so much to talk about. the news is all

debate this morning.



yet.



those words will not help folk in aleppo.



you who watched live, was it even



mentioned?



aleppo blasted.  ****** ******.



sbm.

a little place. face the wall.

dream forward.



sbm.

at sea, it is a squall. i watched

a programme all about dream fish.

we need none.

we have dreamed a while, made a little

garden house, while mrs ciano is safe indooors.

cosy, she is by the old books

of course.

where else would she be,

still the rain pours, a draught

at the window.

sbm.

the start of things, the making
of the welsh cape.

tapestry.

we have none here, we
have a blanket, washed
and faded. we started
the research and found
he lived near the thing
he wanted.

he had not known
the proximity.

she tried the coat,
too stiff
too heavy, weighed
her down.

there is a sadness here now.

sbm.

strokes, weathers and general attire,

shrink back into the room,

behind muffled glass.



windows washed, bottled

words as hard as

grandmas pears,



we ate those too.



it is quiet here today.



sbm.

she is in the post. they

phoned me from the red

cross shop in fort

william

yesterday.



they will not accept credit cards

by phone, nor hand written

cheques, probably soon

to be phased out

anyway.



so i sent cash in

the guise

of a christmas card.



while downloading her photo,

the manager phoned to tsay

that,

she is in the post.



it is a gift.



sbm.

i have escaped
your pleasant grasp
or does my head
magnify the situation?.

sherlock holmes.

will dr. watson prescribe
me.             sense.

then multiply ideas
like flies in abundance.

sbm.

we think of , write of fish heads,
cut off.

placed in a dish we wonder.

the cat walks off, not understanding
the urge for recycling of some sort.

we know fish bone is good as fertilizer, yet cannot bear
to grind them. they float, stare at me ******.

smelly, not fit for the bin, nor paper, nor glass,
eyes blurred deathly.

as suggested, throw to the night creatures.

she said that some thing will eat them.

sbm.

look quietly, see a new.

cellular memory, let be, and learn,

that small birds fly up.

sbm.

a set routine, tasks most days.

bread and butter, move a mountain.

yet it can be done slowly, only
looking at that which is completed.

not remembering the punctuation,
or rhyme.

enjoy the air, watch the frog,
hop close by.

know that when all is done, you
may sleep well.

night paralysis

sbm.

different season, extenuating

circumstance. hunger

nor poverty a reason.



look for kindness.



i saw them sweeping

the golden, leaving the

vehicle parked badly.



saw the wind change,

sky come clear.



it is mid november,

i drive the same road,

end lessly.



sbm.

interupt the day, checking.

it is all there to find, old favourites,

new, they pray for those in

peril each morning, later



from the other room streams

the sound of glass.



one battery is spent, the other

depleting rapidly. during

the run up to christmas i shall

replace and back up.



meanwhile. plugged in the

piano plays.  classic fm.



i shall nip to currys after

lunch at maenan abbey.



sbm.

once a hayloft, above the stable.

this was a meeting place. we cleaned

the upper room ready, removed winter

detroitus, hummed latin verbs, generally

was busy.

all is washed and cleaned ready.

everyone is refering to easter,

sun day april fifth.

sbm.

she says that his smile melts her heart.

and boy if you think literal, she is in real

trouble.

physical.



she says it looks more like a rhinceros, probably.



it does, because it is a

rhinoceros.



these things.



sbm.

do you hear someone sleeping?

do you hear them breathing?

i did not for many years.

last week I did.

the hotel

had thin walls.

sbm.

ah the sea, the sand, it comes in bottles now, dearer than the cheaper stuff.



i had not met her before, went in on the off chance. waited a while till she

was free.



she did it different, said nice things about my skin. in a small way she gave

me confidence.



i bought the quiche, sat in the cathedral grounds.



used the salt spray, and did not die.

of it



sbm.

never fails to excite me.with all the talk of leaves

here, falling, i am interested to see another breed

of folk that love and gather.

remind me of roseberry road, the younger days.



sat in the upper room, read his letter to his mum,

about the trenches, the first world war,  wished

to drown his sorrow in  that bloodied mud. the floor

tilted, a scrap lay crumpled.



each room has a different door.

we left, fell the last few steps.



sbm.

cold weather, a hot night you

haunted me, collapsed     one

hour after midnight.        sick.

tired i woke          remembered

you had gone a long          time

now.

later i sit and sew,         think of

all those things.
verb
past tense: achieved; past participle: achieved
sbm.

moving on from the last verse of girly looking

after girly, we stopped at the jeweller’s window.



the assistant, neat looked bore & very clean. the

rings were                  three thousands and more.



enough to take her        home and more.



“yes sir you may buy the ring, for a
thousand pounds, or choose to save
her life”

little red sailed
schooner, anchors late.

when i saw this word,
mast, for some obscure
reason, i imagined some one
tied to it, hair blowing
with the wind.

i must be tired
or delirious.

sbm

pyjamas from the line, rain rinsed. complimented. not mine really.

left by his estate, three quarters of an acre, where the washing dries.



on a good day or tumbled in bad weather. often it is milder here when

it rains. you can smell that too. most things have a scent, not always

nice. though.



particularly like early grey and burned toast, although there are now

warnings on the latter.                                                             with butter.



ashes of roses.



©sbm

stand back to spite the craving,

look on as from afar.



people, some write hymns & mantra

others watch tv, not the news.



oh no not the news, the truth is too

depressing, a bit near the mark.



good to live gentle, bites of  reality

to flavour your safeness



with gratitude. the bakers has

closed as has the dress shop.



a side table will be convenient.



while children are in hell , Aleppo.





sbm.

there is  a need to pace about, wave the paper,

move the arms. need to pause and       counter

act. if this reading thing                      will work.



maybe moving eliminates the standing       still,

precisely that  leads to a self concious       pose.



the need to read is ready. rehearsals held each day

focus                                                     on the oak tree.



alongside reading then, is a little light excercise



plus a method of solidarity.



sbm.

joined the circle, like it.

words are strewed, chewed,
suggestions made to change
things for the better.

maybe it is laziness or harder
work, that leaves well enough
alone.                  small child
playing.

having tried to change much,
words are left as they fell.

joined the circle. i like it.

sbm.

or is it, will it grow some more come october?

the drive is easy, flat, up and down quite stately,
neat stripes, well nearly.

little lawn by the pigsty , a bit rough, no problem.

the lower, is sloping with little paths and mole bumps.

we start off buzzing, then the engine steaming,
we pause, gather breathe push on, ankles bending.

was this such a great idea? looks good on completion.

friends came, admired the dresses, do you wear them?

no not really, they are just part of the furnishings.

i am not quite that tiny.

sbm.

struggle with the words,

tear wrappers back to reveal

the chewy pink, or bitter.  bitter

enought to split your head, the

packing says.



all gets too sickly, too sad,

when small boy agrees

it is good to hear  birds sing.



sweetly he tells me there are other capybaras

in the capybara house.

this is quite relaxing.



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.

the museum man

says it is the medieval place,

that causes the feeling

of calm and acceptance,

and smiled at our excitement

on the glass , the remembrance

and hallmarks.

he works there.

he said he never

noticed the thistles,

just handed me the bag.

it has always been the same,

water going down hill,

thick frost of winter’s morning.



now the birds song at 4 am,

bad news soften by dreams,

new days.     it has usually

been the same.



sbm.

wander into town while your back hurts

edging into breaking. meet the one who

instigates recycling for its sake and others.



suggested the items, collects and delivers.



meanwhile he eats the offered sweet and

confesses there are more boxes outside.



mostly cherry ones, quite small,made to

stack easily.



help yourself, i have organised them in two

piles, wood and plastic



yes, have four, there will be more here

everyday.



i remember how we ate  cherries every summer.



those days.



( pause)



these days.



the back feels slightly better now.







sbm.

beasts of fire
and guilt,
cannot fly, nor trace
the air with wings.

tethered angel,
in despair lowered eyes
and wept.

for those assunder,
need no
deprivation.

play the music softly.

we heard the canary sing.

sbm

and glory here, though
not a good way to start
a sentence. they say there
is a frost today, though i
cannot see it yet.

i could not see the signs
until standing back, the
pattern formed. it is

the first movement
of winter, though
not officially, yet.

i saw the wooden boulder again
yesterday. it has not moved,

yet.

sbm

they left the group

took off and flew.



flight was not sustained.



hovering over past demeanors



faltered, landed carefully



in disappointment, hugging,

affirming it did not matter.



yet it did.

delivery is from 6 am to 7 pm,

so we gets up at 5 am to be

ready and decents, to find

a message to say it will

now be 9am at the earliest.



so we crept about the garden,

heard the owls and imagined

how it will all be.



the summer house.



you and me.



sbm.

so  naturally we think of heaven.



realise it is the pattern that makes us,

the familiar and ordinary.                   other prophets

come false.



in agreement we lose to the music,                hell as

entity retreats.



there is a book at the university. i have

read it twice.



sbm.

.prompt.





notes:-

Chinese painting about hell: “Picture Reference of Causality – Paintings of Hell”, which was painted by Taiwan Chinese painting artist Jiang Yizi in 2003. The painting is a roll of 62 cm high and 50 meters wide…..

photograph           the trees.  notice   the wild     wood

early               while  walking,   imagine it               may

be mine.    to care for , to let be.                       it could.

it is for                 sale.   new   sign  on the gate,  today

the charcoal burner .                       he is a woods man

smoke rises grey.  price is mentioned .           plenty.

I think on his words, the idea, owning              land,

crashing back into the wild wood.                   empty

headed.  it is good to be quiet,                            alone

away from their thickening  throng ,          the dread .

soft voices.   smoke rises slow,   ashes.      old bone.

dust and dust , by dust  we bury the                      dead.

he will split the wood.           they may come and buy,

yet in my head the wild wood                    will be mine.

sbm.

all is not lost, never was
just hidden. a hole, those
years gone.

i went to rio.

there are no photographs

sbm.

its a tidal river,
the sea water comes in to the bridge,
where they used to build boats.
the river full and still, mid flow,
i watched and looked early,
i noted the sheep tracks where we run,
parallel.

‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would,
the grave digger, grinning,
‘ happy new year’
and the same to you, angel.

years ago,
i may have jumped,
after you buried him.

its those like you,
that see the beauty of the river,
where the seal comes to play,
and the tide goes up to the bridge.

so we laugh and wave,
and go on our way
up to the bridge.

sbm.

new to this, he hung the pictures
well, adding his won opinion.

pinned words, spoke in
wonder. the boy and the
machine.

some times,
all is not well in wonder
land. removed from
the situation we move
on carefully, hopefully
return as things have changed.

i will be informed if things
do change.

sbm.

road works have been there some time,
you came through before your diagnosis.

did you see the copper beech at gelligemlyn
where the house is for sale. i saw it yesterday,
as if it had never been. from the mist inside
it grew, leaves hanging a fragile thread. tudor
lace in air, few  fell. the light turned green.

we drove on our way, i have no photograph.

sbm.

the bear looked puzzled, sat back and said,

‘told you, no one will listen if we are quiet,

they have all lost interest’



yes.



‘do they only listen to loud folk , those that  shout

and remonstrate’



seems so.



‘do you mind’ said that bear sympathetically.



no.



sbm.

the library intervenes
with gifts.
tomorrow we
fill more empty
cabinet shelves,
clear peripheries,
learn to spell
curiousity.

the russian is coming,
there are pianos,
at the theatre.

all pianos are special.

join me, work with me.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that.   does this mean it is spring soon?



i did not know you, yet when  i saw that you were gone too,                                            i felt sadly.



i stood and looked at the blackthorn trees.



black bird sings early, the same bird calls late .                                                      drown darkness.



&





small things shelter.                                       there is much to research, decide to believe or not.

there are so many stories, re-enacted with a hyphen.                       there are watermarks left.



the lime kilns are empty now, yet the mass remains, the wonder at the shape.       ( spring



will.)







sbm.

about six years ago it was mentioned that the twigs

should be the same

do you remember?



later they taught me of the nature of working slow

and sure

so much can be done this way



last week i told you that he had tshown me

their visual value



***** the wall light into stone

church wall by the gate?

never

won’t work

so we fixed it with a twig



will send instructions in latin  upon request

my lovely

seven minutes past six,
should it have passed,
the back bedroom?

sometimes it is earlier,
or later than this.

classic fm.

nine minutes past six,
their number is six,
eighteen twelve, for
those up early, need
a mention.

the piano plays.

sbm.

i need to write that you wiped your washed hands first on the dishcloth, so as not to ***** the

towel.

I do it too, and think of you.



sbm.

found in the graveyard,
the day of the ringing.

still warm, 316, plus a silver band.

taken gently to the garden
to observe, such a large beak.

friends came to see. report
the findings. this evening

the hawfinch is collected for tests
to see. the hawfinch cannot see,

the other fell
by my gate.

sbm.

sand blown softly

patterned, seeded.



grass grows.



dunes.





sbm.

[ re written]

have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independent air, profound words,
from those who care.

sbm.

i trusted him like i trusted you, implicitly.



then she doubted, never trust anyone, she said

she had been watcing reality

tv.



then insidiously doubt crept in, as water spread

this weather.



i may be pleased to say that she, maybe

proved wrong this time.



he rang me.



also pleased with the spellling.



sbm.