she rang me. did not leave a message.



later,

i dialled 1471 and rang her back, there

may be a charge for this.



i did not leave a message.



at 6pm she rang and left a message.



i was washing my feet. do you think



that there is a meaning to life?



sbm.

the planning office is up the road, by the old hospital

that was once a work house for the poor & suffering

to suffer more.



boils.



pass by regular on the way to somewhere else.



it is listed so any changes are scrutinised.



boils.



there have been a few.



changes.

i do apologise

did you say planet?



sbm.

she leans slightly left,

lower edges softly creased now,

the damp set in.



it is her own fault

leaving the window wide,

rain comes in.

her own choice,



leaving the door open,

you came in.

now the invitation

is avoided.



printed paper.

sbm.

golden, sweet as lions
that lay with lambs.

in the dark of the kitchen,
underground,
he asked. tilted head.

slowly i poured it into
his open  mouth.

sweet child.

string all up the lane.

whilst

out of the strong came sweetness.

sbm.

the work comes different, place to place. Hen Blas is a new situation for me; the new studio.

some things take time, layers form, marks come and go.

new geography has dictated the nature of the paint covering those from years past



i have written that these were painted in 2018, yet may i say started in 1999 in another place, another life.

i can no longer remember all that lays beneath yet know that some of that will always show through

i have submitted them as unfinished, finished for now. the work is ongoing, the adventure with paint and its expression of land and soundscape

feel you are failure, look

at what you have done.

look to the seeds, the growth,

read desiderata and know

we are all mostly much

the same.

sbm.

power and beauty
stone and steel.
rise above
mud and wood.
swarmed by
worker ants.
world without end.

wyn is a poet.

a visionary.
monkeys and tigers
stalk welsh hills
the
satanic mills
of his imagination.

he is the blake
of the a470.

did he once see
angels on peckham rye
too?

i expect he did, i expect.

we will not know
unless i ask him.

he will tell.

yet not when
his colleagues
are listening.

he may be shy.

balfour beatty.

sbm

drawing on experience.

with friends, with food.

drawing on paper.

we worked together, he drew,
i messed it up.

it is friendship.

sbm.

the word that came, as i left the room.

why.

the cards were right, i thought, knowing
all is underpinned, the past cut with knives.

emerging from the earth with power, with peace.

i recognised the shapes , the pieces, the
talk of crosses, circles and industry.

we searched out the tins,
on the library shelves, slightly rusty.

he read the tarot.

sbm.

ays of our memory,
days of our thought.

i have been taught
repeatedly not to believe

the things i think.

seems i am not even
a heathen. the bishop

tells me so.

i thought the cat was lost,
i think it is saturday.

after christmas.

sbm.

alongside gestures of despair,

may communicate thought

bettter. or worse?

so lets  be singular

enjoy our own space,

and be friends, forever.

she says that you

cannot see some people’s souls,

perhaps we need to look harder.

there is a lot going on.

sbm.

what can i say, except happy.



mine started after the solstice really,

it seemed to make more sense, yet



i will go along with the rest today, say happy.



we should say happy everyday.



i think it is a thread that runs level,

while the bad and joyous stuff, is

another, you know like those

graphs we did at school.

anyway, enough of the philosophy,

whille wind blows clear

outside.



happy new year.



sbm.

pink lights possibly work

like the rose tinted spectacles.



everything looks warm and safe,

needing large curtains in sombre fabrics

to hide us. is this the first step, two red

bulbs from poundland, at two for a pound.



fold the empy box flat,

and made keep it for future

ideas on rosiness.



sbm.

to explain to you who cannot see,

the cloy, the quantity of water, tasks, and other

hurts, that fit into  a day. the moment

your feet slide into mud, with one word.

heard , read, imagined, the sentence dives and plays

whole, yet as days move on, flotation occurs,

buoys,  slowly we face back to sea , swim on.

either that or drown.

sbm.

which frays,

tells the story, discarded.



some say it was his handkerchief

used, worn     not discarded



here.



discarding , all was bottled, remained.



another day.



sbm.

there is a boat in a bottle,
art in a jar. there was a need to collect,
keep working.

there never was a gun, no trigger, no need
to mainipulate, learn to spell.

he gave us gifts, i felt guilty taking them.

his face lit up.

sbm.

is welsh for child



english

machine



crossing



fired pain of

hidden lies



nothing happened



beyond words embittered silk



fabric trails



hiding memory

false beginning





found words

My thanks to James Stephen for his input on this work.


on the other side
of the path
one yellow flower



early, the crowd came to see the famous arch . laburnum. i came to see the kitchen garden, seeds growing



old words
for things once common
when the things disappeared
the words went with them



some words remain remembered;
scullery, coal scuttle, hod,
broom.

that is yellow.



have a vacuum for
most things
broom is for incidentals,
crevices, or when I'm lazy
'bout getting vacuum out

broom is red
with matching dustpan



i have a vacuum
there is nothing there.

the broom is for

the garden
mainly

or elsewhere for smelling like coconut



sweep your garden ?



slate bits

came from gloddfa ganol....quarry in blaenau.

front yard. leaves fall.





leaves here falling too
a tree here a tree there
so far
soon it will be
all of them together

a collective shed

next 6 months
nothing but bare branches

**

these are the falling days.

where is the power house,
metal books he said.

concrete palaces for those
that prey.

he grew it plant like,
fought it,
numbered it
thirteen.

glue boards of writing
stuckt with words.

drawing into the process
of nothing,
his life of mind
in metal made large.

I am small in this place.

I have seen him take photographs.

i am small in this place

slate looms large
thrown unbalanced
waiting for water
to start the slide

small boys know to run
at the noise, shelter
from the war.

I know no such thing,
my soul slides into mud,

i am small
©sbm

i use you.

blind you, hash tag

nagasaki.



you had a clean shirt

ready for after the bomb fell.







was pushed.



sbm.

slight rain, you could say
drizzle, soft. a gentle day.

opening new ground. sand
underfoot reminds of
younger days. toast
also a comfort in
an age of other things.

pattern of tiny souls,
searching just for crumbs,
patterning a place to lodge
in life.

slight rain brought out
the coloured coats,
talk of tides and fortitudes.

opening new ground.

the church was closed.

sbm.

laundry day is tuesday, it is collected.

brought back clean on friday, a card
label, cloth number, stuckt.

he uses the stable to deliver, not
disturbing anyone.

when all is unpacked, white and ironed,
we change again. it is another week.

the pattern continues. cloth numbers.

seen in aberystwyth
lately, an other world.

away.

layers of paint,
wider crossings.

the man saw his father
in mirrors, helped
with tiny shoon,
helped with self
esteem.

it only took one
hour,
to blow
those cobwebs
away.

i met the story teller,
in the museum,
the street,
the place between.

sbm.

a handy hint is the furthest place,
people like to be near. people may prefer
moving forwards, not looking back too much.

things go round, rebound. it is a lovely
journey, through the mountain range, glory
for writing,

travel journals, while all the while, we think
we travel the other way.

so we did.

sbm

ah did you say tapir?  the word  reminds me of the capybara at the water

park.



not sure why. if you said taper, i will think of the coloured spills by the fire

in the brass holder.



he cleaned the copper pipes for me, as it was raining. he is the gardener.

then he moved on to the coal scuttle and talked about his mum, as did i.

they both placed items on newspaper, while they rolled into tapers after.



to light the fire.



i really like the capybara. i think someone wrote about trousers today.



sbm.

good mix, bit of this,
bit of that, healthy
living.

bit of quiet, new friends,
old friends, young in years.

i tried that. it mostly works.

i usually stop, let others,
move around. risk no life.

it is a better road now.

sbm.

red cross



a simple sign that says kindness helps



and needs volunteers



so i do one day a week alone upstairs

if possible



the power of such a thing is endless



as i sift and sort the black bags and

cardboard box i think of you



a leather bag with purse: pink plastic comb

still grubby with your hair intact.

lace handkerchiefs, letters i leave unread.



dead people’s handbags, dead folks

clothes. mothballs they say are hard

to come by, i know different, smell them now.



washing hands is regular. compulsive.



odours cling. thoughts sing that kindness

comes easy.



sounds, chatter from the store below rise and when  thoughts subside

i listen here and there, customers clients and staff.



the box contains your little things, the company of pretty

your joy of small items



dust coats the air, motes of your living days. a drink is

welcome. move on.



another bag is baby clothes, joyful thoughts of children growing.



showing them to colleagues we smile together, steaming in

the upper room



warm the days now, summer the nights are hotter. murmuring continues below.



you hear things if you listen.



she said

we should help    people in this country

first, not those abroad .

****** immigrants



yet these are the numbers the scared and dying

the





established volunteer talking loudly  to her young customer

asking about the washing,

  yes i

hang it in the garden, in    sun and breeze

to dry fresh.



staff  replied that is what peasants do.

gippos, you know their sort.



i stopped the sorting.

saddened

report it

fight, flight or write of it?



i touched a little coat gently

said goodbye to that upper room left quietly

it is hard to do nothing, not react



my issue



their sign says kindness helps

red cross

a red cross

here we all are, brass band playing.

he wrapped it all in private eye, the things,
like tiny mummies, so i will photograph
them, open them later, for delight and
some amusement, calling it all work.

for work it is, alongside
walks and tom fripperies
of day and night blankets.

comfort to allay his words
of sadness. hotmail is down
right now.

sbm.

alongside a list of tasks
repair and defend, cut
small twigs with gusto
and imagination.

make conversation,
explore philospy at
the kitchen table
all gingham and pastry knives.

this was the order
of the day. thursday
the handy came, instead
of tuesday.

plans change.

sbm.

involved.

erasing of words. the text.

started a time back, my friend,
group of us , writing, illustrating,
coming together, moving apart
in miles.

a daily habit.

how to explain the heart
of this matter,

yet does it matter.?

words explain them selves,
as do pictures.

each one tells a story.

erasure.

he had a man's gift.

sbm.

twisted into an explosion,
grandad’s wire from the shed.

it can be anything, with
imagination, just twist it
into shapes,
he said.

i told him about the sculptor
margaret mellis,
so then he made
a wooden thing.

sbm.

was a larger thing, not world news, happily,
not somethinhg to chew over.

amongst the colours, the gifts, the tiny cup,
cracked, collectable, among the people
at the friday club is friendship, a bigger
thing.

although many of us like smaller items,
we have grown to know that close friends
are a quite very big, important thing in a
life. small life.

sbm.

when the horse when down, when you read glyn hughes?

the field is flowers now, grasses,one patch
of purple thistles

it is said most things have feelings, so

we walk the lane, wild now, watched the
water beetles, swallows dip.

memories crowding in, i talked too much.

there were several visitors, some picnicked
by my gate.

then, the kettle broke.
i will remember you.

sbm.

the edge of reason, in the edge of sleep. almost amnesia.

lay gentle, slow remembrance of reality,

low noises from the window,

slowly starting hum

of traffic.

the air moves

on my face.

the end of the year, time for the counting,
time to number, categorise, remember the things,
lost. the people.

the list is endless, we highlight, tick, arrange
in rows, the stuff of our lives, the shirts and
nonsense. we mend the family clothes,
while ours are unrepaired. a whole day

counting.

he brought the logs, more than i imagined.

sbm.

bridge stone warms,   lean thoroughly,
watch carefully,    see all small things
swimming.

concentrate, all comes into focus,
floating.

these are the warmer days, days of independance.

days to charm , negotiate the old woods,.

there are  trees down.

sbm.

having been invited, to write,
an invitation, inviting you,

i wrote instead about the
calling card, you know the
one by the clock, the one
i have not photographed.

aked again to do it properly,
requested politely, the you
after queue,, i started, yet the
double spacing and rhyme
annoyed me.

i watched bleak house instead.

the storm raged

sbm.

we had 3d each,old money
for sweets from the cafe.

it was not a cafe any
more, a corner shop,
not on the corner, which
makes me wonder why so many
were on said corner?

i liked ross’s
puff candy, left
by the fire to go
sticky. palm toffee
and crisps.

yet the latter were 3d
a bag, a waste of money mum said,
just potato, so they were banned.

my brother was older, working
bought them for me in secret.

these days i like liquorice,a lot.

sbm.

is it all just memory,
even, subtly, so slight,
elusive, another life.

is it all a dream, or facts
in reality, made of mind,
all plastic residue haunting.
our life. will we very know
forever wandering?

walk the rooms in horror,
see genius in corners,
there.

realise that he may cry
all the tears of life.

sbm.

you know that thing, that talking out loud,

when of course it is thinking.      you know

that. saying one thing, when meaning another.



you know that thing when all you are doing is

nothing

in particular, they say it is something.



you know that thing on breaking  rules,

when you broke mine.



that thing, when there is misunderstanding.

that being polite thing.



that thing.



sbm.

it was quite a shock, that there are no boxes left.

only those of a different size, quite a shock your anger
that leapt from nowhere. of course it does not
matter.yet with that and the moon,how can one sleep.

how can one pack and tidy when things are the wrong
shape, and emotions rise.

do me a favour, and know it was a favour, looking
for boxes.

the sheds are now tidy.

sbm.

it hurt so much we walked extra.

took the mind of it. edwin says

it usually stings a lot.



we pulled the skin back, cleaned

the grit off, then laid it carefully

back.



later i met robby’s mother

in the lane, and agreed the

forest looks dark and bogey

today.



sbm.

on the sea, this morning
plays to me. the powerhouse
diminished.

has no power over me. i write
this steadily.

i think of those
in peril on the sea.

he never tires of that one,
and i have no appropriate photograph.

sbm.

i was gone all day, and my feet hurt.

i folded tee shirts, was confused with socks,

tried to be good, got it all wrong.



what did you do, bear.



‘i stayed here all day, i don’t want the money’



sbm.

some things take longer than others,

oh, these trite sentences we use, yet

maybe this is true. at last i balance,

lock the gates efficiently, not mind

the mirrors, speak respectfully.



some things take time,  relax,

find your family. speak carefully.



it was a long evening, programmes

on monsoons, and the ganges.



we fell asleep quickly.



sbm.

is saturdays at ten in the morning,
sundays later at eleven.

this too remembered in the bathroom,

where today’s installment
for every woman is
the importance of a good complexion,
aided by a moderate diet,

essential. an east wind to be avoided,
along with shell fish.

these do much harm
to the tenderest skin,
while wrinkles apparently
bring despair.

real pretty arms are never snowy white,
being pudgy and nerveless,
should be cream
coloured.

i go to the eisteddfod today.

sbm.

jo *** was killed in june.



today is not a general thing,

it is a silent day, while apples fall

naturally.



we could not reach them,

how

they drop. drop

to the ground.

drop to the slurry.

drop.

today is apple day.

generally speaking.







sbm

#aberfan

#brexit

is an issue,  his head done in, he

don’t do surreal. he does money,

profit, &  a perfectly good hug,

every visit.



then there is the gardener, been

there eighteen years.



very tidy.

no pests.



just me visiting.



sbm.



archaic
bubonic plague.
noun: the pest

hear the trees come down,
see logs and timber.

hear about the taming,
hawfinches ringed.

caught in nets,
no stress intentended.

hear about the taming of all
things. pray it is not you.

stay with intention.

sbm.

as artists we go free,
yet included in the fee,
are coconuts and wrestling.

we travelled the path
again, he swarm followed
in revery.

the heron flew over.

while all the while we
danced and capered,
costumed and bustled,
women dressed as men,
men the women.

he held her on his knee
tenderly.

sigh on sigh,
they are in love,
them so beautiful,
down in the forest.



he held her on his knee
tenderly.

not bitten.

sbm.