a long time for a tree to die.
Though its trunk be almost severed with the axe.
There was plenty of sap above
Then the leaves began to wither
and fall though it was spring time…
It takes a long time,to forget.
Not to remember
How to live.
First the tree stops growing.
It pauses,as if waiting for a message.
Then,as I said, the leaves turn brown.
It all takes time.Time to stop waiting
The leaves drop,then the smaller branches shrivel.
Humans also find that when ill, the hair may stop growing
And the finger nails.
We sacrifice the less important pieces of ourselves.
Even the most.
The small branches shrivel and dry out….
Yet the tree still looks alive.
Then gradually we notice it’s drying out;
it’s branches are parched and soon the trunk dries too.
It may split in places and insects make their home there.
It takes a long time before the trunk dies.
From the top down it dies.
The sap is too limited in quantity
To climb the trunk….
So the sap stays near the ground.
Eventually the whole tree seems dead
Yet in the roots there is still subterranean life.
The tree has died and is now brown and leaning a little sideways
No longer magnificent in display.
Time is all it needed
After the sharp cut…
And sometimes the roots are strong enough
To begin to send up new shoots
Another tree may grow..
I have seen that.
People ,of course ,die more quickly.
We have no roots.
And what of love,how does love die?
Like a tree,like a tree,like a tree.
I was unready for anything, with no charms, like a bee. Each fresh day is torture.. When you don’t hate me.
I was as tame as a mango, I was alright in my mind. Each night was a daydream Where you were so kind.
I was harmed by your molars. They were sharper than whales. Each claw brought the moon out. As you cut your nails.
Rolling stones gather…. Your heart is not mine. I’ll give you what you wish for. It ‘s a true new design . . As long as the clock speaks As long as the rose. As long as the bike pumps.. I’ll remember your nose.
As long as my patterns; As brief as they are; As long as my brain’s dead… I shall parse on a star.
I love a good proverb. I love no cliche. When you find some Wisdom Do not never pay.
Justice long as a ruler, Sharpened to a screw. When you are more kind,then I may leak what I brew . As long as the flat Earth As wise as it’s broad. The moon in the water Heard the crow caw.
Please hear my tall story Sing beside my cello. I may fail at the Wife Class But I can still say,Oh,no!
I went to the Church belle, And asked for a clue. The finger on the dial Keeps pointing at you.
The music of laughter, The joy of details, I went by the river and the moon never paled
I know the sky’ s tilted My muse is with me. Don’t sting like a buttercup Nor like a striped bee.
I didn’t hear you coming, then you were by my side. Happiness fills me. Standing in the garden looking at red leaves, I hold your hand gently, and share the sweetness of these green leaves, the distant doves cooing, the sun dipping to the horizon. Life is good. We hear together the music of this silence
Their eyes drew me, And their eyes draw me again Into a pool of winter light Golden from the low sun. I swim in it Like a hawk flows on the wind Over the depths, Of life. Contained by a white china cup, I’m your reflection now Drowning in the slanting sunlight Like a stone in a lake. Falling deeper until I find the creative mud with which I mingle no longer a stone but a soft flowing stream of sensations which meets with joy the earth’s depths and presence. And something new will grow
the keys to my heart the front door key my mobile 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
If I go I won’t tell you. I’ll just disappear one day. Like when a cigarette ,which seemed so long, suddenly has become smaller and you never noticed it because you were talking about the meaning of life while life was somewhere else blown away with your smoke into the sky and then dispersed never quite visible again but still floating on the breeze hoping to be caught in a butterfly net but unable to communicate except by flying. If I go it will not be today but it will be an ordinary day no one will realise that it’s that day that the bird flies from her nest to go to a new place only seeing the deserted nest he realises, my bird has flown
With what ceremonial geometry Could I describe the sympathy of the parts to the whole? What self can contain the feelings engendered by the response of the heart of the tree. and my heart, to the space and light offered and how the clouds float away on the wind as I stand ,hand on my throat, gazing; and the new moon points me out to the sky.
What laughter is there in this moment of dancing? We see only the stillness but know while we are turned away a young girl and an old woman murmur together as one passes the movement to the other. Caught in the camera, in a moment of rest, the tree obeys the law of gravity before levity arises at the moment we turn away and the dance goes on and the tree is alive with inner movement
Feeling the sadness in my heart
and in my arms a tender feeling
as if the flesh is calling out;
My breath’s coming in gasps and
my throat makes a murmur
as if trying to speak.
Sensitive skin on my inner arms yelps
and my heart aches like
I’ve run too many miles .
My legs feel strong
My mouth is dry and my back
needs an arm around it
for protection.
My eyes are wet with the moisture
that might have made saliva.
No woman ever can be she of whom he dreams; Nor can they give him comfort on the road. Yet every night he plots and thinks and schemes. Hence rarely does he ever go abroad.
No food he eats will satisfy his tongue. The best wine is as naught to mother’s milk. He grumbles and will not believe he’s wrong. I‘ ve known more folk than him of this same ilk.
No bed can give him comfort in his sleep. No sheets and pillows made can suit his skin. He often has made delightful maidens weep Crying out they’re far too fat or skinny thin.
Beware the man who rarely can adapt For in his hidden wishes he is trapped.
Of course when I say man I am using it in the generic sense to include all humans of whatever gender or bender they may be as wall know our Latin and the difference beteen vir and homo.. so homosexual refers to lesbians and virsexual applies to men in the nongeneric sense… It’s many years since I learned Latin so i may have erred there and elsewhere though never as a homo as yet but that may be in the future waiting for me like that black monster that ran across the floor last night. Horror and sex seems an odd thing at my age but if it kills me what away to leave the planet.I think I’ll knit a crocodile now
Stan is feeling very odd
He ate a piece of rancid cod.
He hates to throw out bits of food,
but now his insides stewed.
He feels sick and tired of life.
He hates the housework and his wife.
He’s tired of cooking cakes for her.
And he dislikes her hair.
He does like talking to his cat.
They always have a friendly chat.
And he likes teaching tricks and jokes
And see….his ears do smoke!
He went to see a Doctor Brown
Who wore a bright red dressing gown.
He asked him why he had no suit.
And only wore one boot.
>Dr Brown said, Look here,you!
I’m the doctor,how do you do?
So Stan said “I am feeling sick.
The world whirls far too quick”
“Travel sickness is not nice,
The world spins once,then you spin twice.
I’ll give you some pink medicine,
See how you get on.”
“I want to get off, not get on.
My time on earth is surely done.
I want to hear angelic choirs
Instead of Mary’s tyres.”
“I think you’re very melancholy.
I prefer my patients to be jolly.
Please take Prozac ere you come”
“I’ve already taken twenty one
,
But I still feel so black and grey.
I can’t tell if it’s night or day.”
Oh,help me doctor,it’s that time,
When men run out of grime.”
“Now look her, Stan” the doctor said,
“I think that you should go to bed.
A little rest will do you good
And renovate your blood.”
“But who will bake the cakes and bread.
And make sure that the cat’s not dead?
And who will clean the purple bath
And sweep the garden path?”
So Doctor Brown began to cry.
He’s not much good but he does try.
So Stan went home and had a rest,
And ate some buttered toast.
Some days the world is too much here,
But other days it seems less queer
So Stan feels he can cope with life
And even with his wife!
The process of writing is clear
As mud that is mixed with black beer.
Just recollect some words
And write down what you learned….
With nonchalance,then, persevere.
My old man was feeling so drear
>He dived into a barrel of beer.
He swam to the edge
And perched on a ledge..
He complained that there wasn’t a pier.
The hole sucks me in, with its deep darkness The Fall was never healed. Can I resist the call of the killers? Will they kill me with kindness or with hatred? I try to hide but no place feels safe anymore I negate my writing and hide my pens. Pain degrades me. Writing deleted returns in imagination I can do little but I try Black gravity is the monster in my soul… Sway not the tree On whose strong branch the leopard drapes himself But let the moon speak in silver tongue as the leaves rustle I am invisible except as a home for ants Who steals my words. I am no more than a punctuation mark or a short title I am near the end of my sentence. I’ll be hanged by some inverted commas From the oak tree.. burning in the sun’s borrowed fires I can’t see your face now. Just shapes in grey fog Like the doctor without feeling for my child. A child,that was.. that would have been… that has gone. I am uncertain
I tempt this sin with all my female parts.
They feel I’m like a spider with a bat,
to cure ,devour,digest my ghoulish pests,
They think they should be learning on the sat.
But some who mind me feel they have been robbed.
I give them all detention,I’m a liar.
I give them generous fare and sing sheeps’ songs.
I give them comfort like a hellish fire
Oh,come back ,bad boy ,don’t desert me yet,
The clothes I thrashed for you are not quite set
How my heart speaks 