Love lines

I see her love lines curve and zoom

in shades of blue all round the room.

They turn and sweep, now wide and slow,

now fast and thin, now high, now low.

The best of love lines to be seen

are hers, to show that she is Queen.

Her lines are wise and strong; they wind

their way through any block they find.

Their touch is soft but when it’s felt

stone walls go soft, turn pale and melt

to let a flood of grace pass through

from glad, new worlds we dimly view.

I light with joy to hear her voice

and wait in hope to know her choice.

On reading Catherine Mansfield’s ‘Bliss’

‘Why must it Always be Tomato Soup?’

a question worthy of the drills of Zen;

like ’What is bliss?’ and other thoughts that troop

unanswered through the cluttered minds of men.

Bliss comes from common things, no need of thrills:

we make tomato soup for friends and dine

or plant a sunny spot with daffodils

and then this joyful light begins to shine.

To shop exquisitely is happiness

for those endowed with ample energy and wealth

but not complacent in their state of bliss

for ruin ever watches us in stealth

while those white horses, far off from the shore,

like creeping cats, could turn to tsunami,

to car and corpses soup and muck galore,

that sweeps away our final ecstasy.