Insanity 1
Perhaps we are but parasites
upon the face of this old earth
who, now and then, reacts
destroying quite a lot of us
It seems insane
that we should want
to aid her in her task.
Sept 2002
Insanity 2
If I like you and you like me
why is it that we can't agree
to differ?
To kill for all the paltry reasons
people trot out plausibly
is such a waste of life.
Insanity indeed.
Sept 2002
Insanity 3
All of us fear what we don't understand
- just watch a dog or a cat -
but that's no reason to kill the thing.
What kind of madness is that?
Sept 2002
Insanity 4
We put our cats and dogs to sleep
when they're too sick to survive
so why are we so intent on keeping
suffering folk alive?
We insist the terminally ill should live
while healthy babies are killed;
this is the kind of insanity
that leaves my spirit chilled.
Sept 2002
Insanity 5
Human life is sacred
or so the laws decree
what makes us so special?
Because we have superior
communication skills
we really reckon ourselves
we lord it over everything
and think we can call the shots.
A kind of megalomania?
Sept 2002
Insanity 6
Two Men
Two men sit and cry
two men wait to die
one is in prison, one is not
one is cold, the other is hot.
One will be given a lethal injection
releasing him from this life
because it's the humane way to go
even though he killed his wife.
The other lies in a hospital bed
he will not last the night
yet he must die in agony
to kill him wouldn't be right.
Two men sit and cry
two men wait to die
one a murderer given a buffer,
one an innocent left to suffer.
Insanity 7
Under Bridges
Life was cartons
under bridges
begging coins from passers by
newsprint blankets
cardboard mattress
sleeping underneath the sky
just a youngster
not yet twenty
faithful mongrel by his side
eating sometimes
bathing rarely
How he lived, and how he died.
Insanity 8
Human Garbage
I saw a woman lying there,
just lying on the ground,
as if she'd simply gone to sleep
in a comfy place she'd found
except the place was white with snow
her bed was hard and gray
and the blankets that now covered her
bore news of yesterday
And the silent stars looked down on her
to bid a fond goodnight
to this, their child, now fast asleep
so still, and cold, and white
and people were just walking past
as if she wasn't there;
perhaps they they hadn't noticed her
perhaps they didn't care.
I wondered where she came from
and what her name had been
what tales she might have told us
of the many things she'd seen.
Just one more of life's tragedies,
a silent bitter end
for someone who perhaps had been
a mother, or a friend.
Were there none to mourn her?
I wondered as I stood
and offered up a little prayer -
I thought that someone should -
for soon she would be carried off
examined and cremated
like so much that is tossed aside
her value underated.
© 2002
Insanity 9
Canned Hunts
Canned hunts: barbaric,
cowardly, obscene;
hand reared animals
drugged, confined, and shot
by men with guns but no balls,
the young die when the mother falls
and the "hunter" ups and walks.
Animals without a choice
crying without a voice
but oh! how money talks.
© 2003
Insanity 10
Progress
Things have changed. We've come so far.
We often don't know how lucky we are.
We fly to the moon and study the stars;
we travel in trains and planes and cars.
We can feed the world, well most at least,
yet still some starve while others feast.
We are no more than savage beasts;
our brains grew larger, but we decreased.
We treat each other with such disdain,
ignoring one anothers pain.
We've grown so cold and inhumane
and one man's loss is another man's gain.
Our animals are cruelly used
often neglected and much abused,
some sick folk are even amused.
Can that really be excused?
Is there anything that we need
to justify this kind of deed?
Does self-content, like a noxious weed,
choke us with laziness and greed?
What is humanity's ultimate goal ?
What do we see as our primary role?
Can we get out of this awful hole?
And what do we gain in exchange for our soul?
It's like some terrible pact we've made
a kind of intelligence/feelings trade
and now it seems we're too afraid
to admit the piper must be paid.
Where oh where will this all end?
Will we ever comprehend?
Can we hope we'll all transcend;
wake up one day, and buck the trend?
© 2003
Insanity 11
LMF
They went bravely into battle
those aeronauts of old
in flimsy looking aeroplanes,
fondly known as kites.
Many barely more than boys
in search of some adventure,
they ranged the wide blue yonder
with scant hope of return.
Dante's Inferno played out nightly
in glorious technicolor
as friends and crewmen did their bit
all for for King and Country
til, traumatized, courage gone,
filled with abject horror, they were
callously, cruelly, stripped of rank
as Lacking Moral Fibre.
© 2003
Insanity 12
Running Out of Time
We have managed to slow the earth's rotation measurably
in the last fifty years by damming huge quantities of water.
We waste so much, and what we don't waste, we poison.
What sort of people wantonly
wreak havoc on the place they live?
Such feckless, reckless, ill-advised behaviour
has me baffled.
This better life we strive for,
how will it save us from
tornadoes, floods and hurricanes,
the whole environment in turmoil?
The planet warms, the ice sheets melt,
the sea increases giving rise
to stronger winds and heavier rain,
loss of land and life.
Weather systems all awry means death
for many; starving, fighting,
fire and brimstone, hell on earth,
unless we make some changes.
To bring down mother nature's wrath
upon our heads is foolishness,
yet still we close and eyes and smile,
pretend it isn't happening.
When all around is chaos, maybe
then we'll stop and contemplate
then look into the faces of our children
and despair.
© 2005
Insanity 13
Man Shrugs
Ice melts and glaciers tumble,
seas crash and clifftops crumble;
rain forests die of thirst,
dry dusty ground is cursed.
Storms rage and typhoons level,
trees burn as fires revel,
land drowns as rivers rise.
Earth turns, heaves, and sighs.
She is strong and will recover;
not so her sorry lover.
Man shrugs, turns away;
no more he can say.
© 2006
Insanity 14
(A Wing And A Prayer)
When I think of where humanity's bound
I'm tempted to despair.
There's death and destruction all around,
we're polluting the air, the sea, the ground
and still we ignore the death knell sound.
We're on a wing and a prayer.
Why do some people never learn -
is there any hope at all?
Are we determined to crash and burn?
Is our children's future of no concern?
There's time to halt the downward turn
if only we heed the call.
A gung-ho attitude drowns the screams
that issue a warning note.
Not enough people care, it seems;
we merrily cheer our favourite teams,
heading for hell on a sea of dreams,
in a rusty, leaking, boat.
© 2006
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
Sunday, 14 July 2013
So Unfair. - Not for the timid
So Unfair.
Last night I had the hottest dream I think I've ever had.
Beautiful, and young I was, with a young and lovely lad.
It wasn't pornographic. I wouldn't say obscene.
Just lusty satisfying sex, the best it's ever been.
Somewhere deep inside my brain I still have those desires,
the passing years, the aging flesh, have not put out the fires.
Alas, too late, I know it, to ride this surging wave,
No way can I achieve the things my mind appears to crave.
The dream was not a memory, some things I've never done
nor have I seen them anywhere, but I was having fun!
Who would have thought, at such an age, when most have given up,
that I'd still feel as playful as a fit and healthy pup.
It's so unfair, so unfair, arousing such a passion
in one without the energy to act in such a fashion.
But if you see me smiling a knowing, thoughtful smile,
remember that the elderly have dreams that still beguile.
© 2013
Marilyn
At school they called me Marilyn;
it was the way I walked.
An icon of the time,
I took her looks to be natural,
thought her and her films sublime;
was shocked, saddened when she died:
a needless, pointless, suicide.
But now I understand.
I cling to life reluctantly, often ready
to despair, especially of men.
I've known so many; most of them
with one thing on their mind.
Though gays could be quite kind.
A life of giving, getting oh, so
little in return: a few, brief hours
of counterfeit affection.
I'm no Marilyn.
I haven't had the work, the money
or the fame. Yet in some lame
inconsequential way I too
know physical attraction's due:
the pain of being used, abused;
insufficiency of love,
a lack of recognition of
one's other, hidden, charms.
Yet all I really long for
is safety in another's arms.
© 2007
What to do?
Too old now to strut my stuff in
slinky clothes and fuck-me shoes
or flash come-hither glances from
mascara'd kohl-black eyes;
arthritis and increasing size,
the pitiless effects of time,
are things I can't refute.
What to do, what to do,
when teenage passion
persecutes a body
past its prime?
© 2007
Old Hands
Why do these old hands ache so much
to reach, to stroke, to hold, to touch?
Why must they make my needs so plain?
My hands are driving me insane.
Though now adorned with jeweled rings
they long for old familiar things:
for flesh and muscle, firm and hard,
across which, once, they'd promenade.
I can, of course, caress the cat
although there's not much fun in that.
She isn't keen on being squeezed;
my hands just wind up feeling teased.
They yearn to feel again the thrill
of using, once again, their skill
to make a lover so inflamed
that one might almost feel ashamed.
Such skills I've had and have them yet
though currently they pose no threat;
and so I dream as here I nap,
my hands, frustrated, in my lap.
© 2005
Skin Hunger
Always there's the awful hunger,
longing for another's touch,
lonely hours of desolation,
lonely days of nothing much.
Yearning to be gently fondled,
craving just to be caressed;
someone's arms around her body,
someone's hand upon her breast.
Eager lips to brush against her,
rousing blood and passion's fire,
urgent writhing bodies blending
in concupiscent desire.
Only those who've ever known it
can appreciate the plight
of a woman lying, sighing,
dying each and every night.
© 2005
Wicked To the Bone
Once upon a time
and not so very long ago
women like me were deemed to be
insane and locked away for life.
If you were someone's wife
of course it then became a duty
but sex without a wedding ring -
how vile, depraved, degenerate!
A baby out of wedlock?! Disgraceful!
Deplorable! Contemptible! Insane!
What more proof was needed
that a woman was a simpleton
in need of protection?
So many babes adopted,
their mothers in asylums, their only
crime a sexual encounter. Unless...
Ah, unless...
Men still had their mistresses
but how to draw the line between
a paramour and prostitute?
Class and economics.
A healthy appetite today
is still occasionally seen
as sinful and depraved.
The ancient triad still exists:
maiden, mother, crone.
Fall outside the borders
and you're wicked to the bone!
© 2005
Hochiwich
(the Romany word for Hedgehog)
Damaged goods, emotionally;
don't know how to be.
Think too much, that's half of it.
What is it to be me?
Stunted growth, unable
to live a "normal" life.
Never got the hang of it:
a child, a girl, a wife.
Sheltered by seclusion
I'm protected from pain
but, escaping from reality,
lose more than I gain.
Hedgehog on a busy street,
intimidated, curled,
prickles up, anticipating;
hiding from the world.
Finally I worked it out,
gave the thing a name.
Peace comes with knowing.
Still, it's a shame.
© 2005
Ready, Willing and Able
What makes a woman stop
doing it with her man?
Does she no longer fancy him?
has she given all she can?
Is it negativity?
Does she feel over the hill,
no longer attractive?
Or possibly she's ill.
Does he no longer woo her?
Perhaps he's forgotten how.
Instead of sexy, she sees herself
as a fat old frumpy cow.
Yes, he ogles supermodels
or busty blondes, it's true.
He knows he'll never go there but
he still enjoys the view.
It may be a personal problem she
can't bring herself to explain
so she counters all his questions
with embarrassment and pain.
But maybe it isn't that at all
(and men, this may sound rough)
but maybe he's simply crap at it
and, frankly, she's had enough!
Maybe nobody told him -
apart from what to put where -
how to please his woman
(that's those who even care.)
We didn't come with instructions;
he's just been muddling through.
So don't just lie there, lady!
Give the guy a clue!
But if you really can't bring yourself
to enter into the fun
I'm ready, willing, and able.
I'll show him how it's done!
© 2004
Ecstasy
I used to wonder what I had to offer those young men
who wrote to me petitioning the pleasure of my company.
But yesterday I read something that made me think again;
intended to amuse perhaps - unflattering, most certainly.
The author gave his point of view on boys of seventeen
(at that age they are easily excited, apparently)
a tick infested sheep in a rainstorm was the scene
supplying an attractive proposition. Bestiality!
Now, though I know I'm getting on, I'm wearing pretty well.
I may not be the object of a raging teenage fantasy
but tick infested sheep in a rainstorm sound like hell!
Compared to that I think my ministrations would be ecstasy.
© 2004
No Longer Pretty
I am no longer pretty
the firm young flesh of yesteryear,
the boundless energy of youth
are gone but not forgotten.
Night after night
untouched and unmolested
I lie here in my room
but sometimes, as the night descends,
I yearn to feel another's skin pressed close against my own,
to touch once more with trembling hands a lover's kindly face
and kiss his mouth and breathe his breath,
look deep into his eyes;
to smell and taste the redolence engendered by arousal;
to know again the tingling twitching touch of someone's hands
and have my privacy invaded,
oh! such sweet surrender!
Exquisite expectation!
and go exploring as before
with hands and tongue and eager lips
to satisfy my hunger
and, legs entwined around him,
with quickened breath and racing pulse
share the uproarious ecstasy
when wisdom and propriety
are swallowed up by passion
and lust devours all.
© 2003
Nights In White Satin
I was in the supermarket the other day
when a very old tune began to play.
Nights In White Satin was the name of the song
and I thought "Oh yes! That's where I belong.
Forget polyester, forget about cotton,
it's time for me to get spoiled rotten;
to spend the night between sheets of silk
and bathe each day in asses milk.
To have a flunky right there on his knees
and a hunky, spunky one if you please.
Forget about cooking, forget about pans,
it's time to stop eating out of cans.
I'll dine out nightly, I'll eat the best
take what I want and leave the rest.
No more leftover scraps for me,
I'll start enjoying life, you'll see!
Forget about lonely, forget about tears,
it's time to put an end to fears.
I've just got to find me a millionaire
a man with few thousand bucks to spare.
One who appreciates quality, yes!
with a really prestigious kind of address.
Forget being poor, forget about mean
it's time to pick those rich guys clean.
© 2003
To Know Love
To know real love
is the deepest desire of the heart.
Deprived of love the heart grows cold
and withers like the autumn leaves.
Like winter's trees, so dark and bare
standing stark against the sky;
or some poor solitary swan,
searching sadly through the mist,
so is a heart bereft.
I have known love;
it was a kind of love such that
none before or since compares.
A love transcending time and space
that was akin to madness.
This was a love that would never be
could never be - and yet - and yet
somehow it survived.
Two souls united -
there was no consummation;
just to look into his eyes
and see my soul reflected back
was all we had for solace.
Yet if by some strange quirk of fate
he and I should meet once more
I know that we would, as before,
experience the heights and depths
of love that goes beyond all reason,
all imagination.
© 2002
What We Want
We want to be wanted
need to be needed
long to be longed for, adored
but so often find that
we're just tolerated
sometimes even ignored.
Living is tough and
we have to be strong,
strength comes from deep inside
where we know we are loved
and we matter to someone
and don't have to run and hide.
Give me some loving
lend me some strength
help me to get through the day
for even this much will be
better than nothing
to send me out into the fray.
© Nov 2002
Culture Clash
Here today it's all
wrinklies this and
crumblies that
no respect at all for what
time has given us.
The years give more than they take
if you let 'em.
My Asian friend calls me madam.
Madam, imagine it!
Had to tell him not to call me that here.
People might get the wrong idea.
It's nice though
a guy says 'I honour you
for your wisdom'.
Wow. Or
'You have so much to teach me'.
You betcha.
© 2002
Playing Games
Where can I find a man who really wants me?
One who really wants me for myself?
All the ones I've met
though that's not many yet
seem to want to leave me on the shelf.
They talk to me for hours by computer
and offer to oblige me now and then
but when all's said and done
there really isn't one
who'll make it definite and tell me when.
I really don't know what they're all afraid of.
I think it's just a fantasy to them.
But what I really need
is a man who'll do the deed.
Amongst the dross where is there such a gem?
It's not as if I'm ugly or repulsive
at least that's what most people seem to say
and my brain still functions well
as far as I can tell
so why won't someone take me all the way?
I always thought that men were ever ready
they claim they'll go with anything that moves
but that just isn't so
believe me I should know
as all their reticence so clearly proves.
Why can't I find a man who really wants me?
What must I do to find a willing mate?
Yes, they can talk the talk
but few can walk the walk
not even even when it's offered on a plate!
© 2001
What do I want?
What do I want? To
Lay with you, stay with you,
wake up each day with you,
play with you, fight with you,
make up each night with you;
think with you, talk with you,
go for a walk with you,
joke with you, pun with you,
have lots of fun with you;
come with you, go with you,
play in the snow with you,
ride with you, hide with you,
be at your side with you;
sit with you, stand with you,
lie hand in hand with you,
drink with you, eat with you,
generate heat with you;
smile with you, frown with you,
go up and down with you,
laugh with you, cry with you,
grow old and die with you.
That's all.
What do you want?
© 2001
Last night I had the hottest dream I think I've ever had.
Beautiful, and young I was, with a young and lovely lad.
It wasn't pornographic. I wouldn't say obscene.
Just lusty satisfying sex, the best it's ever been.
Somewhere deep inside my brain I still have those desires,
the passing years, the aging flesh, have not put out the fires.
Alas, too late, I know it, to ride this surging wave,
No way can I achieve the things my mind appears to crave.
The dream was not a memory, some things I've never done
nor have I seen them anywhere, but I was having fun!
Who would have thought, at such an age, when most have given up,
that I'd still feel as playful as a fit and healthy pup.
It's so unfair, so unfair, arousing such a passion
in one without the energy to act in such a fashion.
But if you see me smiling a knowing, thoughtful smile,
remember that the elderly have dreams that still beguile.
© 2013
Marilyn
At school they called me Marilyn;
it was the way I walked.
An icon of the time,
I took her looks to be natural,
thought her and her films sublime;
was shocked, saddened when she died:
a needless, pointless, suicide.
But now I understand.
I cling to life reluctantly, often ready
to despair, especially of men.
I've known so many; most of them
with one thing on their mind.
Though gays could be quite kind.
A life of giving, getting oh, so
little in return: a few, brief hours
of counterfeit affection.
I'm no Marilyn.
I haven't had the work, the money
or the fame. Yet in some lame
inconsequential way I too
know physical attraction's due:
the pain of being used, abused;
insufficiency of love,
a lack of recognition of
one's other, hidden, charms.
Yet all I really long for
is safety in another's arms.
© 2007
What to do?
Too old now to strut my stuff in
slinky clothes and fuck-me shoes
or flash come-hither glances from
mascara'd kohl-black eyes;
arthritis and increasing size,
the pitiless effects of time,
are things I can't refute.
What to do, what to do,
when teenage passion
persecutes a body
past its prime?
© 2007
Old Hands
Why do these old hands ache so much
to reach, to stroke, to hold, to touch?
Why must they make my needs so plain?
My hands are driving me insane.
Though now adorned with jeweled rings
they long for old familiar things:
for flesh and muscle, firm and hard,
across which, once, they'd promenade.
I can, of course, caress the cat
although there's not much fun in that.
She isn't keen on being squeezed;
my hands just wind up feeling teased.
They yearn to feel again the thrill
of using, once again, their skill
to make a lover so inflamed
that one might almost feel ashamed.
Such skills I've had and have them yet
though currently they pose no threat;
and so I dream as here I nap,
my hands, frustrated, in my lap.
© 2005
Skin Hunger
Always there's the awful hunger,
longing for another's touch,
lonely hours of desolation,
lonely days of nothing much.
Yearning to be gently fondled,
craving just to be caressed;
someone's arms around her body,
someone's hand upon her breast.
Eager lips to brush against her,
rousing blood and passion's fire,
urgent writhing bodies blending
in concupiscent desire.
Only those who've ever known it
can appreciate the plight
of a woman lying, sighing,
dying each and every night.
© 2005
Wicked To the Bone
Once upon a time
and not so very long ago
women like me were deemed to be
insane and locked away for life.
If you were someone's wife
of course it then became a duty
but sex without a wedding ring -
how vile, depraved, degenerate!
A baby out of wedlock?! Disgraceful!
Deplorable! Contemptible! Insane!
What more proof was needed
that a woman was a simpleton
in need of protection?
So many babes adopted,
their mothers in asylums, their only
crime a sexual encounter. Unless...
Ah, unless...
Men still had their mistresses
but how to draw the line between
a paramour and prostitute?
Class and economics.
A healthy appetite today
is still occasionally seen
as sinful and depraved.
The ancient triad still exists:
maiden, mother, crone.
Fall outside the borders
and you're wicked to the bone!
© 2005
Hochiwich
(the Romany word for Hedgehog)
Damaged goods, emotionally;
don't know how to be.
Think too much, that's half of it.
What is it to be me?
Stunted growth, unable
to live a "normal" life.
Never got the hang of it:
a child, a girl, a wife.
Sheltered by seclusion
I'm protected from pain
but, escaping from reality,
lose more than I gain.
Hedgehog on a busy street,
intimidated, curled,
prickles up, anticipating;
hiding from the world.
Finally I worked it out,
gave the thing a name.
Peace comes with knowing.
Still, it's a shame.
© 2005
Ready, Willing and Able
What makes a woman stop
doing it with her man?
Does she no longer fancy him?
has she given all she can?
Is it negativity?
Does she feel over the hill,
no longer attractive?
Or possibly she's ill.
Does he no longer woo her?
Perhaps he's forgotten how.
Instead of sexy, she sees herself
as a fat old frumpy cow.
Yes, he ogles supermodels
or busty blondes, it's true.
He knows he'll never go there but
he still enjoys the view.
It may be a personal problem she
can't bring herself to explain
so she counters all his questions
with embarrassment and pain.
But maybe it isn't that at all
(and men, this may sound rough)
but maybe he's simply crap at it
and, frankly, she's had enough!
Maybe nobody told him -
apart from what to put where -
how to please his woman
(that's those who even care.)
We didn't come with instructions;
he's just been muddling through.
So don't just lie there, lady!
Give the guy a clue!
But if you really can't bring yourself
to enter into the fun
I'm ready, willing, and able.
I'll show him how it's done!
© 2004
Ecstasy
I used to wonder what I had to offer those young men
who wrote to me petitioning the pleasure of my company.
But yesterday I read something that made me think again;
intended to amuse perhaps - unflattering, most certainly.
The author gave his point of view on boys of seventeen
(at that age they are easily excited, apparently)
a tick infested sheep in a rainstorm was the scene
supplying an attractive proposition. Bestiality!
Now, though I know I'm getting on, I'm wearing pretty well.
I may not be the object of a raging teenage fantasy
but tick infested sheep in a rainstorm sound like hell!
Compared to that I think my ministrations would be ecstasy.
© 2004
No Longer Pretty
I am no longer pretty
the firm young flesh of yesteryear,
the boundless energy of youth
are gone but not forgotten.
Night after night
untouched and unmolested
I lie here in my room
but sometimes, as the night descends,
I yearn to feel another's skin pressed close against my own,
to touch once more with trembling hands a lover's kindly face
and kiss his mouth and breathe his breath,
look deep into his eyes;
to smell and taste the redolence engendered by arousal;
to know again the tingling twitching touch of someone's hands
and have my privacy invaded,
oh! such sweet surrender!
Exquisite expectation!
and go exploring as before
with hands and tongue and eager lips
to satisfy my hunger
and, legs entwined around him,
with quickened breath and racing pulse
share the uproarious ecstasy
when wisdom and propriety
are swallowed up by passion
and lust devours all.
© 2003
Nights In White Satin
I was in the supermarket the other day
when a very old tune began to play.
Nights In White Satin was the name of the song
and I thought "Oh yes! That's where I belong.
Forget polyester, forget about cotton,
it's time for me to get spoiled rotten;
to spend the night between sheets of silk
and bathe each day in asses milk.
To have a flunky right there on his knees
and a hunky, spunky one if you please.
Forget about cooking, forget about pans,
it's time to stop eating out of cans.
I'll dine out nightly, I'll eat the best
take what I want and leave the rest.
No more leftover scraps for me,
I'll start enjoying life, you'll see!
Forget about lonely, forget about tears,
it's time to put an end to fears.
I've just got to find me a millionaire
a man with few thousand bucks to spare.
One who appreciates quality, yes!
with a really prestigious kind of address.
Forget being poor, forget about mean
it's time to pick those rich guys clean.
© 2003
To Know Love
To know real love
is the deepest desire of the heart.
Deprived of love the heart grows cold
and withers like the autumn leaves.
Like winter's trees, so dark and bare
standing stark against the sky;
or some poor solitary swan,
searching sadly through the mist,
so is a heart bereft.
I have known love;
it was a kind of love such that
none before or since compares.
A love transcending time and space
that was akin to madness.
This was a love that would never be
could never be - and yet - and yet
somehow it survived.
Two souls united -
there was no consummation;
just to look into his eyes
and see my soul reflected back
was all we had for solace.
Yet if by some strange quirk of fate
he and I should meet once more
I know that we would, as before,
experience the heights and depths
of love that goes beyond all reason,
all imagination.
© 2002
What We Want
We want to be wanted
need to be needed
long to be longed for, adored
but so often find that
we're just tolerated
sometimes even ignored.
Living is tough and
we have to be strong,
strength comes from deep inside
where we know we are loved
and we matter to someone
and don't have to run and hide.
Give me some loving
lend me some strength
help me to get through the day
for even this much will be
better than nothing
to send me out into the fray.
© Nov 2002
Culture Clash
Here today it's all
wrinklies this and
crumblies that
no respect at all for what
time has given us.
The years give more than they take
if you let 'em.
My Asian friend calls me madam.
Madam, imagine it!
Had to tell him not to call me that here.
People might get the wrong idea.
It's nice though
a guy says 'I honour you
for your wisdom'.
Wow. Or
'You have so much to teach me'.
You betcha.
© 2002
Playing Games
Where can I find a man who really wants me?
One who really wants me for myself?
All the ones I've met
though that's not many yet
seem to want to leave me on the shelf.
They talk to me for hours by computer
and offer to oblige me now and then
but when all's said and done
there really isn't one
who'll make it definite and tell me when.
I really don't know what they're all afraid of.
I think it's just a fantasy to them.
But what I really need
is a man who'll do the deed.
Amongst the dross where is there such a gem?
It's not as if I'm ugly or repulsive
at least that's what most people seem to say
and my brain still functions well
as far as I can tell
so why won't someone take me all the way?
I always thought that men were ever ready
they claim they'll go with anything that moves
but that just isn't so
believe me I should know
as all their reticence so clearly proves.
Why can't I find a man who really wants me?
What must I do to find a willing mate?
Yes, they can talk the talk
but few can walk the walk
not even even when it's offered on a plate!
© 2001
What do I want?
What do I want? To
Lay with you, stay with you,
wake up each day with you,
play with you, fight with you,
make up each night with you;
think with you, talk with you,
go for a walk with you,
joke with you, pun with you,
have lots of fun with you;
come with you, go with you,
play in the snow with you,
ride with you, hide with you,
be at your side with you;
sit with you, stand with you,
lie hand in hand with you,
drink with you, eat with you,
generate heat with you;
smile with you, frown with you,
go up and down with you,
laugh with you, cry with you,
grow old and die with you.
That's all.
What do you want?
© 2001
Friday, 12 July 2013
A bit of Light Fantastic
The Goddess of the milky way,
moves in ethereal splendour
scattering her radiant light,
illuminating all below,
bringing hope and clarity.
Nightly, she gives lovers play
with light so soft and tender.
May she aid you in your plight
for she will always see and know
and give you of her charity.
***
Black wingèd angel, creature of night,
locked in thine arms my heart takes flight.
Ah this, the ethereal taste of thy kiss...
no woman ever knew such bliss.
Take me, oh take me now,
oh black-winged creature of the night
nothing you do can me affright
for I have known the wonder of
your bright ethereal splendour.
***
Oft, in dreams, I stroll in silent glades
and meet the one who stole my heart
with one brief kiss ethereal;
his arms so strong surrounding me,
his tender lips on mine,
the lightness of his touch divine,
his breath a taste of heaven.
Now, awake, I wonder if I dreamed at all
could this be real, this vision?
Is there somewhere a fallen angel
dreaming dreams of me?
***
In silent glades I wandered free
and never dreamed of such as he
until one day he captured me
with words so sweet and charming.
His beauty was ethereal,
his manner, magisterial
my qualms, quite immaterial,
his blandishments, disarming.
His kiss aroused such passions then,
more than I'd known with other men,
I begged him kiss and kiss again,
my boldness most alarming!
Till, sated, I could do no more,
and lay upon the forest floor
to rest a little while before
returning to my farming.
***
If you were he and I were she
and we two met for real
we'd know such times, inspire such rhymes,
and live out our ideal.
Angelic wings my lover brings
to meet me in the glade
and like some ghost I feel almost
ethereal in the shade.
But here we sit, and type a bit,
and share each others dreams.
A world apart, our words impart
shared fantasies, it seems.
***
Awake! Awake!
Let this, my kiss, arouse thee;
asleep or dead, lift up thy head
for I would fain espouse thee.
Be not afraid, thy past shall fade,
cast off thine earthly sorrow;
come, fly with me, soar high with me,
awake and face tomorrow!
Take this my breath and flee from death,
let not the shades entice thee;
accept my love, join me my dove,
my powers shall suffice thee.
Arise, arise,
give death no satisfaction!
Return my kiss, and wake to this
ethereal transaction.
Locked in the warmth of his embrace,
cold flesh begins to soften.
The spirit, not quite yet departed,
pauses to examine
the promise made within this glade
of new ethereal life.
Will she accept his offer though
or go, mistrusting, to the grave.
***
An Old Tyme Valentine
As I live I could'st not speak a truer word than this:
A glimpse of heaven's glory I discerneth in thy kiss.
No star, however brightly it illumineth the skies,
Could e'er outshine the splendour I beholdeth in thine eyes;
And e'en the sun, which graceth thee with favour on thy brow,
Possesseth no more majesty or beauty than dost thou.
The merest touch of thy sweet hand, so delicate a thing,
Arouseth my emotions, maketh common sense take wing.
My heart awaketh in my breast, my spirit runneth free,
So utterly am I entranced by every part of thee.
If thou should'st only look my way, agree to be my wife,
There could'st not be a more resplendant moment in my life.
So come, beloved, come with me, I beg thee, from my soul,
Let us away to paradise where thou shalt make me whole.
My life shall be as naught if thou refuseth me in this;
Thy sweet agreement is enough to know a life of bliss.
Come, come, away, be mine I pray, suffuse me with delight
And I shall love thee much by day and fill thy cup by night.
© 2003
moves in ethereal splendour
scattering her radiant light,
illuminating all below,
bringing hope and clarity.
Nightly, she gives lovers play
with light so soft and tender.
May she aid you in your plight
for she will always see and know
and give you of her charity.
***
Black wingèd angel, creature of night,
locked in thine arms my heart takes flight.
Ah this, the ethereal taste of thy kiss...
no woman ever knew such bliss.
Take me, oh take me now,
oh black-winged creature of the night
nothing you do can me affright
for I have known the wonder of
your bright ethereal splendour.
***
Oft, in dreams, I stroll in silent glades
and meet the one who stole my heart
with one brief kiss ethereal;
his arms so strong surrounding me,
his tender lips on mine,
the lightness of his touch divine,
his breath a taste of heaven.
Now, awake, I wonder if I dreamed at all
could this be real, this vision?
Is there somewhere a fallen angel
dreaming dreams of me?
***
In silent glades I wandered free
and never dreamed of such as he
until one day he captured me
with words so sweet and charming.
His beauty was ethereal,
his manner, magisterial
my qualms, quite immaterial,
his blandishments, disarming.
His kiss aroused such passions then,
more than I'd known with other men,
I begged him kiss and kiss again,
my boldness most alarming!
Till, sated, I could do no more,
and lay upon the forest floor
to rest a little while before
returning to my farming.
***
If you were he and I were she
and we two met for real
we'd know such times, inspire such rhymes,
and live out our ideal.
Angelic wings my lover brings
to meet me in the glade
and like some ghost I feel almost
ethereal in the shade.
But here we sit, and type a bit,
and share each others dreams.
A world apart, our words impart
shared fantasies, it seems.
***
Awake! Awake!
Let this, my kiss, arouse thee;
asleep or dead, lift up thy head
for I would fain espouse thee.
Be not afraid, thy past shall fade,
cast off thine earthly sorrow;
come, fly with me, soar high with me,
awake and face tomorrow!
Take this my breath and flee from death,
let not the shades entice thee;
accept my love, join me my dove,
my powers shall suffice thee.
Arise, arise,
give death no satisfaction!
Return my kiss, and wake to this
ethereal transaction.
Locked in the warmth of his embrace,
cold flesh begins to soften.
The spirit, not quite yet departed,
pauses to examine
the promise made within this glade
of new ethereal life.
Will she accept his offer though
or go, mistrusting, to the grave.
***
An Old Tyme Valentine
As I live I could'st not speak a truer word than this:
A glimpse of heaven's glory I discerneth in thy kiss.
No star, however brightly it illumineth the skies,
Could e'er outshine the splendour I beholdeth in thine eyes;
And e'en the sun, which graceth thee with favour on thy brow,
Possesseth no more majesty or beauty than dost thou.
The merest touch of thy sweet hand, so delicate a thing,
Arouseth my emotions, maketh common sense take wing.
My heart awaketh in my breast, my spirit runneth free,
So utterly am I entranced by every part of thee.
If thou should'st only look my way, agree to be my wife,
There could'st not be a more resplendant moment in my life.
So come, beloved, come with me, I beg thee, from my soul,
Let us away to paradise where thou shalt make me whole.
My life shall be as naught if thou refuseth me in this;
Thy sweet agreement is enough to know a life of bliss.
Come, come, away, be mine I pray, suffuse me with delight
And I shall love thee much by day and fill thy cup by night.
© 2003
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
The Wedding. Humour in dialect.
The Wedding
Last weekend I went to a weddin';
the bride were a cousin o' mine
and this were a day I'd been dreadin',
well, I'd known her since she were nine
and she's never been one for't fellas,
her comments on men were obscene,
she'd drive them away with umbrellas
as part of her daily routine.
When she she told us what she contemplated
we none of us knew what to say
cause she'd 'ave 'ad all men castrated
if she could 'ave 'ad her own way.
Just why she were thinking of marriage
was something that nobody knew
to ask 'er required too much courage,
and she wouldn't give us a clue.
Well, me mother had ordered a taxi,
to get us to't church about ten;
what came was an old Austin maxi;
we'll never use that firm again.
The driver impatiently waited
as we all got settled inside,
'cause if there were one thing 'e 'ated,
it were owt to do wi' a bride.
It seems that 'e once had been jilted,
and left at the altar, poor bloke,
and now, well, his ardour was wilted.
Don't laugh, at his age it's no joke.
Finally, as we were ready,
we set off with some time to spare.
The driver, 'oo's first name were Freddy,
started to curse and to swear.
"I think I must have an infection.
It's awfully 'ot now in 'ere.
If no-one has any objection,
I'm goin' to stop for a beer."
Well, 'e stopped at the end of the alley,
it were just down the road from the church,
so I followed him, not to be pally,
but in case he left us in the lurch!
Just then my belief was supended,
as I followed 'im in through the door-
'cause there was our Molly's intended -
still drunk from the evenin' before.
It seems they'd been 'avin' a party,
a bit of a do fer the lad,
and a telegram girl, very tarty,
'ad arrived and were gettin' unclad.
Well, this got 'im over-excited,
which led to 'im acting the clown,
but the landlord was not too delighted,
so 'e'd then 'ad to cool himself down.
I felt very sorry for Malcolm,
I thought it were all a bit rough,
but that didn't alter the problem,
that 'e'd swallowed far more than enough.
I sent Freddy back to the others,
to get to the church a bit quicker,
then carried the groom to me mother's,
to sober him up for the vicar.
I stuck 'is 'ead under the shower
and got him to church, just in time;
'e were wet and 'e 'adn't a flower,
but I didn't think that were a crime.
Well, if you'd seen the face on our Molly,
you'd think 'e'd commited a sin;
if 'er bouquet had been made of 'olly...
but the service were due to begin.
'Twere the usual sort of a merger,
and it were all going off fine
until we all saw the young verger,
who'd found the communion wine.
He were stood on one leg on an 'assock,
and singing his favourite 'ymn
while twirling the 'em of his cassock,
you might say 'e were out - on a limb.
Malcolm just stood looking silly,
our Molly had burst into tears,
while Alison's great uncle Willy
just said it confirmed 'is worst fears.
We got round to throwing't confetti
wi'owt too much else goin' wrong
except for the soloist, Betty,
who'd forgotten the words of 'er song.
The vicar were looking quite shaken,
as all of us lined up outside
to 'ave all our photographs taken
along wi' the groom and the bride.
They'd persuaded a cousin from Warwick
to commemorate their special day;
the camera 'e 'ad were 'istoric,
but 'e said it would all be ok.
It were not the success of the decade;
I don't think 'e'd done it afore
cause 'e spent all his time with a bridesmaid
who were done up like ZsaZsa Gabor.
When 'e finally got round to takin'
a picture with all of us on
'e saw the mistake 'e'd been makin',
'cause most of the people had gone.
We were all of us fed up wi' waitin',
well, we'd been in the rain fer an 'our
and great aunty Flo were beratin'
the poor groom for not havin' a flower.
So we went off to 'ave the reception,
in the local community 'all;
and wi'out a single exception
we all reckoned on 'avin' a ball.
Our Molly were stood in the entrance,
to greet all 'er fam'ly and friends
though with somewhat more dogged forbearance
than the etiquette book recommends.
It were one thing on top of another;
young Malcom had started to bleat
'cause 'e'd noticed that poor Molly's mother
had gotten her shoes on't wrong feet.
The guests were all split into factions,
they 'ardly were saying a word;
and Betty were having contractions
but plodded right on undeterred.
Molly's mother 'ad laid on a buffet
and got in a barrel of beer
but grandad were gettin' right huffy;
'e said that the ale wasn't clear.
In between all the eatin' and drinkin'
we danced to a small local band
while the best man were busily thinkin'
about the great speech 'e 'ad planned.
When it got to't time for the speeches
it were gettin' quite 'ard to respond
and the men were all stickin' like leeches
to an underdressed buxom young blond.
It were Alison's great aunty Dolly
who committed't worst gaffe of't day
when she said that our man-hatin' Molly
must be in't family way.
Well, that almost started a riot,
great aunty Dolly got soaked,
then Alison's mum yelled fer quiet,
she said that her baby had choked.
Malcolm, that's Alison's brother,
was going quite blue in't face
and clingin' on tight to 'is mother;
of Molly there wasn't a trace.
I found 'er at 'ome watchin' telly,
and told 'er she ought to go back,
but she said she'd a pain in 'er belly,
and perhaps she should call fer the quack.
I summed up this dire situation
and tried not to get too distraught
well, maybe our aged relation
was not quite as daft as we thought.
I sat meself down next to Molly,
and thought while I lit up a fag.
She said "I'm not feeling too jolly,
do you mind if I just have a drag?"
"Molly," I said with suspicion,
"you don't mean that Dolly was right?
Are you in - a certain condition?"
Molly jumped up and went white.
"Oh heck," she exclaimed, "I've been rumbled.
Now what am I goin' to do?"
"Well, I really don't know, love," I mumbled,
"perhaps you had best tell me who..."
"You stupid great lumberin' lummock,
of course I'm not pregnant you clot.
Just look at the size of me stomach.
It's just indigestion I've got.
Do you think that I'm some sort of trollop?
Are you calling your cousin a whore?"
And that's when she fetched me a wallop,
and bundled me out of the door.
I wondered if she'd done karate,
well, I really weren't feelin' too grand
and when I got back to the party,
things had got quite out of 'and.
Then a couple of daft teenyboppers
got drunk and assaulted our Mick
so somebody sent fer the coppers,
who carted us off down the nick.
We all climbed up into the wagon,
the coppers were sat in the front,
one were a lass, a right dragon,
and the other, a miserable runt.
They stuck us all into the lock-up,
and left us in there fer the night;
the whole thing had been quite a cock-up,
and we all looked a terrible sight.
When the cops let us out in the mornin',
I'd an 'orrible pain in me 'ead
I stumbled home, stretching and yawnin',
and threw meself onto me bed.
Well, like I was sayin', this weddin',
we didn't half have some fun.
Malcolm is workin' in beddin',
and Molly's becomin' a nun.
© 2002
Last weekend I went to a weddin';
the bride were a cousin o' mine
and this were a day I'd been dreadin',
well, I'd known her since she were nine
and she's never been one for't fellas,
her comments on men were obscene,
she'd drive them away with umbrellas
as part of her daily routine.
When she she told us what she contemplated
we none of us knew what to say
cause she'd 'ave 'ad all men castrated
if she could 'ave 'ad her own way.
Just why she were thinking of marriage
was something that nobody knew
to ask 'er required too much courage,
and she wouldn't give us a clue.
Well, me mother had ordered a taxi,
to get us to't church about ten;
what came was an old Austin maxi;
we'll never use that firm again.
The driver impatiently waited
as we all got settled inside,
'cause if there were one thing 'e 'ated,
it were owt to do wi' a bride.
It seems that 'e once had been jilted,
and left at the altar, poor bloke,
and now, well, his ardour was wilted.
Don't laugh, at his age it's no joke.
Finally, as we were ready,
we set off with some time to spare.
The driver, 'oo's first name were Freddy,
started to curse and to swear.
"I think I must have an infection.
It's awfully 'ot now in 'ere.
If no-one has any objection,
I'm goin' to stop for a beer."
Well, 'e stopped at the end of the alley,
it were just down the road from the church,
so I followed him, not to be pally,
but in case he left us in the lurch!
Just then my belief was supended,
as I followed 'im in through the door-
'cause there was our Molly's intended -
still drunk from the evenin' before.
It seems they'd been 'avin' a party,
a bit of a do fer the lad,
and a telegram girl, very tarty,
'ad arrived and were gettin' unclad.
Well, this got 'im over-excited,
which led to 'im acting the clown,
but the landlord was not too delighted,
so 'e'd then 'ad to cool himself down.
I felt very sorry for Malcolm,
I thought it were all a bit rough,
but that didn't alter the problem,
that 'e'd swallowed far more than enough.
I sent Freddy back to the others,
to get to the church a bit quicker,
then carried the groom to me mother's,
to sober him up for the vicar.
I stuck 'is 'ead under the shower
and got him to church, just in time;
'e were wet and 'e 'adn't a flower,
but I didn't think that were a crime.
Well, if you'd seen the face on our Molly,
you'd think 'e'd commited a sin;
if 'er bouquet had been made of 'olly...
but the service were due to begin.
'Twere the usual sort of a merger,
and it were all going off fine
until we all saw the young verger,
who'd found the communion wine.
He were stood on one leg on an 'assock,
and singing his favourite 'ymn
while twirling the 'em of his cassock,
you might say 'e were out - on a limb.
Malcolm just stood looking silly,
our Molly had burst into tears,
while Alison's great uncle Willy
just said it confirmed 'is worst fears.
We got round to throwing't confetti
wi'owt too much else goin' wrong
except for the soloist, Betty,
who'd forgotten the words of 'er song.
The vicar were looking quite shaken,
as all of us lined up outside
to 'ave all our photographs taken
along wi' the groom and the bride.
They'd persuaded a cousin from Warwick
to commemorate their special day;
the camera 'e 'ad were 'istoric,
but 'e said it would all be ok.
It were not the success of the decade;
I don't think 'e'd done it afore
cause 'e spent all his time with a bridesmaid
who were done up like ZsaZsa Gabor.
When 'e finally got round to takin'
a picture with all of us on
'e saw the mistake 'e'd been makin',
'cause most of the people had gone.
We were all of us fed up wi' waitin',
well, we'd been in the rain fer an 'our
and great aunty Flo were beratin'
the poor groom for not havin' a flower.
So we went off to 'ave the reception,
in the local community 'all;
and wi'out a single exception
we all reckoned on 'avin' a ball.
Our Molly were stood in the entrance,
to greet all 'er fam'ly and friends
though with somewhat more dogged forbearance
than the etiquette book recommends.
It were one thing on top of another;
young Malcom had started to bleat
'cause 'e'd noticed that poor Molly's mother
had gotten her shoes on't wrong feet.
The guests were all split into factions,
they 'ardly were saying a word;
and Betty were having contractions
but plodded right on undeterred.
Molly's mother 'ad laid on a buffet
and got in a barrel of beer
but grandad were gettin' right huffy;
'e said that the ale wasn't clear.
In between all the eatin' and drinkin'
we danced to a small local band
while the best man were busily thinkin'
about the great speech 'e 'ad planned.
When it got to't time for the speeches
it were gettin' quite 'ard to respond
and the men were all stickin' like leeches
to an underdressed buxom young blond.
It were Alison's great aunty Dolly
who committed't worst gaffe of't day
when she said that our man-hatin' Molly
must be in't family way.
Well, that almost started a riot,
great aunty Dolly got soaked,
then Alison's mum yelled fer quiet,
she said that her baby had choked.
Malcolm, that's Alison's brother,
was going quite blue in't face
and clingin' on tight to 'is mother;
of Molly there wasn't a trace.
I found 'er at 'ome watchin' telly,
and told 'er she ought to go back,
but she said she'd a pain in 'er belly,
and perhaps she should call fer the quack.
I summed up this dire situation
and tried not to get too distraught
well, maybe our aged relation
was not quite as daft as we thought.
I sat meself down next to Molly,
and thought while I lit up a fag.
She said "I'm not feeling too jolly,
do you mind if I just have a drag?"
"Molly," I said with suspicion,
"you don't mean that Dolly was right?
Are you in - a certain condition?"
Molly jumped up and went white.
"Oh heck," she exclaimed, "I've been rumbled.
Now what am I goin' to do?"
"Well, I really don't know, love," I mumbled,
"perhaps you had best tell me who..."
"You stupid great lumberin' lummock,
of course I'm not pregnant you clot.
Just look at the size of me stomach.
It's just indigestion I've got.
Do you think that I'm some sort of trollop?
Are you calling your cousin a whore?"
And that's when she fetched me a wallop,
and bundled me out of the door.
I wondered if she'd done karate,
well, I really weren't feelin' too grand
and when I got back to the party,
things had got quite out of 'and.
Then a couple of daft teenyboppers
got drunk and assaulted our Mick
so somebody sent fer the coppers,
who carted us off down the nick.
We all climbed up into the wagon,
the coppers were sat in the front,
one were a lass, a right dragon,
and the other, a miserable runt.
They stuck us all into the lock-up,
and left us in there fer the night;
the whole thing had been quite a cock-up,
and we all looked a terrible sight.
When the cops let us out in the mornin',
I'd an 'orrible pain in me 'ead
I stumbled home, stretching and yawnin',
and threw meself onto me bed.
Well, like I was sayin', this weddin',
we didn't half have some fun.
Malcolm is workin' in beddin',
and Molly's becomin' a nun.
© 2002
Saturday, 6 July 2013
The Book of Books: Boring Fantasy?
I recently read this on a group chat: "The bible. I have read it about four times, a different version each time. and I keep thinking that THIS time, it will speak to me. IT DOESN'T. unbelievably boring fantasy."
People try to read the bible as if it were a modern book. It isn't. It isn't even "a" book. It is a book of books, many books, thousands of years old, written in a very different times by different people, from very different cultures who saw the world differently. And also written across hundreds of years, not all at once by one culture, so it is bound to be confusing if you are looking for commonality.
Here I should explain why I want to put a few things straight. I have an honours degree in biblical studies which involved reading it in the original languages, and the course was fascinating. It was actually called "The Bible as History and Literature", not theology as such. I no longer read the bible as a matter of course and it is no longer my guide for living, although I still retain much of the ideals taught, but I would not dismiss it for being what it is.
That person also said,"I think the fact that the bible has been written and rewritten each time, with a different connotation given to each story, with vague, subtle and not so subtle changes with each rendition that irritates me so much."
The problem with any literature is that reading is very subjective; we all read with our own agendas. Each translator has tried to make it relevant to to the time and readership for which it was being done. I'm not sure that ever works. Some years ago I helped an elderly man translate his Chinese poetry into English, and that was hard enough. It took us years of emailing back and forth to try to make his Chinese poems relevant to an American audience without losing the original meaning. But to be fair, the bottom line is that most of the translations of the bible don't vary much at all from the original. They just use different words to say much the same thing, although there are exceptions for the reasons stated.
The next complaint was: "The first and fourth time I tried, I really wanted to be a 'believer'. The last time, I had a lovely pastor explaining things to me, it took a year! I think I will never "get" it. I prefer the Qu'ran and the Torah"
From my own experience I would say wanting to believe something isn't really the point. The bible is a book of many books so it can't be read as if it was one book. As far as the Old Testament is concerned, some books are supposedly history, as it was understood at the time it was written, and should not be thought of as literally true. The people of those times did not have archaeologists to fall back on, they were using stories handed down verbally, which doesn't mean they were fables, but also may not have been strictly accurate. And again, as today, history is written by the victors, not the vanquished, who tell it from their own point of view. How true does that make it? It is someone's truth, sure, but whose?
Some of the Old Testament is poetry, some books are prophecy. They should not be taken literally. Even today poetry is not about literal truth. And prophecy is never a literal concept. Regarding the Torah, however, the five books attributed to Moses, are part of what the Old Testament of the Bible is. The Tenach - the Jewish scriptures - consists of the Torah (law), the Navi'im (prophets), and the Ketuvim (writings). So if this person enjoys reading the Torah that's at least part of the bible she can't just dismiss.
The New Testament, or the Christian section of the bible, is again not to be thought of as literally word for word true. We can't even be sure who the real authors were. At that time there was no such thing as copyright. It was common practice for people to write in the name of someone famous, to give their words weight. In other words, to sell books, as it were. This was not regarded as reprehensible, as it would be today. People knew about it, it wasn't done to deceive. So it's important to bear that in mind. Most biblical study is made up of "best guesses".
These writers were trying to promote the teaching of a rabbi of the time, Jesus or Yeshua, of Nazareth, who spoke only to the Jews. These teachings - not, incidentally, exclusive to Jesus, other rabbis were also saying similar things - were later incorporated into a new religion. It's not for me to say whether they were right or wrong. It was Paul who took the teaching of this Jewish sect to the Gentiles, and made it into what later became known at Christianity, which at that time encompassed both Jews and Gentiles and was known simply as "The Way". There are Messianic Jews today who believe Jesus was the Messiah, just as Christians do. I have met these people in Jerusalem, and found it all very interesting.
None of this is new. It has been known among scholars for a very long time, but rarely strays outside the walls of the university or biblical college. Most people never get to hear it. Most believers don't want to hear it. Most critics don't either. Ignorance is bliss, after all. "Don't confuse me with the facts" is the cry of both those for and against, they both wish to cling to what they believe to be "true". The truth can be uncomfortable, after all.
My point is this: don't look at the bible as a book with a single message, you won't find one. Even the Jewish theology varies over time. The authors all had an axe to grind, an agenda to put forward. There is much wisdom and truth embedded in there, but it should not be taken as literal in many cases. Priests and pastors will tell believers not to '"cherry pick" but to take it or leave it, wholesale. Often they then go on to try to make excuses for the inconsistencies, sometimes ludicrous in their inventiveness. They too have their agenda. They have their livelihood to protect apart from anything else.
But apart from all that, belief in a higher power needs to come from a personal experience, not from reading a book. If you read the bible, see it for what it is, and don't try to make it into something it isn't or dismiss it as fantasy, which it certainly isn't; those who wrote it believed that they were sharing something important. That way you may find something in it which believers of two thousand years, give or take, have found to ease their journey through life.
People try to read the bible as if it were a modern book. It isn't. It isn't even "a" book. It is a book of books, many books, thousands of years old, written in a very different times by different people, from very different cultures who saw the world differently. And also written across hundreds of years, not all at once by one culture, so it is bound to be confusing if you are looking for commonality.
Here I should explain why I want to put a few things straight. I have an honours degree in biblical studies which involved reading it in the original languages, and the course was fascinating. It was actually called "The Bible as History and Literature", not theology as such. I no longer read the bible as a matter of course and it is no longer my guide for living, although I still retain much of the ideals taught, but I would not dismiss it for being what it is.
That person also said,"I think the fact that the bible has been written and rewritten each time, with a different connotation given to each story, with vague, subtle and not so subtle changes with each rendition that irritates me so much."
The problem with any literature is that reading is very subjective; we all read with our own agendas. Each translator has tried to make it relevant to to the time and readership for which it was being done. I'm not sure that ever works. Some years ago I helped an elderly man translate his Chinese poetry into English, and that was hard enough. It took us years of emailing back and forth to try to make his Chinese poems relevant to an American audience without losing the original meaning. But to be fair, the bottom line is that most of the translations of the bible don't vary much at all from the original. They just use different words to say much the same thing, although there are exceptions for the reasons stated.
The next complaint was: "The first and fourth time I tried, I really wanted to be a 'believer'. The last time, I had a lovely pastor explaining things to me, it took a year! I think I will never "get" it. I prefer the Qu'ran and the Torah"
From my own experience I would say wanting to believe something isn't really the point. The bible is a book of many books so it can't be read as if it was one book. As far as the Old Testament is concerned, some books are supposedly history, as it was understood at the time it was written, and should not be thought of as literally true. The people of those times did not have archaeologists to fall back on, they were using stories handed down verbally, which doesn't mean they were fables, but also may not have been strictly accurate. And again, as today, history is written by the victors, not the vanquished, who tell it from their own point of view. How true does that make it? It is someone's truth, sure, but whose?
Some of the Old Testament is poetry, some books are prophecy. They should not be taken literally. Even today poetry is not about literal truth. And prophecy is never a literal concept. Regarding the Torah, however, the five books attributed to Moses, are part of what the Old Testament of the Bible is. The Tenach - the Jewish scriptures - consists of the Torah (law), the Navi'im (prophets), and the Ketuvim (writings). So if this person enjoys reading the Torah that's at least part of the bible she can't just dismiss.
The New Testament, or the Christian section of the bible, is again not to be thought of as literally word for word true. We can't even be sure who the real authors were. At that time there was no such thing as copyright. It was common practice for people to write in the name of someone famous, to give their words weight. In other words, to sell books, as it were. This was not regarded as reprehensible, as it would be today. People knew about it, it wasn't done to deceive. So it's important to bear that in mind. Most biblical study is made up of "best guesses".
These writers were trying to promote the teaching of a rabbi of the time, Jesus or Yeshua, of Nazareth, who spoke only to the Jews. These teachings - not, incidentally, exclusive to Jesus, other rabbis were also saying similar things - were later incorporated into a new religion. It's not for me to say whether they were right or wrong. It was Paul who took the teaching of this Jewish sect to the Gentiles, and made it into what later became known at Christianity, which at that time encompassed both Jews and Gentiles and was known simply as "The Way". There are Messianic Jews today who believe Jesus was the Messiah, just as Christians do. I have met these people in Jerusalem, and found it all very interesting.
None of this is new. It has been known among scholars for a very long time, but rarely strays outside the walls of the university or biblical college. Most people never get to hear it. Most believers don't want to hear it. Most critics don't either. Ignorance is bliss, after all. "Don't confuse me with the facts" is the cry of both those for and against, they both wish to cling to what they believe to be "true". The truth can be uncomfortable, after all.
My point is this: don't look at the bible as a book with a single message, you won't find one. Even the Jewish theology varies over time. The authors all had an axe to grind, an agenda to put forward. There is much wisdom and truth embedded in there, but it should not be taken as literal in many cases. Priests and pastors will tell believers not to '"cherry pick" but to take it or leave it, wholesale. Often they then go on to try to make excuses for the inconsistencies, sometimes ludicrous in their inventiveness. They too have their agenda. They have their livelihood to protect apart from anything else.
But apart from all that, belief in a higher power needs to come from a personal experience, not from reading a book. If you read the bible, see it for what it is, and don't try to make it into something it isn't or dismiss it as fantasy, which it certainly isn't; those who wrote it believed that they were sharing something important. That way you may find something in it which believers of two thousand years, give or take, have found to ease their journey through life.
Friday, 5 July 2013
Reading the Small Ads.
SMALL ADS
Have you got backache or bunions or pimples?
Have you got cellulite, bulges or dimples?
Perhaps you are jobless or car-less or friendless?
Look in the small-ads, the options are endless.
Do you need some-one to unblock your drains,
dig up your weeds or inter your remains?
If you need a loan or your house is infested
look in the small-ads, someone's interested.
If you can't get out and your hair-do needs doing,
call up the girl who does house-call shampooing;
don't give up hope if your future's in doubt
the small-ads have someone who'll sort it all out.
There's someone to call if you need home tuition
or your apple or pear trees won't come to fruition;
if damp is a problem or dry rot has struck,
if you want a cat or a dog or a duck
look in the paper, there's somebody breeding
anything, everything you may be needing.
While reading the small-ads, try playing games -
look out for unusual, int'resting names:
For Showers, call Sharon; Get sharper with Harper,
but watch out for shysters like Bodgit and Scarper,
And how can you be sure, if you want to learn German
that that's all you'll get from a fella named Herman?
Are French lessons french, or only a cover?
Is a massage a massage, or a bit of the other?
When I call up someone to polish my chrome
am I inviting a maniac home?
If I answer the advert "can you make a candle"
will I end up in a blue-movie scandal?
Now that the old inspiration is soaring
reading the small-ads will never be boring!
Have you got backache or bunions or pimples?
Have you got cellulite, bulges or dimples?
Perhaps you are jobless or car-less or friendless?
Look in the small-ads, the options are endless.
Do you need some-one to unblock your drains,
dig up your weeds or inter your remains?
If you need a loan or your house is infested
look in the small-ads, someone's interested.
If you can't get out and your hair-do needs doing,
call up the girl who does house-call shampooing;
don't give up hope if your future's in doubt
the small-ads have someone who'll sort it all out.
There's someone to call if you need home tuition
or your apple or pear trees won't come to fruition;
if damp is a problem or dry rot has struck,
if you want a cat or a dog or a duck
look in the paper, there's somebody breeding
anything, everything you may be needing.
While reading the small-ads, try playing games -
look out for unusual, int'resting names:
For Showers, call Sharon; Get sharper with Harper,
but watch out for shysters like Bodgit and Scarper,
And how can you be sure, if you want to learn German
that that's all you'll get from a fella named Herman?
Are French lessons french, or only a cover?
Is a massage a massage, or a bit of the other?
When I call up someone to polish my chrome
am I inviting a maniac home?
If I answer the advert "can you make a candle"
will I end up in a blue-movie scandal?
Now that the old inspiration is soaring
reading the small-ads will never be boring!
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
What Is Atheism?
So what exactly is atheism?
The ancient Romans accused Christians of being atheist and, as the Greeks intended the term, that argument holds some weight. Monotheism had no meaning at that time. If you did not follow their gods, you were obviously atheist.
According to one estimate, atheists make up about 2.3% of the world's population, while a further 11.9% are nonreligious. The problem with defining atheism though is how to classify it. The theist/atheist argument is far from simple.
For instance there is practical atheism: pragmatic atheism or apatheism, and theoretical or ontological atheism.
Epistemological atheism can be agnostic atheism or theological non-cognitivism. Also ontological are logical positivism and ignosticism/igtheism.
Then there are the metaphysical arguments such as logical atheism
and atheist existentialism. Metaphysical atheism may be either: a) absolute or b) relative.
Then there are Theodicean atheists with views similar to the founder of Buddhism, atheist existentialists and humanists, axiological or constructive atheists.
Atheism can range from humanism to moral nihilism. It all sounds a lot like the arguments between churches.
And some philosophers have argued that atheists should reclaim religion as an act of defiance against theism, precisely not to leave religion as an unwarranted monopoly to theists.
And what about the view of Nietzche, who stated that morality "has truth only if God is truth—it stands or falls with faith in God"?
It's enough to make your head whirl.
There are also atheistic or humanistic followers within Judaism and Christianity. How to reconcile this?
Maybe agnostic is a better term. After all, who can prove it either way?
"I don't know" would seen to be the most honest and least arrogant view.
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