envy the rural living.

make some.

walk the dunes
each day,
know the places,
to stop,
where berries grow.

where the photograph tree
knows,
what lays beneath.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

then in mine, in honour
walk the place in mind.

sbm.

she said hello, smiled.                                                        i smiled back with no regret.



the books are left tied tightly.





woke up to see the shy pink. clouds.



we stood together working pushing rags through to make things neater. others searched the lines, the crossing, looking for reincarnations.                               we thought they were sheltering from the rain.



another day of vinegar soaked words. another play on keys, as we drift through           winter days.



curtains dragged across the gloom, early, yet while light lingers later,   we wander to the snowdrop drift, hear the last bird call.



give things to some one else, will they fall upon flesh, rip it, rearrange,    leave to sleep? maybe it were their rags.                                            or handle with care, small eggs hold with love, rearrange tenderly.



?

. it seems the work is cupboards. cabinet makers.



sbm.

dark o’ clock.

windows shut, interior sounds

fluff and meanderings.



inevitable clock ticking,

literal conciousness.



freedom spent a while,

another brief imprisonment,

hunger strike, maledictus.



it all descends back into bing translations.



sbm.

reading does, the radio plays
hymnals, sacred sleeping music.

investigated, is it tickly, chesty,
do you seek production,
yes just look how much it costs now,
no, not if you are driving, this one
will not make you drowsy.

neither will you get the top off,
it is 100 percent proofed.

i looked for pins, 20 p a bunch,
a better deal for fixing things,

nicely.

sbm.

he said that i will die,
as all things will die,
go back to nature.

i agreed.

he will remember me.

the whole family,
returned in the evening
cooler, cleared the hay
from the graveyard.

it was hot, so
i layed a cold
flannel on
his head.

sbm

the mass, the clouds  lay heavy,

rain that came, that blinded

again.



blinded those that could not see

the love and idle artefacts, each one

a statement of nothing in particular.



phased those that drove the cwm

in site of home, that stopped, saw

nothing.



water that seeps, insidiously into mind,

spoils all things.



things that can be mended.



he said that most people throw broken plates away.

sbm.

requested for christmas,

it is the run up, you know.



passed  the idea by him,

verdict, boring, well it was

bound to be that or, wierd.



i told him it is beautiful, that

i love richard parker and

and a classic

animated character. I gave

him the message, i found

waiting.



his message to me is

cherry pie, so i stopped in

tesco, bought one for

tea.



it is a life of pie.



sbm.

it has been different
this time. were preparing
for verything, surprised
when words fell away
into ether.

gaseous samples of neutralisation,
realise the decision is made. lasting.

deleting nothing , results the same.

nothing.

sbm.

john rutter plays this morning,
birds sing.

the dolls are mine, together, apart in pastel boxes,
worth a little bit. copied, light spaced.

photograph the photograph, to endear
as chinese whispers, to age and burn, to scrape,
to churn the memory, to mount on
good paper, yet delving find music, manuscript
to change my mind.

i met Reuben…………..

john rutter plays this morning.

even that. the relationship between to two or more

becomes more difficult when one flies solo. depends

what that word means.



i felt a connection with someone next to me when they

laughed at the performance. we came separately. we

never spoke.



is that
symbiosis
ˌsɪmbɪˈəʊsɪs,ˌsɪmbʌɪˈəʊsɪs/.
the benefit?
sbm.

‘ are you my  mother’, asked the bear.



no.



‘who are you then?’



somebody else’s mother, you and

i are best friends.



‘thankyou’



sbm.

so the lights are fused, upstairs only.

the lamps work, they are plugged

in sockets of course, so that is

a different matter.

unlike anti matter.

so we have a torch, and candles

in the bathroom, which light up

the place nicely. inspires photography.

some videos not shown yet.

the handy man comes once

a month, mostly on a tuesday,

nine thirty till four, he can turn

his hand to most things, as

can i.

yet teetering on a ladder, i have not

the energy to lug the fuses out.

so we wanders in the dark, it can

be a pleasant thing.

we are carefull not to fall the stairs,

having done that before.

wish not to repeat it, interesting

though it was.

sbm.

stops me in my tracks.



music.



lightens a hard, an edgy mood.



more important than

other things, i will not mention



here. edited.



music.



punctuates the news,  world

matters,   sound of

elegance ..



repeating .



music.



sbm.

Butchers used to hang their pigs (ham) by the tendons (strings) in the back of the knee. The Hamstrings are actually 3 different muscles that work together to extend the hip    and flex the knee.
Basically the hamstrings most important job is to make sure your leg doesn’t fly off your body when you run.
Yes, Found words with capitals. Then there are cheeestrings which i find taste of  nothing
in particular.
He was not tongue tied in the medical sesnse, he stammered and was bullied over it. While
I stood by with love and embarrasment .
We have since learned a thing or more.
Then there is the thread to consider,                             yet I understand that some use thorns.
Stories continue of bound feet and
crippling
people.
He suggested that body dysmorhia may be at the heart of things.                                           bdd.
I fear he may be right.

Research Albino.

sbm.

even when very tired, the pattern remains the same,
the sentences longer. this is not an issue, and is
accepted gratefully.

they say that the latter will bring immense relief,
to try it consciously.

difficult words, go google, copy, paste then
even then,
it may be wrong in someone’s mind.

so continue to sleep in three hour slots,
and not to worry.

sbm.

now the grass is mowed
with stripes. perfumed air
pervades the lanes, the corridors.

tell me tales of oswald.
crow bird proposed,
the ring returned..

perhaps his presence
was required?

one wonders if they asked
before they hung him
on the tree,
oswald's tree.

perfumed air
pervaids the lanes.



shropshire, such a pretty place.

sbm.

soles hung by the window,
smooth leather shone, despite
light lost, despite the rain.

did you make these soles,
did you stitch and polish them.
did you make your mark there,
hang for all to see?

do many come in on the street,
after looking for housman, lost.

do many say, they would not do,
where we live, slipping the slate.

those are london shoes, not country shoes,
yet the soles are admirable, sir.

sbm.

has big lumps, i seem to remember.

i have those and small stuff too.

mother had nutty slack, mixed

with water and other stuff to keep

it going.



can you still get that these days, i had best

google, anthracite was good i feel, and those



briquettes that i thought were for

richer folk.



steady fire last eve is still alight this morning.

the joy of a cosy life, one could say

it is a gift, even though i paid

for it.



sbm.

you are younger than i ; stride out  quickly.

it is my birthday walk down the estuary. it

is good to hit the sunny patch and hear

the bird call.

a cold day,  november. we decide to

turn, return.

you mention that we had come far,  it seems

that you are walking faster.

or am i lagging behind. now.

sbm.

there are no photographs.

‘ is dark at night, i lay here looking’

yes



‘ not totally black though,

i like the greys and shadow.

i like when the cars go by,

the lights go across the walls’

yes



‘ i do not think i will like very black,

not vantablack like anish kapoor’



said the bear quietly.



its is alright to say so.



sbm.

only we don’t talk so.



he said he will by a tank top

for the gig, i though ooh,

how ghastly. he came back

with a vest, black. quite nice.



thats a vest , i says, no he

says, you wear a vest

with a suit, tidy.



he means of course

a waist coat.

he is from ameica.



sbm.

days of restoration, making.

gathering , stacking found
books, some to tie, to read
later.

it is a curious thing, the cotton,
the string. there are films
and recollections for work.

if i say there is nothing
to understand, will you
understand this statement?



there is another ceasefire.

sbm.

unexpected driving,
along the edge, the edge
of season. the coast with
slow limits.

the glass anomaly
swept the edges
golden, in proportion.

the bridge is being mended,
we crossed that bridge.

sbm.

is this a mill, or is it a shop,
is it both, when did the looms stop?

twenty years now sir, yet you can see some
working elsewhere.

shall i write it down, all the pattern,
and most of the history? it has different fibres,
yet mainly wool in it.

these are made in yorkshire, the bags are italian,
yet i am from wales, an immigrant they say, yet we
are all from another place originally.

we came from the sea.

so let us move things about.

cloth by cloth.

sbm.

yesterday. did not read the stuff
. wrote about laundry.

you know sudsyy hot water smells,
ironing airing, mending . the usual.

if you read here regular, you may
expect to read domesticity,
of sorts.

there are cobwebs, memories, yet the linen
is clean, with dabs of cotton.

so aghast, i did the work again,
i hope it is properly.



sbm

so he came quite early really,

little fuss or bother, drank

his coffee nicely.



#summerhouse



as did the next one, with

news, that is taken positively.



#belling



so we move forward gently, knowing

now , the man that visited every

sunday, will do so

no more.



#timesup

sbm.

so we placed the work on censorship.



little boats,  welsh not, #bandaged

books and what nots.



they had been there

some time, yet were not noticed

i guess.



it may have been nose bleed that done

it. she censored it all, shoved in

a drawer, even the refugees

crossing.



i go to the ship now, and

i hear she threw the jazz band out



too.



sbm.

maybe it was the lack of empathy,

the first sign in yellow. the others

were hidden, yet confessed deeply.



in red, the diagnosis, no doctors here,

we have common sense in blue.



understand the fear, the

need to lay and weep over all things.



legion, there are many.



sbm.

the bear watched.  i see you are packing.



yes.



am i coming?



no.



why?



they would not understand.



sbm.

reactions, speak louder.

so when there are none
look for a meandering way.

the lane is long,
now there is no escaping,
only one way to the end.

a little conversation
never goes amiss.

there are times
during demolision
one gets bruised.

we used to go to the pub on pay day.

sbm.

i don’t write about gremlins

nor bogies

have done a search

it has not figured in the work yet



i know that my bread is usually buttered

held carefully it does not fall

not anyway down



if i wrote about bogies  they will be under

the bed not

up the nose

at all



some of us may not be so afraid any more

how much is the book today,
ten pounds to you. there

were more all sold. the old
dealer did a moonlight flit.

how much is the book today,
fifteen pounds, simple pictures,
will you take a bottle?

a ledger clerk, i balanced well.

then remembered him. aproned, legless
ruling lines.

the book binder.

sbm.

it seems that in moving the body we can free the mind, from one place to another. slightly out of focus.



time is moving forward.

that is the theory……



sbm.

ancient place,  much posting,  signs

for care, letters of fortitude and sadness.



face to the wall.



chair to the wall, sit slightly unbalanced

read, the language,  sentences there.



this one wrote it. wilfred owen.



oswestry heritage.



sbm.

there is a laybye , the field so pretty
to park by, the gate to lean.

will you report the fire?
no i stopped to admire.

i had seen the stack before, the logs
laid neatly, all was ready then,

now your flames attract me, to
talk of lambs and springtimes.

it is from the storm , tinder dry,
too hot to stand by,
i can feel it from here.

on my return all was ash and steaming,

we waved.



sbm.

can you clamber
through the rocks
slipping into water
oily boots leaking?

can you stride out
over dewy moors
peat bogged
with no direction?

will you come with me
to these places
my spaces
and make history?

will you sit a while
amid the berried hedges,
sheltering,
remembering?

will we shout at the wind,
running, laughing
knowing
that this is ours
for the taking

or

will you stay home,
stay safe

and bleed?

sbm

i found pryce jones
empty, except for
a smell, and sad boy,
wanting to get out of there.

i found that when taking notes,
i took note of the shadow,
the history man on
bullet points, politics.

registering my interest
i may have an opinion here.

or there. he left early
which was just as well.

i went shopping for wooden things.

sbm.

small gifts. buttons,
came, loose, tiny.

some in packets,
some in jars, stray
one in the pocket,
washed now,
probably lost.

lately we had
one in exhibition,
with thread still
attached.

the larger ones are private,
kept round the house
for comfort.

i heard some people
dislike them, phobias.

appalachian spring.

sbm.

i come to you each month to leave a prayer to be said. i have no faith yet live in hope. #chestercathedral



look at mosaics, oh absalom, my son, my son.

wonder where the justice is. i come to think on things. each time i am challenged as to my reasons, & do i have a ticket?

#chestercathedral

it is enough to put some off from visiting at all. only the brave. thank you.

#chestercathedral



pray for them, all is in disorder.

sbm.

is probably that there is none, maybe.



is all a mixture, some  feel important,

others may seem like minor details,

yet part of that whole, that make us, makes

a life.



a small life maybe, yet some of those things

will be remembered.



sbm.

plus 66 pence.

now i can buy the things
i think i need,  find that

i am not bothered, that
i have the things i need.

it is a box of old postcards,
that started the conversations,
the ideas and interaction.

it was rather good.



collaborations work.

sbm

he fell as i walked by.



layed there recumbent.

legs spreadeagled

on the front spare bedroom

floor.



fell from the wardrobe.

or did he jump?



i will take a photograph.

sbm.

pouring ,  one drop failed,
slow motion dropped
on white linen, split,
fascinating
watching the stain spread,
red drops as blood.

salted.

it will be double washed,
boiled. hot ironed.


ready.


sbm.

comes round again, the radio

announcer says it is good, that

i am awake early.

well done.

we saw magnolia yesterday, blooming,

black grass and dogwood.

yet i shall like to the see

the orange trees, smell the fruit

descending. eat all that there is.

i had to go.  i missed the train.

sbm.

she asked how long
i had been here,
over twenty years,
i think.

envy the rural living.

make some,
walk the lanes
each day,
know the places,
to stop,
where berries grow.

where the photograph tree
knows,
what lays beneath.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

then in mind, in honour
walk the place in mind.

the lanes, llanelltyd.

sbm.

crystals underfoot. hardship
lays in pages.

white scars scattered .

look at the world, salt tastes
bitter.

gritted teeth.

soul in subsidence

dry on skin, crusted.
tears fall.

blood.

sbm.

a younger rock formation isolated among older rocks,           someone who works out differently to others.             an exercise in the way to  view the world. we are all

individual.



as much as this is said as  aid, the performance can do with quite an improvement.



so you gas some,        bomb the others.

mr and mrs do as you will be done by?



look at what you do now, and think about it.

seriously.



sbm.

doubt they will ever

be written, certainly

not this day, the

thirteenth of anniversary.



there will be reams, and ink

satined fingers, hair assunder,

wild eyes for the work. it is hotter,

we stick to linen

sheets. remember the words



from first, to last,

to write.



it will be a soliary task,

where no one enters,

consumes our tea.



the memoires may be written,

in the garden.



sbm.

the same each december, advent .

the lead up. we have a memory or two.



the world goes dark, we teach and learn,

wait  for    light to appear,

with those albeit small birds,

singing.



we have comfort, medieval trees,

the coventry carol.

we drive in the dark.



sbm.

the lady with the blue umbrella

is merely a road sign, remember.



until we walk over and find there

is not one.



had difficulty sleeping, thinking.

of you all.

the hurricanes.



thinking of you all.



the genocide.

spelled carefully



you all

at war.



all who are ill,

unease.



i went on the bus, saw the mud

from the festival. talked   to you

who got lost and fed the homeless.



read some road signs elsewhere.



sbm.