Month: September 2004

  •  

    But you don’t see me crying,
    tired of all the worry
    you have given me,
    never knowing where your hand
    will strike next
    on one of my late mother’s pots
    or across my face.

    But you don’t see me crying
    like piano hemidemisemiquavers,
    like onto a cold cobweb of a face
    long since lost it’s beauty
    hated by a mirror
    and any other vanity
    I once had before you married me
    and made me so ugly.

    But you don’t see me crying
    when I have to say to you
    that I love you,
    so the children will not wake again
    hearing your foul language
    and you threatening to kill me.

    But you don’t see me crying
    when someone tells me
    they have seen you kissing a girl
    half of my age,
    and you come back
    and near rape me
    you having locked the children
    inside their bedroom.

    But you don’t see me crying,
    oh no, oh no, oh no.

    And you never will,
    not even if I filled up the tea-pot
    with my tears.

    —
    Tiffy Witherington.


    blog updated

    ___________________________

     

     

     


    As I climb the mountain and look down,

    I wonder if this is how heaven will be.

    For below me, far below the tree-level,

    A million voices cry upwards to be helped,

    A million sad people asking for that something

    To make their lives a little better.



    I sit on a rock, and run my panting fingers

    Inside my collar of God, and I look below

    And I hope their prayers can be answered.



    For their prayers are rarely for themselves,

    But for loved ones, those in trouble across the sea,

    And for hope and peace to replace the hatred.



    And I climb up to the summet of the mountain

    And I pray myself for the tears in the valley below.



    I suddenly realise I had not even left the church-hall,

    And yet the mountain was real to me.



    I had climbed the mountain of my heart

    A mountain higher, and with greater views,

    Than any earthly mountain I may ever ascend

    With map and bible in my rucksack.



    —

    Rev Tobias Trontby.
    __________________

     

     


    Text Don’t give a trucker an easy cake.



    Feeling down on my duck, and tired of my boss saying we should put our sacks to the ball and pull our cocks up cos there’s no such thing as a tree crunch, I decided that enough is Abroath, and it was time to sack up and grieve and cry my sand elsewhere.



    I was shore I could shoe it, start a new wife, this time keeping my nose to the rindbone, and watch my ‘t’s and ‘u’s, for when the twit hits the scan, I want to be smiles away, for I am not the whack sleep of the family.



    “But bang on a blow, and toad your forces” he cried, not sleeting about the crutch, “you owe us a witty kenny before you get your thistle and see if the pass is meaner on the other side of the bill.”



    But I stuck to my runs and I cold him where to wet cloth, and left him to his gob and so he had to wet me ho, and here I spam at your floor, wanting you to give me a dance.



    —

    Horace Spliff Esq.

     

    The Three_Headed_Sarahs are back from their own planet, visit them or be damned.

     

    ————————

    ‘Isn’t gravity a wonderful thing,

    Holding us all in place,

    Otherwise we’d just go “ping”,

    And head off for deepest space.’

     

    (b) Mervyn G. Powell.

    And NO, he’s NOT another of my personae, but a great poet met tonight. (28th September) Hope he joins Xanga! Terry.

     

    Updated this, it’ll be Saturday before I’m next here.

  • Eating at the corner of the world

    And seeing only the sinnews of life

    Like crumbs from large loaves

    No longer living

    No longer awash with the smiles

    Before people were shot for smiling.



    Eating at the corner of the world

    Saying only the names of the dead

    And then just with our eyes

    As they move from photograph to photograph.



    In the few hours of light

    We bury dead dreams, dead hopes and dead bodies,

    The latter wrapped in

    The corner of their world

    From now to forever.



    —

    Jacques du Lumière


     

    _________________________


    Soldiers are dipped

    Into the boiled egg of the world

    And eaten by death.



    But death is not evil

    Only those who kill are evil,

    They will never break the bread

    With the yolk of Jesus Christ

    No matter what the priests and generals

    May ever say.



    —

    Jacques du Lumière


    ___________________________


    We see it in the rainshine

    The elephant in the boatyard

    As the corn spins

    In a deathly silence.



    No one feels like singing

    Since snails climbed the mountains

    And humans ate humans

    As fish ate fish.



    —

    Jacques du Lumière


     

    ___________________________


    Like a breath of fresh sand

    We tumble down the hill

    Some into nettles

    Some onto landmines.



    Children pick up deadly bombs

    Designed as pretty toys

    And sold by the good o’ USA

    To help a president

    To remain in office.



    Like a mouth full of cold-dust

    We tumble down the hill

    Not even thinking what may lie

    At the foot of it.



    Barbed wire or psycho-soldiers

    May lay in wait for us

    To finish off us who

    Had tried to escape down the hill,

    More people to die

    For the good o’ USA.



    —

    Jacques du Lumière
    ______________________________

     

  • Reading (Advanced copy) “My Trade: A short history of journalism” by Andrew Marr.

     

    Text la pipa.

    ___________



      I am learning Spanish.

      Because I am learning Spanish. I will only talk Spanish at work.

      No one knows what I am talking about, and I am very angry with their ignorance, everyone should know that el verano means summer, and el teril is the place where bulls are kept until they are needed for the fight, I’ll hace la una paja over their falos if they do not answer in Spanish, the maricons that they are!

      I have few friends at work, one is a Chinese chappie who plays with his glass-eye all day long at his workstation. This poor geezer doesn’t realise that I am talking Spanish, he thinks, when I am saying “por favor!” (with the reverse ! in) that I am talking Welsh. All this Chinaman keeps saying to me is “yes, yes, very sad, very, very sad,” over and over as he rolls his glass-eye from one side of the bench to the other. I wish he will say it in Spanish, because I no longer habla English.

      I am not alone in this, my Scottish foreman will only speak to us in German, and shouts Die Schlampes. sich einen runterholen! at us. I wish he wouldn’t, fancy talking to us in German, when we can’t speak it! I tell you, the man is la tapette!

    ————————————–


    Text Susan





      He took a blank piece of paper and named it Susan.

      And for the rest of his life, Susan followed him around everywhere, blowing in the wind & every now & then slapping him in the face so he’d fall off his bike or smash his car, and as he then lay there in a daze, he could see the paper dance with glee.

      But there was never a finer piece of paper in the whole of Christendom, upon the whole of the seven seas, known to the ancient pillars of man.

      People had tried to copy him, and they took sheets of paper and named them the most beautiful names they could think of.

      But no piece of paper upon this planet was the same as Susan, the other blank sheets drifted outside with their owners, but in minutes they will end up on the park’s bonfire, or the park-keepers spiky thingie, or in the mouths of park benches.

      There was never any like Susan, a piece of paper that never tore or stained or yellowed or got uncrisp or dirty or drunk, a piece of paper that followed its owner everywhere, stopping anyone else from ever loving him.

      After his third girl-friend had died in mysterious circumstances, he realised he would never be allowed to replace the piece of paper that he had called Susan; so he rolled Susan up and stuck it into his pocket.

      Now if you ever see a man with a piece of paper in his pocket, ask him if its Susan, you may be making an old man very happy.


    ————————————-


    Text 817

    ________



      He could not understand it, the last 17 mornings he had travelled on bus fleet number 817, despite there being 19 other buses on the route, and 17 times on the way home, it was fleet number 817. Eery, the other morning he saw bus number 813 drawing away, he ran like mad, and to his delight he boarded it, but the bus then stalled, and he and the other passengers had to get on the bus behind, yup, fleet number 817.

      On Monday Evening he had just missed fleet number 817, and he felt relieved, he did not care how long he had to wait for the next bus, it was 86 minutes, the buses route is 86 minutes long…

      By tonight he had had enough, he went to the bus stop, and there it was, waiting for him, bus number 817. He ignored the bus, 35 minutes later both he and the bus were still there.

      In the end the driver of fleet number 817, (the drivers have not always been the same person) asked him if he wanted the bus or not.

      He decided to walk.

      He was in hospital for three weeks. Eye-witnesses said that although the woman driver tried to control the bus, fleet number 817 had a mind of its own. No one else was the slightest bit hurt as the bus ran into him.

      He remember the bus laughing at him…  


    ——————————————–


    Text Liquorice

    ____________



      A bad freak of a day, wham! It falls into a bandaged omnibus “No Griffres de prise directe” The sign said as it passed a charabanc that has been turned into a tramerator. “Did youl sit thy griving test duck?” I asked the tram-driver (still in nappies by the way) “This looks good” he said, and Jenna Bush knocked back her hash-gin and growled “Who you looking at buster?” before opening her legs to Billy Graham who said, “Make my day punk!” (But that’s enough quotes from the internet).

      Beyond the star is a simple man, but il lui echappe des indiscretions, that Sandra was anyone’s after one drink, and that was only a coffee. they say she was a prim child, but at 15 she had her first sex, and has had thousands of men since and she is still only 15, In the doughnut position, she puked all over Slim Thorne who then called a dustbin a plate-moustache. 

      And we left them there, Sandra and Slim, hope like wallpaper torn from the back of a dying octopus, but yesterday Shirley had her hands on her hips and snapped “this is the second time this week you’re been late to finish work, so please go home and play tennis with your kites!”

      When bumblebees are bugs and iron are men, then take out your glass-ear for some damned computer shoot-up your arm full of bytes. Cowcumber-flavoured crisps “Mes vetements de tous les jours” he smiled, showing his bikini to all the male dogs and hoping they’ll be turned on.

      Call the clothes-pegs, its said they have been slowly taking over the uk government, five of Tony Blairs ministers are already clothes-pegs, three plastic, one wooden and one made out of liquorice pudding. 

    ————————————


    Text “Fairies”

    ____________



    I believe in fairies, you-know, those things that potter around at the bottom of my garden. I love the fairies, because of the kind & wonderful things that they do, like leave a penny under my pillow everytime I go for a filling. I like the way they clear the weeds away from the shed.

      When my Mummy was alive, she used to tell me I would never find a nice girl whilst I keep talking about fairies. I don’t know what she meant, because when I get frustrated, I do something naughty with my hand, & I feel the fairies are helping me to be happy, & Mummy liked me to be happy. I remember just before my thirty-fifth birthday, Mummy said to me “As long as you are happy being a fairy”. (That was when that man, dressed up as an angel, put his wee-wee up my bottom, and Mummy saw it.) So she must have realised I love these little ladies very much.





      One day, I know the fairies are going to take me to Heaven, meanwhile, I dance with them among the mushrooms. I leave the wicked telly switched off all the time now, it is only full of nasty men & rude women. Instead I sit in the shed & read stories to the fairies, sometimes they give me a nice kiss. 


    —————————————


    Text Lepordesy

    ______________

    I walk around Huddersfield all day lad, covered in old sheet like, royt, & carrying flippin’ bell. DONG! I’m, a , um Whatheycalledsarah? a leopard? Sometimes I sit in the Cuthbert Centre with a chipped wooden bowl in front of me, & I’m crying, like. Anyroad, I mix with crowds & I’m crying, UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN! & I’m crying out t’ folk to help me, holding  one finger out sheet, saying other fingers 1 nay none. But ot’er day this here copper like, made me take off sheet, but when he found me stark-bollock naked, oh fuck this yorkshire lark! & toadmarched me dressed to police station, I kept shouting: KEEP AWAY FROM ME! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!They threw me into a cell, because I had a sty on my eye, and thought I had Lepordesy.So I was back at the Cuthbert Centre For The Sarahs: and making pots of dosh, three heads on one body chum! I can change the hour! I can use the computer to pop out anywhere as a stupid man, that was that day’s diary. & they are putting a tenner in my chipped bowl whenever I ring my bell just so I will not touch them…

    ” Here,” one old gal just said to me, Take a bloody bath! That should been green NO! (Cheeky lass! I showered last year!) Done it! 

    —————————–


    My First Ever Text.

    ________________



    One morning I came down and found a hand on the doormat. “Damn it!” I thought, as I swung on the lightcord, “my letterbox has bit off another postman’s hand!

      I have started selling odd gloves to the GPO, and I had an irate father after me, you see, we have this free newspaper, not “news” as much as “gimme! gimme!” but anyroad, his eleven year old son was delivering these newspapers, and he hadn’t heard about my strong letterbox, so he went home crying, sans hand. I am not a kinky person, but his hand has pride of place in my collection, along side my grandfather’s hand and a neighbour’s cock. How the latter got into my letterbox, I don’t know, but some people round here are very strange.

      Everytime I take a girl home, after shagging her, I get her to put her hand into my letterbox, but there is no sudden snap, and no scream, perhaps my letterbox is queer, I had better not tell the GPO or else I’ll get no more hands! Maybe I ought to get a quack-doctor to see to my door, cos it’s unhinged (in one way).


    ———————————–


    Text Royal Lemington Spa.

    _______________________



    I am lost in the thick fog, I can’t see a thing, not the early-morning double-decker buses, nor the frozen cobwebs that are supposed to look like lace but looks more like broken cut-glass.

      The trees feel like stone as I barge my way through the dead park, the slashings of light must be cars running me over. Every now & then I feel a bang on my chest, and I knock my head on a hard surface, it happens soon after those flashing lights, so I stumble onto a pavement or fall onto a metal street pole. Someone screams as they are sucked into a hole. I hide from the roar of metal and I feel blood scratch down my cheeks.

      It is as if everybody has gone nearly blind, the mist is so thick. This is Royal Lemington Spa, and the river underneath sends out white spirits that howl over the G.G. buses and flying milkmen arms, and the constant crying of lost people being sucked into holes.

      Everytime the fog drops in this town this happens, and it lasts for days. Later on people clean up the mess and have masses for the vanished ones, and they all blame Global Warming, and it is true, Mr. Warming is a very bad egg.



    ———————————-


    Text “Samaritan”

    _______________



    I am one of those sort of people whom everyone & everybody pours their heart out to, on buses, in bus-queues, outside shops, in pubs…Always there is someone or somebody who comes up to me & tells me their life-history of unmitigated gloom.





    I went to bingo the other night, but I never finished a single game, because all of the time, this old lady was bemoaning how her husband was a cripple, & how she never won anything “Unlike that old bag who’s bleedin’ havin’ it off with the manager!” & how the bailifs called round the last night to take away their telly, her husband’s only comfort, & how their bed was given to them by “Sally’s army”.

      I tried the pictures, & blow me, if this old man doesn’t plonk himself down next to me to tell me how his children wasted money on records & trashy clothes, & how they ignored him & swore at him after he had brought them up single-handed after the tragic death of their mother in a car accident a few years back, & how his ungrateful kids had sold their mother’s jewelery to buy drugs…

      So it goes on, I am thinking of of wearing a badge with the word “Samaritan” on it. I am becoming very depressed myself. I am also becoming very poor, because I find myself giving to every “ill-lucker” twenty quid.

      I have become so depressed at the way people eat their hearts out to me, I have began to stop people in the street, just to tell them what a fool I’ve been all my life. 



    —————-

    (From “100 Texts”) (some up-dated!)

    Published under the name of “Horace Smith Esquire”.

  • When you lose things, it is a natural reaction for people to believe you had never owned them in the first place.



    I once wrote poems in French, but like a lot of my abilities, I lost it with my stroke.



    Here are five poems I have had published in France, in French, but now only survive in English.

    They are “by” Jacques du Lumière.



    ——————————–

    Our children’s faces

    Are seen only as reflections

    In some dark, polluted pond;

    Forever crying, their eyes

    Penetratrating our horror,

    Pleading for us to hold them

    Once more in our arms;

    Kiss once more their

    Dead cheeks, and tell them

    We still love them.



    Forever they look up

    To us, from rivers, from

    Lakes, from natural mirrors

    Of water. They ask us not to

    Forget them…



    Nor shall we ever.



    ————————–

    Our children’s children

    Are all we sing for

    In these black fields

    Of loneliness.



    They are all that matter now

    We realise,

    As we carry our little bundles

    Onto the edge of eternity



    Each one of us remembering

    How beautiful death can be

    To a dying man.



    —————————

    You were part of something

    I never wanted,

    Part of someone

    I never met

    Snapping into life’s jig-saw.



    I saw you before,

    You were never there

    Never in the day

    Of white snow,

    Never in the language

    You said you spoke

    Never in the lips

    Of the shadows,

    Never in icicles

    From my eyes;

    Never, never, never

    Wanting you.



    You were part of something

    I never knew.



    ————————–

    He returned alone,

    And in rags

    Shut himself in his hut

    And spoke to no one

    On that cold wet day.



    Whom of us dared to ask him

    Where his wife is now?

    We approached his hut slowly,

    To hear him crying

    And making more noise

    Than the rain.



    ————————–

    “In the Shadow of the Abbey”.



    I say Lord, don’t miss me

    In the shadow of the abbey,

    My prayers for your ark,

    My enchanted chapel of nuns;

    My tower room full of yellow light.



    And Lord, do not get me lost

    At these crossroads

    Where the signpost is bent

    Its fingers pointing to the four corners

    Of the drunken Earth.



    For when the undergrowth of night

    Sob spirits from each stone, and

    When death overhangs each vine;

    Lord, spare me the sadness

    Of the deep black pond.



    You shall welcome my song

    My soft words, my thoughts,

    To you Lord, my Saviour;

    In the shadow of the abbey,

    Remember me, do not forget…



    Even if the signpost is broken

    And lays in the shape of a demon.

    ______________________________



    All poems published under the hetcronym of Jacques du Lumière

  • New poems with two of my personæ not used in the last blog.


    Mobile Love.



    I heard him talk to you

    On his mobile phone.

    He did not know it was me

    Behind the newspaper

    On the number five bus.



    I heard him tell you

    How much you meant to him.

    I could not hear your reply of course,

    But he seemed pleased at what you had said.



    He got off at the stop

    Where I was due to enlight,

    I stayed on the bus I did,

    I felt that it was quite right.



    I then switched off my mobile phone

    And went off to the pictures alone.



    It was a very long night.



    —

    The Poet Known As “Empty Chairs”

     


    Where are you now,

    You who is laughing on the photograph,

    With a cocky smile,

    and a cigarette between your fingers.

    Where are you now?



    Where are you now

    You who is leaning on a tank

    In the blazing afternoon sun

    You to whom war is an adventure.

    Where are you now?



    Where are you now,

    Proud uncle, father to my cousins,

    You such a proud Frenchman

    Beating back the bosch.

    Where are you now?



    Where are you now,

    You who was lost in action,

    You who never came home again

    From the war to end all wars.

    Where are you now?



    Where are you now,

    You whose body was never found

    Or was buried in the mud

    Along with your dreams.

    Where are you now?



    Aye, where are you now,

    You whose memorial is but a name

    Sketched on a crumbling stone,

    You, the uncle I never knew.

    Aye, where are you now?



    —

    Jacques du Lumière

    ________________________

     

     


     see also Three_Headed_Sarahs  site and their son’s days at infant school (re USA kindergarden)

  • Coming SATURDAY: 5 poems by Jacques du Lumerie.


    And my mind is of honey

    And it is a bee-hive

    A place full of pollen

    Full of bees that swarm

    In and out of the silences

    As if the threads of my mind

    Were a cacophony of flowers

    A waterfall where I wash

    Away all of my tired thoughts

    And drink the nector of the clear ice-water

    That flows off of the rocks

    Like the strings of a harp

    Full of the sounds that forget

    What all but life is

    And life is of course

    Only something that we walk through

    From what was before us

    To what is after us.



    And to think that it is more

    Is to hide reality

    Under the pool of honey-water,

    And the mead of the mind.



    We who sees other things,

    We who hear other sounds

    Are no different than those

    Who live monochrome lives,

    For we will die too

    Forgotten by the bees

    That have moved on to other nector

    And water that has gone from the waterfall

    And into the sea.



    —

    Lord Pineapple

    Note: The photo is in Border’s Oxford. it says on the sweat-shirt www.LordPineapple.co.uk I stopped the name though they wanted £120 to renew it, so you won’t find anything there.

  • Another silly love poem.



    And here I am

    Getting on your nerves,

    Trying to write a love poem

    Whilst thinking of us both

    As we were such a long time ago.



    And there you are,

    Waiting for me to come to bed,

    To stop scribbling some masterpiece

    Or just some journeywoman doggeral;

    (-hoping for the former,

    -fearing for the latter).



    And here I am

    Trying to write another silly love poem

    About a love

    That had long since dried up,

    Withered under a dying sun.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

    __________________

     


    The Registry Office.

    __________________



    When I visit the city,

    I have to pass there

    The Registrar.



    And often I see couples

    Who have just been married in there,

    Holding hands on some horrid steps

    In front of the building.



    I wonder to myself

    How long will their marriage last.

    For however much the couples may love one another;

    Another love is missing.



    I wonder if God would not have rather

    The couples lived in sin

    Than to get married in such a place

    Where He would not want to go.



    —

    The Reverand Tobias Trontby.
    ____________________________


     

    The_Clowne_from_Clown  has a piece about Toby and Tiffy.

  • On the eighth of September is my birthday, I thought running up to it I’ll put down ten of my favt poems wrote since my last birthday.


    So here goes (in no real order) 10 of the best. (Any you would have prefered?)


    ______________________


    I was once a snowdrop

    Once a daffodil

    Once the moon

    Once the stars.



    There was no slash, no gash

    That did not reach the sea

    That did not call my name

    Over and over and over.



    When the battle against the demons is won

    When the evil in the spirit is destroyed

    And when those who kill for country, god or greed are no more…



    Then again I’ll be your snowdrop

    Your daffodil, your moon;

    Again I shall be the stars

    That call out your name

    Over and over and over.



    —

    Ingar Gørse

    ____________________

     


    St. Cuthbert’s, Edinburgh.

    _______________________



    Sitting i’ the graveyaird

    Alang wi’ the deid,

    Armed wi’ a buik

    That I yet haen’t reid.



    Leuking at aal the nature

    I’m hunkering here amang,

    An’ wonnering why I’m dying

    Wi’ mi poems syne unsang.

    —–
    Wee Duncan D.

     

    ______________________

     


    “A Most Peculiar Man”

    ____________________



    When I’m in my silent world

    There is a song

    That I feel I am at one with

    And which has inspired my poetry

    More than any other song.

    It is “A Most Peculiar Man”

    By Simon and Garfunkel.



    That could have been me

    If no one had cared

    Back in the ‘fifties

    When they had wanted to put me

    Into a mental institute

    Just because I had no empathy

    And was autistic.



    I could have been the one

    With no friends,

    And the one

    Who seldom spoke

    So no one spoke to me

    A most peculiar man

    In Clowne Town.



    “Poor thing” they would have tutted

    As I muttered to the post office

    To get my allowance.



    “He shouldn’t be living up there by himself”

    They would have said

    As I shuffled home singing

    “A most peculiar man”.



    It could have been me

    If no one had cared,

    But some teachers,

    Some social workers,

    And some doctors;

    Spoke up for me

    And kept me sane

    If ever down,

    If ever among the low

    Of a sink-school.



    This is for them,

    To the ones who cared,

    The ones who gave me life

    When others wanted

    Just to destroy me.



    This is to them,

    And to empathy

    Pouring out of my silent world:

    A most peculiar man.



    —

    Lord Pineapple

     

    ____________________

     


    “In the cemetery”

    _______________



    blowing over

    her lowered coffin:

    spring blossom.



    “she would have loved that”

    whispered her son.



    —

    The Rev. Tobias Trontby

    ________________________

     


    “Goodbye Old World”

    _____________________



    “Goodbye old world” the old man cheered

    As his grasping children mentally jeered

    “You will never get a penny from me,

    I’m giving nothing to you three;

    And when I’ve gone how you will grieve

    When not a fucking penny shall you receive!



    I’ve given it all to “Children In Need”

    They’ll deserve it more than thy,

    and whilst you rot through your broken greed

    Ten thousand children will not  die”.

    —

    By the ghost of “Lord Muck”


    _____________________

     


    “She’s Coming Home”

    __________________



    And don’t you get the feeling

    That she’s coming home?

    I mean after all this time

    She’s actually coming home?



    Her quarter of the planet is dead, for God’s sake,

    Where else has she to go?

    She’ll come with some lame excuse,

    But you’ll welcome her,

    I’m sure you will.



    She’s coming home I tell you!

    Hold your wet little-finger to the wind,

    And you will feel her there,

    Touching you with her gentle light,

    And begging for forgiveness.



    She’s coming home, damn you!

    At least tidy up this place, it’s a shithole!

    She won’t want to come back to

    Rubbish on the floor!



    She’s coming home at last,

    And here she is now,

    Here is her cool white stone upon your face,

    Here is her light shining deep into your eyes.



    And so you look up at the moon

    And you thank her for coming home to you.



    —

    Lord Pineapple

    _____________________

     


    Mummy wrote on my banana

    Not to forget to bring

    My PE kit home

    With “PS I love you!”



    I kept the banana skin

    Until it went all black

    Then I cried.

     

    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan

     

    _____________________

     



    Margaritæ Sorori

    _______________



    Will they come for your soul my dear,

    After all of this time,

    Will they come for your soul Margaritæ,

    And for your spirit, and rob us all

    Of the love you felt for us?



    Will they come regretfully,

    And with tender touch,

    To guide you into heaven,

    Until you are all in our past?



    Margaritæ Sorori,

    Will they come for you at last

    And ease your burning memory,

    So much that has been lost

    With the rotting of your brain?



    We loved you so much my dear,

    And remember you as you were,

    A lady singing daisy-pies,

    A mother, a queen, a goddess.



    Will they come for you and rob us,

    We whom you no longer know,

    We who you helped in so many ways,

    And gave so much kindness to?



    Margaritæ Sorori,

    Let us pack away the books that you

    No longer understand,

    The food you can no longer eat,

    The thoughts you no longer have.



    Let us pack them all away, and ask

    For the angels to give you

    As you gave all of us,

    Love and heart and happiness,

    And a key to your mind.



    —

    The Rev. Tobias Trontby

     

    ______________________

     


    “A Love Greater Than Sex”

    ________________________



    I remember him

    calling me

    across these white sands

    “Marie! Marie! Amour de Marie!”

    He cried in our love.



    That was before I had lost his child,

    and was told that I could have no more.



    He first started to hit me

    the day I came out of hospital.

    I was ill,

    and had forgotten the meat in the oven.



    Of course, I remember later

    that he went into the kitchen twice

    for bottles of wine.

    He must have smelt the burning

    but did not tell me

    as I sat there,

    folding up the baby clothes

    to give to my brother’s wife

    for their third.



    Yet long after he had gone to jail

    I used to come here

    to the white sands

    to where he once loved me

    in a love beyond everything

    a love greater than sex.



    On these sands

    where

    he said he loved me

    and loved the baby

    inside of me.

     

    —

    Marie St. Denis

     

    _________________


    “The Star”



    And you are up there with the best,

    And you receive your prize and you grin,

    You give a speech that offends no one

    And thank everyone else for your win.



    You bow as you step off the stage

    And the cameras flash in style,

    As you walk back to your seat

    With your five-year old smile.



    “Did I do ok Mummy?” you ask

    As tears roll down my face

    “Of course you did darling, thou were grand,

    The best in the place.”



    “I want to be a star Mummy,

    Not the sort that twinkle in the sky

    But someone that will make you laugh

    And also make you cry.”



    I put the little soul to bed,

    His prize is upon the wall

    He will always be my little star

    The brightest of them all.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

    —————————-

     SEE A daily blog from The Three-Headed Goliaths’ ( Three_Headed_Sarahs ) “School Daze” What’s it like to join an infant class as it’s only alien pupil. Will contain laughter, surrealism and more than a touch of heartbreaking.

     

    The_Clowne_from_Clown  has something up about my first personas.

  • The Truther



    All my life my father

    Would lie to me.

    He always lied to me,

    But it wasn’t personal

    He’d lie to my mother too.



    Having no empathy,

    I did not realise;

    Nor would I believe

    That my father could lie to me.



    So I grew up believing

    That the liar spoke the truth.



    So I don’t tell lies,

    Not lies that’ll hurt anyone,

    Not lies that do not belong

    Inside somebody’s heart.



    The son of a liar

    Should speak the truth.



    And that is no lie.



    —

    Terry Cuthbert