Early October 2012 musings and poems

  • And some seeds fell on stony ground
    Where beetles and singing birds abound.
    Though nothing grew from what I sowed
    The birds did breed and the beetles growed
    Prolific in their beetles nests,
    White doves came by and ate the rest,
    So though I feared my work was vain
    I set strange life and growth in train.
    We can’t know our acts far consequence.
    May singing birds decorate thy fence
    And beetles guide you in your dance
    Until it’s time for journeying hence.

  • I try to feel through dark and distant space
    To where you dwell in a so called “heavenly” place.
    And you are far from those of us, who care.
    Our hearts are dulled with loving thoughts not shared.
    Your absence has so distanced us in grief.
    We can neither share our loss, nor gain relief.

    I stare into the star filled sky at night
    And see a space almost devoid of light.
    I feel into the edges of my soul
    I sense,somewhere, a partially dismembered whole.
    Would new technology be able to aid my view,
    As I search everywhere for some tiny trace of you?

    How can someone vanish suddenly in the night,
    And never,from then on, be in my sight?
    I wish that I’d been there when you went off.
    Then I could have expressed,in touch, my sweetest love.
    Shall I never hear again your gleaming tenor voice
    Enchanting me once more with your intriguing choice?
    Shall I not even find the laces from your shoes,
    Floating gently back to earth through these elm trees?

    I see more flocks of gracious geese flash by.
    Are those your fingers tracing lines across the sky?
    Do you too see these geese from up above?
    But you’re on the other side, too far away from love.
    And even with the very new best technology
    There’s no way back now,so you won’t ever be
    With us again,Goodbye,Goodbye Goodbye
    I’ll turn away my tear filled green- blue eyes
    And look at all that’s near,as I’m still here.

    I know now you’re too far away ,too far away, too far away ,my dear.
    I know now that you’re too far away,my dear.
    How can we learn to live with love, not fear,
    As we go on ,now, down these coming years?
    So sad that you’re not near,not here,not here,my dear.
    Shall I sometimes,in the night. pretend, you’re there,
    And that heaven is not really so agonizingly too far?
    As we slide down the escape chute of the years,
    Like children clutching at our teddy bears.

  • A pain awoke me from my sleep,
    Inside my soul there was a gap.
    I tried to make it disappear;
    To write it off my map.
    But still the ache persisted,
    I tried hard to forget.
    Then I sat down in my garden chair,
    And stayed with my upset.

    The sun may shine,
    the birds may sing
    But that to me
    no pleasure brings
    Because of my regret.

    As I sat still upon my chair
    To me three Angels did appear,
    And they are with me yet,
    They took my heart into their care,
    With golden threads they are sewing there,
    Until the work’s complete.

    My task is, here, to sit quite still,
    And let God’s angels do His Will,
    As I sit at His Feet.

  • There’s a hole in my atlas,my atlas
    There’s a hole in my atlas
    But that is not all.

    There’s a hole in my world,my world
    There’s a hole in my world,
    and what should I do?
    The first person,fixed the atlas,the atlas.
    The first person fixed the atlas,
    But my heart still bled.

    The next one kept moaning,kept moaning.
    The next one kept moaning,
    And then I felt worse.

    The next one sat by me,sat by me.
    The next one sat by me,
    And helped me to grieve.

    There’s a hole in my world,my world.
    There’s a hole in my world,
    But now I can cope.

  • Is your glowing face a map?
    Are your tender ways a map?
    What is not a map?

    Is your open smile a map?
    Is your deepest groan a map?
    What is not a map?

    Is my too sharp touch a map?
    Is my too quick glance a map?
    What is not a map?

    Is this sea green leaf a map,
    Is this light red flower a map?
    What sort of map is that?

    Is the dark evening sky a map;
    Is the silver moon a map?
    Of what is that a map?

    Is this entire world a map?
    Is the sun-soaked sky a map?
    Is this tiny child a map?

    I think I am a map.

    Who can learn to read these maps?
    Without love we can’t perceive;
    Who can teach us how to see?

    Can we look beyond the Map?
    Can we look into the gap?
    What can Love now read?
    What Love can we receive?

  • The color of the flowers

    touches my eyes

    more softly than a raindrop

    Yet with the intensity of the sun

  • I love to read books in the bedroom

    And I sleep on a chair in the hall.

    I get washed in a spring

    And I love to sing.

    And I never go into the Mall.

    I love to write poems in the kitchen

    And I like to cook in the back yard.

    I am so clever and bright

    My face has turned white.

    I need to get red ,to be read, to play dead.

    I need to get fed as a bard.

  • .
    Language changes slowly.
    While the world changes very rapidly.
    So language may not be about the present.
    The present is in flux.
    Language is relatively fixed.

  • She who would feminine be,when winds are blowing,
    Must set her hair with glue,
    Especially if it’s snowing,.
    There’s no weather can beat
    A bag of rollers with electric heat.
    She will make good her style
    At least for a little while,
    She’ll look both jolly and neat,
    Unlike a pilgrim.

    She who would fashionable be, when snow is falling,
    Must dye her eyelashes
    Whilst the men are talking,
    There’s no snowstorm can beat,
    The 6 inch heels off her feet,
    She’ll look glamorous and complete
    Quite unlike a pilgrim
    She’ll do whatever she wants
    Despite Satan’s taunts
    She’ll make us all feel gay
    Just like a fashion pilgrim

  • VOWELS
  • We once had a doctor called Powell,
    Who spoke to his patients in vowels.
    When he called I O U,
    I asked for A and E too,
    As I had so much pain in my bowels.

  • Thanks for all your calls and postcards,
    Thanks for caring that I’m here.
    In my darkest, lonesome moments
    These replies will keep you near.

    Thanks for answering all my letters
    Thanks for all the time you give ,
    Thanks for sharing deepest thoughts,
    And being so generous with your love.

    Thank you for your wit and grace,
    Thank for your funny face.
    Thank you for your deep blue gaze and
    Thank you for your warm embrace.

    Thank you,thank you,thank you,thank you.
    Love you ,love you,love you,Love.
    Thank you,thank you,thanks to you,
    Because,because,because,Because.

  • Our Father,Aneurin Bevan,
    Exploded is thy game;
    Why,Kingdom come,
    Before thy will be done.
    Gone N.H.S,Gone Heaven.
    Give us fair pay,our daily bread;
    Don’t leave us on piece rates,
    As we confront those who legislate against us.
    And feed us not with deprivation,
    But deliver us from Weasels.
    For thine was the Fair Game,the Hour and the Story
    Maybe once but ever again?

  • There was no way I could miss
    The smile in your eyes when we kissed
    I think you’re divine
    And we are getting on fine,
    But don’t wipe your nose on my dress!

    You love my singularly blue eyes
    And the strange way my poetry rhymes.
    I do like your smell
    Though I still cannot tell,
    If it’s cologne or just sweat and grime.

    I like your really weird sense of humour,
    And the way you spread love like a rumour.
    Shall we get wed
    And then get in bed,
    Or shall I elope with that sexy piano tutor?

  • TI hear it’s good to be able to tolerate ambiguity.
    So,don’t worry if you can’t decide whether you are a man or a woman
    We’ll all love you anyway,
    And don’t worry about whether you love or hate Ed Milliband.
    We one time Labour party members are all floundering on that one.[but that’s probably ambivalence,not ambiguity?] X an
    error here.

    Are you not sure if you have high or low self esteem?
    Just don’t keep comparing yourself to others.
    There’s no linear scale for measuring moral or other kinds of worth.
    I imagine Hitler had high self esteem.
    Jesus/God preferred the humble in spirit.
    Some of the things Jesus said were ambiguous
    Like what he said about the barren fig tree.
    Or about his Kingdom.

    Nearly everything we say is ambiguous.
    Is clarity always possible or even desirable?
    Are you AMBIGUOUS OR AMBIVALENT about our society
    You love designer handbags though
    you feel you should give your money
    To Pakistan Flood Relief.
    Well,we all feel like that,except the narcissists.

    How would I know if I was a narcissist? X unanswerable
    That’s something that does genuinely worry me.
    Ambiguous about narcissism and cream cakes and love.
    Ambivalent about ambiguity,
    But not ambivalent about cakes or narcissism.

  • The life boat crew are safely home
    They’ve brought the shipwrecked sailors too.
    The storm has passed,the wind has dropped
    The sea is swaying softly now.

    Wrapped in soft night clothes,their offspring
    Are all in worlds of dream still lost.
    Their fathers’ safely home this time.
    They save wrecked ships despite the cost.

    Will any lifeboat crew be there
    To help less blessed ones from despair,
    And lives, too many ,spent in care
    No fathers and no mothers near?

    The sea we certainly must fear,
    But more we fear the acts of those
    Who try to buy our minds and wills,
    for votes in the election booths.

    Oh hush my baby,go to sleep,
    It is your mammy’s job to weep.
    I wish I knew just what to do
    To empower the lives of wains like you.

    Sleep well ,sleep well,my little child.
    The sun will rise,the air is mild.
    We’ll trust that when we all set sail
    Our love and courage will not fail.

    Oh,hush my sweet one,I am near.
    The world’s too big for bairns to bear.
    We’ll do much better this time round.
    We’ll not let this boat run aground.

    *NB Wain and bairn mean infant /child /baby used in certain parts of the British Isles mainly northern
    England and Scotland
    .

  • Now it’s getting cooler I shall examine my clothes.I like clothes and fashion but I also have my own criteria for a garment.
    So I shall not wear a maxi skirt on the off chance I might be able to get on my bike.On the other hand I find jeans cold in winter.
    I just found an old tweed knee length skirt… that will do… and I have to wear flat shoes or boots…Even friends who swore they would ever do it or buying high heels.I refuse to suffer for beauty.
    I was thinking of buying an animal print scarf but my friend is horrified…it’s “Common.” They have some big animal print fedora type hats in Marks…. but you must not wear them in the rain.Like those boots which are “Fashion items unsuitable for rain or snow”
    I guess jeans with a pair of pyjama bottoms underneath and a sweater on top will be warm.
    That leads to another problem.We can’t keep our house at 25 Deg
    so we wear woolly jumpers etc.But if I go into a large shop they already have full heating on.It makes me feel sick.I have to wear a coat as I use buses but I think they are catering for car drivers who don’t need to wear coats.
    So I can’t spend long in department stores………..probably a good thing.
    And I’m “Doing the opposite”now.That is,I am giving clothes away not buying them….as I feel a lot of people will be unable to afford clothes and also it’s a good way to give to charity too.We also save coppers in a jar and give those away plus 5p pieces we collect before Xmas to give to people calling for donations… it’s less painful to collect that way.
    My main thought is,forget fashion bur try to brighten up the world instead of dressing in greige always….

    “Come here,Kathryn,come here quick,
    ‘Cos your Daddy’s really sick.
    Run as fast as fast you can,
    Fetch the priest,get Father Dan”.
    Run,run went my eight year old feet,
    Down the lane and up the street.
    I ran right up to Father’s door.
    [Does God live there any more?]
    “Come please,Mam said Daddy’s ill”
    “Oh,”said Father,”That I will”
    Revving up his motor bike,
    With The Sacrament beside.
    He lifted me up onto the back
    And roared off up the church side track.
    It was the best thrill of my life………………..
    If only Daddy hadn’t diedI now think I have caught paranoia.

    My wife thought I have done it to annoy her.

    I covered up my eyes

    With two yellow stars.

    So Hitler won’t know where the Jews are.

  • I did Relativity Physics ….oh so cute!

    As well as playing a good deal on the flute.

    I got the two confused,

    And Einstein was amused,

    As the slower I played,how time flewed.

  • Sometimes my hands curl up,
    and other times,they open.
    Then I feel the air;
    My fingers relax.

    I touch your hand;
    uncurl it and press it to mine.
    Palm on palm,it’s no secret
    that palms connect to hearts.

    In your face I see a hint of melancholy,
    I feel it in my soul..
    as if there was a secret connection..
    thought how,I don’t know.

    Somehow,touching, we create another soul,
    Neither you nor I, but we……
    Touching,need to be physical..

    We know how a story can affect us that way.
    What a gift to know we have touched someone…
    In the heart.’s. most tender space.The place of love.

    Both true and false,my palm is lonely.

    Then I feel the caress of summer air..

    To touch is to be touched
    as one soul opens to another..
    Vulnerable,human,loving,
    Painful and illusory,like those dreams of childhood.
    Now I go,first gripping, then loosening our hands.

    Goodbye,we say,Goodbye,

  • We once had a doctor called Lamb,
    Who was inundated with a barrage of Spam.
    He got a computer expert
    But alas this man jinxed it.
    And now it gets nothing but Ham

  • Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme—
    why are they no help to me now
    I want to make
    something imagined, not recalled?
    I hear the noise of my own voice:
    The painter’s vision is not a lens,
    it trembles to caress the light.
    But sometimes everything I write
    with the threadbare art of my eye
    seems a snapshot,
    lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,
    heightened from life,
    yet paralyzed by fact.
    All’s misalliance.
    Yet why not say what happened?
    Pray for the grace of accuracy
    Vermeer gave to the sun’s illumination
    stealing like the tide across a map
    to his girl solid with yearning.
    We are poor passing facts,
    warned by that to give
    each figure in the photograph
    his living name.

    A small free design

    There’s nothing madder than a wet pen with no paper to write on.

    We made out by that bin full of leaves.. and now I look like a trampess.

    I am made of honey and jam.Just call me marmalade.

    Can you post a pin by Royal Mail?

    My main wish is for peace and worth.

    A great artist made a fancy cake for my tea.

    I wake alongside other folk in a large bed… we even have some cats in there.It’s because the hospital is short of beds.

    Can you make a fountain out of a spring on a hill?

    He made a pass at himself but it was no good; he doesn’t fancy men whoever they are

    He made an real ass of himself when he fell off the podium

    Put back that glass.It’s made of paper.

    I make friends meet for tea.Then I eat all their food to save making dinner.Is that the sin of greed,theft or unkindness?
    And I only have a firm purpose of commendment.

    I can’t make beds or cook whales yet but I’m ready to marry anyone who can.

    P{ease let me bite the leaves off a tree.I need roughage.

    You make enough crones go on broomsticks already.They prefer to cycle nowadays or use a minicab.

    I make or take iced cake for tea parties.I charge a small free.

    I went to support the unpaid,not to get laid.That was what we call a side effect…I just hope I’m not pregnant…. what a side effect that would be…Just like me.

    I want to make facts meet online to recombine by design

Advertisements

About Kate Thwaite

I love writing , conversation, art, wild flowers, music and air.And books
This entry was posted in thoughts. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments and criticism welcome

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s