Too pooped to woop

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Too pooped to woop

After 30 days of intense nail-biting roller-coasting lip-smacking (enough already) I have finally “completed” my 50,000 word novel and been acknowledged by NaNoWriMo.
Somehow I suspect that was the easy bit!

Something in Poor Taste

NAZI WAR CRIMINALS WORDSEARCH

D X I F N J N Z D K U S R O G
P C Z J L E B R P E E S O W U
S A I L I Y Z Q C I J E S Q F
S L E B B E O G C T C H E L R
Q I R Q Q H N H B E N Y N O V
T A T G L X M N S L M P B O S
B C M D O A C L A X J S E R D
N O O E N R F W D M Q Q R E Y
C J M N C R I P X H R R G L T
C J A A A R U N J C T O F M Y
T V X N R P O C G D L O B M P
O F K R N B E R E E P S G I R
C V M B G D O N I T Z S A H H
 I G J P P F P X Z G A H W L K
Y Q M N I Q E J V E B T C Q B
______________________________________________________

BARBIE BORMANN DONITZ
EICHMANN FRANK GOEBBELS
GORING GOTH HESS
HIMMLER JODL KEITEL
ROSENBERG SPEER
Can you find them all? 

Jesus and the Unruly Swans Parable

It came to pass that Jesus was wandering around the centre of Jerusalem. As an itinerant preacher, wandering was what he did best: for it was only in opening his mouth and engaging other human beings in conversation that things tended to go wrong.

And as he walked, Jesus overheard two farmers talking about their profession.

And Jesus, being entirely ignorant of the farming profession, felt compelled to offer an opinion. Interrupting their private conversation with a customary lack of decorum, he said

‘If a man ploughs his field with swans it will prove a disaster. They will flap their wings and resist wearing the yoke, for the swan is by nature a rebellious creature. Who can forget the swan revolutionary Derek Smalls, who once led his swan battalion to break the arms of Herod’s men and hiss at them for disturbing their nests? Better to use a gentle, kindly creature like the ox, a natural subservient character.’

The two farmers were speechless at Jesus’ words and behaviour.

But another man, who had heard Jesus speak on earlier occasions, said, ‘but no one is going to have swans pull a plough. It’s a stupid idea. All your parables begin with something that has no bearing on reality, and then you say you shouldn’t do that. But no one is doing that thing in the first place. Your parables are a chariot wreck of bad analogies, torturous logic and pathetic non sequiturs.’

And Jesus looked crestfallen. ‘Really?’

‘Do you actually think you make sense? What are you even trying to prove by going around saying such things?’

‘I’m… I’m announcing God’s Kingdom’, said Jesus unconvincingly.

‘You’re not doing a very good job of it. Did God tell you to announce his Kingdom by talking rubbish? And who the hell is “swan revolutionary Derek Smalls?” Did you just make that up? What the hell are you talking about? You’re an embarrassment to yourself and your religion.’

The man walked away. A small crowd had gathered during the exchange and were now looking at Jesus, who seemed about to cry.

But John the Apostle, the disciple who tolerated Jesus’ idiocy the most, came forward and put an arm around his shoulder to comfort him.

‘I believe in you, master’ he said to Jesus tenderly.

‘Thank you, Terry.’

‘My name’s John.’

‘Whatever.’

Reverie

Reverie

 

 

Head high the grass had grown

Burying us in summer’s profligacy

While we drowsed under sunlit skies

Cloudless in their blue permanence

 

Summer lasted forever

Its promise fulfilled in sun soaked days

When freedom lay all around us

In brown baked endless time

 

Crickets sawed above our heads

Leaping in untimely flights of fancy

While airy thistle down floated

Through sooty midge flecked clouds

 

We scratched our bloodied legs

And scuffed where camomile’s heady scent

Marked the end of summer days

In the mournful music of rattling seed

 

We had drowned in liberty

Fasted in the freedom of carefree days

Until time’s demanding bell

Stirred our lazy limbs from blessed reverie

Love and other dangers

My butterfly flapped its wings
at five o’clock
one Sunday morning in July.

I did not see,
I barely heard the sound.
What was the sound?
A train pulling away?
A creaking closing door?
Footsteps stepping over bodies
lying on the sleeping floor?

I did not mean for it to go so wrong.
Our lips should not have touched,
should not have lingered there so long.

The butterfly fluttered
out of the open window
and by the time that she returns
a hurricane will have formed