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Esoteric Eleanor...
Is a woman set apart
She has an obscure interest
In a certain type of art.

She collects her little fairies
Has an interest in old tomes
Has few, if any, closer friends
Has tons of garden gnomes.

She owns a run-down mansion
With lots of dusty rooms
Her letters closed with sealing wax
She speaks in garbled runes.

She met her fate one cloudy day
Oh yes, she is quite dead.
Her foot slipped on the marbles
That spilled out of her head!

Yes, she lost her footing
Alas, she is no more
Lies within her antique coffin
Esoteric Eleanor.


Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/15/2019
This poem kind of evolved... I really don't know how! NOT about anyone specific. Just alliteration of words for the title.
 Dec 2019 ConnectHook
BT Joy
I

That twitch in the schoolgirl’s eye
Isn’t caused by snowy mountains.
There’s Guildhall in her twisted lip.

II

I was of three minds.
Greta Thunberg took all of them
And cloaked them in a yellow hood.

III

A small part of the pantomime was never Greta’s style.
She has miles to go before she lets us sleep.

IV

Of the things schoolgirls hate
The sun is not among them.
The blackbird’s wings and the oil fields of Manitoba
Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,
The thought that they might one day bring out
Greta Thunberg bobbleheads
Or the fact that bobbleheads exist at all,
The fact that we’re ******
Or the fact that we’re enjoying it.

VI

An indecipherable cause.

VII

O pigtailed teens of Stockholm,
Please remember
What Wallace Stevens said
About birds of golden feathers
And of black.  

VIII

What is involved in what I know?
Like Socrates, I don’t know.
But it’s more than 99.9 per cent
Of climate scientists could ever dream
And less than a signpost
To the wrong city in the snow.

IX

When Greta sailed two weeks to New York
She was in a circle of close friends.
I bet they ate tinned kippers
And had those sweets the Swedish love.  

X

To cry out sharply is what we do
If we are lucky enough to cry.
And so I have more compassion
For Greta than you know.  
Some women have no time.
Their children dying
Takes up the best portion of the day.

XI

I can’t remember the part of the campaign trail
He rode over to tell a waiting crowd
How the size of his equipage
Compared to his small hands.
There are good reasons why Greta hates his guts.
This is not the best of them.

XII

The river is full of plastic.
The thermometer must be rising.

XIII

It is snowing
And it is going to snow.
B.T. Joy is a British poet and short fiction writer living in Glasgow. He has also lived in London, Aberdeen and Heilongjiang, Northern China. His poetry and short fiction has appeared in magazines, journals, anthologies and podcasts worldwide including poetry in Yuan Yang, The Meadow, Toasted Cheese, Numinous: Spiritual Poetry, Presence, Paper Wasp, Bottle Rockets, Mu, Frogpond and The Newtowner, among many others. His debut collection of poetry, Teaching Neruda, was released in 2015 by Popcorn Press and his 2016 collection Body of Poetry is also available through Amazon. He can be reached through his website: http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet
The birds have abandoned
their feeding baskets, diagonal
rain has created a pinstriped
pattern on our window.

Steam, (which is immediately
vaporising) is exhausted from
the central heating Baxi Boiler
being fuelled by Natural Sea Gas.

It's is as cold as a dogs nose and
stiff with the rheumatism of nights
nights inactivity, beneath this frosted
stratosphere, a liquid silence.

Global Warming my ***, Hibernia
is as cold now as when the Romans
abandoned the idea of colonising us
and that was 2,000 years ago. A.D.

It's cyclical, evolution, what caused
The Deluge or Aqua Alto in Venice
570 A.D. certainly not co2 emissions,
why is Ireland importing oranges.

Greta Thunberg is a plant, just like
Mother Theresa, who incidentally
was known as Fossil Face off stage
& the former is called The Iceberg.

That is because she is being managed
by the Nine Tenths who are the unseen,
same ones that control the minds of
the mini minded masses. Gullible Crisis.
Imagine, if you will my friends
A skein of silken thread,
White as floes of feather snow,
The very tip is red.

Imagine then, this thread to wend
The universe about
To wrap red Mars & every star
A thousand times enroute.

Let nebulae be woven there
The planets knitted tight
The skeins are lit
like lanterns fair,
The red tip scarlet bright.

That tip so insignificant
Can represent this life.
It's carmine hue
the blood we shed
In suffering & strife.

The rest of the
White stretch of string
Why, let's let it be
A tale untold, let it hold
The rest... Eternity.

Yet all that stretch of silver skein,
This concept may be tough,
But, my friends, it never ends!
There'd never be enough!

So why do people struggle so
To resist the endless love?
Let that tip of velvet yarn
Be dipped in Jesus's blood!

For then the skein
which then remains
Will indeed be white!
Sin's dark stain can be retained
And it is dark as night.

Hell or heaven. Listen friends!
This poet has a voice
Heaven. Hell. Truth to tell...

Eternity. YOUR CHOICE.


Catherine Jarvis
12/13/2019
 Dec 2019 ConnectHook
MeanAileen
Oh how I hate
this time of year,
with the stupid songs
and holiday cheer...
Annoying bell ringers
outside the store,
and the tacky wreaths
hanging on the door.
Cardboard calendars
filled with waxy treats,
ice and snow making
death traps of streets.
Frazzled parents
spending more then they should
on entitled kids
who are far from good.
Fake smiles & wishes
in the "spirit" of it all,
the empty shelves-
the crowds at the mall.
The hour long line
to see Santa the phony
who falsely promises
an x-box or a pony.
Having to gather
with family who annoy,
gifting another cheap
Chinese-made toy.
Fire hazards
strung with tinsel and lights,
tensions leading
to fun Christmas fights!
Secret Santas-
holiday parties for work-
ugly sweaters
making you look like a ****.
The stress of having
an enormous list
and a tiny budget
just makes me ******!
No, nothing seems jolly
or merry or bright...
Oh how I can't wait
till post-Christmas night!
My ode to the holidays!!
And no, I'm not a TOTAL Grinch, I just play one in November and December!!
Life's just hard.
Have you heard?
This song's for all.
Just a word.
We all work.
We all strive.
None of us
Get out alive...

Life is HARD.
We ALL cry.
God's no Santa
In the sky.
We have to live.
We have to die.
God's no Santa
In the sky.

Just cuz you're "good"
Li'l girls & boys
Don't mean you get
Designer toys!

Don't you listen
To preacher's talk!
They DECEIVE!
They will WALK!!

The biggest LIE
THERE'S EVER BEEN!
Kenneth Copeland
Joel Osteen!!

Listen here
To this ink!
It's much deeper
Than you think!
God got it all,
The kitchen sink...

But He don't hand out
Yachts & Porsches!
Mansions. Jewelry.
Bet the HORSES!

He's got RULES!
He don't take guff!
Folks! The Lord
Has had ENOUGH!
Don't you know?
God is TOUGH!!

Don't mean to snoop.
Don't mean to pry.
But in YOUR prayer life
ALL A LIE??
Listen people...
You can try.
But God's no Santa
In the sky.

Catherine Jarvis
12/9/2019
I'm talking to myself, ALSO!
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