RUBY JAND'S POEMS

Questions to the American voters Sick sick sick. What makes you people Tick? Why the hell didn’t you dump Trump?       7 November 2024     

Scrolling When I’m blue I scroll on Face Book. Do you Too? Does it cheer me up to Look at Nicola Walker on the National Theatre or what could be Sweeter than cute cats? I’m hooked on those posts with Two photos comparing old celebrities with their younger selves and who dated who or Britain’s Got Talent, incredible voices, Amanda Rejoices and Simon cracks a smile. Meanwhile I move from FB to YouTube and Tipping Point and Pointless, oh Happiness when the discs tip and the points go to zero and the winner is a Hero. Ms Mojo is cool too, the best or worst of something or the best and worst of ESC, that’s how I Flee the blues. It doesn’t really help but that’s what I Do. You should try it Too. I can’t stop extolling Scrolling.   

  A nod to A A Milne Let it rain who cares? I have a balcony with fresh Air. The rain falls and spatters, and nothing else Matters than this darkening evening when Everything is Refreshing after sultry heat, can’t be Beat, the air so Sweet. The breeze Eases the soul, as does the wine, so Fine, to sit here on the balcony seeing the Greenery, the solid grey sky, I almost feel High, in deep harmony with everything I love, the sky Above and a calmness which I seldom feel but now the world is Real, it’s around me, the sound of the rain surrounds Me. Let it rain, who cares? I have a bed Upstairs, or actually on the other side of the flat from where I’m At, on the balcony with rain and wine, but I want to go to go to bed, now while it’s raining. Sometimes life can be Benign.   28 June 2024  

    I Moved His Photo I moved his photo from the hall where it had stood on a table in front of his self-portrait on the Wall with his ring, the program from his funeral, a tiffany lamp and flowers in a vase. I saw his Face every time I passed the photo in the hall, then I stopped looking every time, then less, then not at All. One day I took off my ring and put it with his, It’s not a wedding Ring Nor is his. They are married-twenty-five-years- so-we’ll-probably-stick-together Rings. I still have the mark on my finger. It will no doubt Linger. I talked to his photo every day. Good morning, sweetie. Bye, Sweetie. I’m going to the library, Sweetie. Sometimes I’d kiss it, pick it up and hug it, or just touch it. Then not so much. Life takes over. Life goes on. Sometimes I was surprised to see the the photo there, to see this shrine to the man I was married to. For more than fifty years I was a wife, then I was – am – a widow, Such strang...

  Writing Poems It seems I’m writing poems. So bizarre. So Far I’ve written eight, often Late in the evening after drinking Whisky or wine and Thinking profound (not really) thoughts, but sometimes, like now, I wonder How can I do this? I don’t even like poetry. Not usually anyway. But what can I Say? I’m doing it. And then I wonder What In the world I’m going to do with them? I’ve posted some on FB and my friends have been kind and clicked on like but What Is the point? There is no Point. I just do it. I still want to share but Where? I could vanity publish but no one buys poetry and it’s quite a cost for books that would quickly be Lost among my stacks of unbought books. Oh yes, here’s a thought. I’ll start a new blog, I already have Two so it should be easy. Hurrah for Poetry. So with aplomb I invite you to visit rubyspoetry@blogspot.com  

  What a fate If writing poetry has become my fate then I must seriously Contemplate the question of what to write – whimsical, serious, poetic, dark or Bright? Many are the issues, good and bad, that capture me – the world, the wars, hateful capitalism, global Solidariy and the ecology. Nature, my fellow humans, so many of them are so beautiful, I love them, but Putin and Trump and Netanyahu and all who support them, they’re hateful. How to make them stop, and realise that their hate and violence will lead the human race and the planet to tragedy and loss and grief beyond Belief. I don’t think this poem will change all that nor will the poems of every poet in the world, or Greta or Taylor Smith, or any of this Will, but put us all together, art, music, poetry, books, films, Greenpeace, Doctors without Borders and everybody who demands a true revolution for equality and it will be achieved Finally. What else is there but Despair? ...

  Ode to Midsummer   Christmas and Easter and Halloween were stolen and renamed by the Christians who were smart enough to know that people wouldn’t Start accepting this new religion unless they got to keep their holidays and their ways of celebrating the nature of things like spring and harvest and the darkness of winter – equinoxes and solstices. Clever Christians but nature pays no heed, it doesn’t need to heed the human folly of pretending that nature is run by gods, or so they say. Anyway, for reasons unknown to me the Christians didn’t claim Midsummer as their own and that’s why I love it best. I’m Fondest of the sun at its highest, the day at its longest. I’m now sitting on my balcony, I’ve eated my pickled herring and potatoes and drunk (am drinking) my akvavit Such a treat. It’s 9.30 p.m. and the sky is still bright and light Though officially night, The night to celebrate. It will not get dark until after Midnight and it won’t stay d...

  Poem from the balcony in the night after quite a lot of bubble   If I were to write a poem what would I write? About sitting on the balcony in May at ten o’clock at night? About my solar lamp shifting colours on the wall in patterns that sprawl against the wall? About geraniums and petunias that glow redly in the approaching dark? About the flickering spark Of inspiration to read Shakespeare again after London, after Ian McKellan? Maybe even write something as Rhuddem Gwelin? Or maybe about not wanting to go to bed because this wondrous spring evening on the balcony at home in Hallonbergen has gone to my head? But it’s getting dark and chilly so it’s time to close the windows and stop being silly. I don’t write poetry, I write books so I’ll go to bed now and maybe dream about the next one – oh look! There it is. I’m such a wiz.