Red Wine is Dangerous

March 6, 2016

redwine

Red wine is dangerous.
Red wine is too many parties,
Late night poetry,
A celebration on the children’s playground at midnight.
Red wine is an aftertaste that leaves me wanting more.

White wine is safe.
White wine is comfort and companionship,
The laugh and the sparkle of glasses.
White wine is cooking pasta in a kitchen that’s too small,
Lighting the gas oven with a match it took too long to find.
White wine is staying up too late watching “Xena”,
And falling half asleep in the small hours,
Talking and laughing at nothing very much.
Telling silly stories.

Red wine is dangerous.
Red wine is too many kisses,
And too many afterthoughts about one kiss too many.
Red wine is candlelight and incense,
Thomas Lang on the stereo,
Songs and crazy dreams.
Red wine is lovers’ lipstick
And it always leaves my lips purple.

Andy Humphrey

Penis and Brain…

March 6, 2016

cagedagain

God gave men a penis and a brain, but unfortunately not enough blood supply to run both at the same time.

Robin Williams (1951-2014)

Poet or Witch…

March 6, 2016

witchkitchen

Could you see magic as a child, was it all around you? In the air you breathed, and in life itself? Were you irresistibly attracted to magic stories, fables, even as you grew older?

Were you told: ‘There’s no such thing as magic’ and yet continued to believe there was? To instinctively believe that this denial was false and meant to mislead?

Have you always ‘known’ you were not ‘alone’, that a spirit world surrounds you? That the life we all lead is not ‘everything’, but only a fragment of a fractured whole?

Do you believe in signs and symbols?

Do you find yourself drawn to the mystical, the so called ‘unknowable’?

Myths, poetry, psychology are your main interests, perhaps? And you like to spend time alone, thinking, meditating?

If this is true of you, then you are indeed a poet or a natural witch. Or perhaps both.

Today…

March 6, 2016

bizarre-birth

Mothering Sunday…with its connotations of pre-reformation Laetare Sunday…“Rejoice, O Jerusalem: and come together all you that love her … and be filled from the breasts of your consolation.” But few mums today care about origins; its just about the bunch of flowers or box of chocs. Which is as it should be.

Little thought nowadays about the ancient Greeks and the spring festival dedicated to Rhea, wife of Cronus, mother of Gods…Or of the ancient Romans spring festival, “Hilaria” dedicated to Cybele, mother Goddess…celebrations that became so notorious that followers of Cybele were eventually banished from Rome!

Who today gives thought to Julia Ward Howe or Anna Jarvis or Constance Penswick-Smith? It has become, sadly, a day of rank commercialism…an absent child can even pick up their phone an order a “hug” for mum. A stranger will turn up on mum’s doorstep today, and give her a big hug from you. At a cost, of course…

No need for you to go a-mothering at all!

My mother had little time for Mothering Sunday. She hated reminders of motherhood or growing older…and would have preferred a “Strip-a-gram” to a hug from some stranger! A fit young man with an oiled body was always acceptable to her. She saw cards as a waste of money. A way of avoiding writing something meaningful yourself. A lazy get out, with a twee message, lacking in any originality…

However, my mother did like champagne. So she and her little circle of confidantes might imbibe the odd glass or three in honour of the mythical resurrection of Attis…Her paganism, like her libido, knew no bounds…