sand blown softly

patterned, seeded.



grass grows.



dunes.





sbm.

plus common sense, means you
cannot place it there. go down
to the beach to wait.

place it in a cabinet, nearly locked
until dismissed, then
go down to the beach
and wait.

do not label it, number it, read
the words and try to understand,
then on the beach.

to wait.

what does all this mean?

some say, politics, when on the beach
they wait.

sbm.

it used to be quicker,
round the block, waving
to bob. he has a new car
now.

you should see it.

now we take photographs,
eat blackberries and wind
our mouths with damsons.

people bring chairs by the river,
we sit on logs, play fishing.

men come fishing,
ask, if we are from the village.

we say yes, think of the movies,
hitchcock, birds, & children.

we have the latter two,
we have the dog, we have
the days.

it will soon be january.

sbm.

late we come,  early.
winter still, warm.

approach the bridge,
the bridge in the village.

there hangs the cloud,
wipe the windscreen.

can you see, do you,
know where you are.

they came through the prysor
valley.        family.

a cloud hung there too.

sbm.

so you cut more than intended, never mind.



there is a new area for interest & decoration.



around the compost area.



worms.



checked the toad yesterday, gone not

forgotten.



checked again today. nicely returned

under the slate.



transition was easier than expected.



we learned a thing or two in the garden.



llaneraeron.



in the company of one other. walking slowly.



sbm.

the rain is come again, lightly.

we have sewing to be done.



red thread.

never measured. severed

with teeth,it leaves a groove,

she said. the dentist will know.



red thread.



you will know too.



it is a christian festival, did you know?



sbm.

no need to talk, there is no one here.



no need to shout, we have no anger.



those were the early days, younger,

filled with grit and useless sentiments.



now we mindlessly watch, envy old  fabrics,

hear the sounds of another time, know

this is entertainment, a soothing way

to live now.



she said i looked sad,

perhaps i am.

i have a sense of wellbeing.

sbm.

did you read some time ago,
about the old garden. the men
who felled the trees, lowered the terraces,
months of noise, clatter, tan llan.

do you know that on visiting,
gasped at change , beauty
quality of light.

it is a lesson to remind,
change can be a surprising

thing.



pleasantries.

sbm.

a new day
goldfinches on seeding knapweed
simple things

who so mrs ciano ?



are you blest, is this

how to say your name?



ask the curator, learn

another world, where

not all is at it seems.



it is just an opinion.



they took the paper, the cotton

away.



sbm.

fifty words!



as many as that;

not as many as last night you know.



brainstorming with abandon

and counting symbols.



crossings out and wiring my brain is a task

for which i am not fit without a drink.

a sort of drink cannot say or i will fail.



sbm

challenge:~ 50 words. no ‘e’

yet maybe it is not necessary.

demands are everyday, simple things
can be priceless, and while the words
pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the
world is turning, there is a small
hope to always return home.

maybe it is not necessary, yet we
have. year in year out.

there is small hope, for folk
to do something different, that
is not their nature. maybe

they just wish to return
home.

sbm.

stack the logs, think the pallette   wood be good

back ground.



unstack those logs tomorrow.



today we spread and join society



a while.



new plan.       it is

a secret.



sbm.



{*notes. it is a pretty photo

in no way representative

of the  refered  wood stack .}

dark the day, the equinox .          we are survived. as the cat

survived last night,fighting on the landing,      outside the

front best bedroom here.



some wars are fought outside, battlegrounds. theirs is  fought

in house.

intervening, saying that the house is ours, not yours,  noticed



the carpet will need cleaning

later

today.



sbm.

all the novels, and romance.

volume two to forty.
all others being
fakes
that need dusting.

the clocks,
no ticking, no sound.

soft sands of time
stand still.

the glass is clouded here.

it is an old place,
which shuts in winter.

sbm.

hard to keep rules,
where there are no rules.

hard to be a yard stick these days,
when others use meters.

found it exhausting, packing,
making the installations. it

is not hard, yet my mental
got exhausted.

i went to the party.

sbm.

a slight noise, you look up as it leans toward you,

is the floor falling?



will it crash, leave you laying there surrounded?



the books are heavy.



push it back, yet it will not stay, comes out again.



calmy hold it with one hand, remove all the objects with another,

yes all of them , avoiding disaster.



you can place them around about without letting go.



it seems a similar thing happened further north.



sbm.

his mother died, she was ill,

yet it is never expected.



they came back this morning,

a few of them, one showed

me the blisters on his hands.



they work well together.



i mended my boots.



the cobbler was not interested.



sbm.

work is steady, absorbsion as if the outside world is ended.    looking up find it has not.





stitching can be rhythmic, and never mind the capitals.             other words confound.



birds beat the window, damp now,                                       little feathers hoping for food.



now we  descend into darkness.



so you think i wear a cotton dress, while all round is storming,                      i do not.



i wear pyjamas.



sbm.

that was another life. style and sewing        the work                books.



these will be passed to me later          with particulars on   starching,

gophering, polishing linen. glass works over a few hours. these days.



those days were the foundation for these days. hard work won. there

is another way with privacy and organisation.                          industry .





leave things simple,

leave things be a while.

sbm.

cold on the beach, sharp winds,
no ferry in yet.

to set the valley,
low between hills,
and blossom.

the sun shone
deep upon us,
drifting conversation,
and we warmed.

we warmed with rabbits,
new butterflies
drying wings,
softly unfolded.

this is the green valley,
where pain recedes
with the importance
of nothing at all.

sbm.

have you witnessed the change

in the whether?

heard the words of truth,

hilding your own opinion,

smiling.

have you laughed at the wind,

knowing the words are

unnattractive.

then slept dreaming

this state of unbeing.

i randomly hope,

you have not.

it is unsettling.



sbm.

dream of making marks,
graphite, coal, pen
with ink.

see those marks
of making, chips
in slate, chopping
fire sticks, ages old.

step worn, door scratched.

bold marks on paper,
fingers bled into stone.

it has been done
all our lives, one way.

then another. words
in air, words shouting,
no one to hear.

i live on my own.

sbm.

having written of the hour,

move on when all is lost.

the days remain

timeless.

today, we walk the woods,

back home.

you can see the mountain, the old school.

it is quite hidden, you will need directions.

up the lane then there it is, all period and

bibelows. all wisdom and friendship.



this is a town , where women

meet in friendship, help each other.



where small things and dainty, give pleasure.



this is a small place, a small life, a pretty place.



this is dolgellau.



sbm.

having eaten too much cheese, watched

surreal, tremendous film, find a head,

with headache at nine minutes to seven.



bravely drink tea, carry on until it fades,

the british way.  this is the least of the

worry in this world of ours.



ibruprofen takes this ill away.



the news is on the radio

next.



sbm.

they know i am away

the bear told them.



i had a converstaion

telling him to be

brave and responsible

as i must be.



he nodded gravely,

and will be.



sbm.

watching the boy
one handed,
sit by the fire.

not much,
not much is the matter.

the fire rankles,
spits and flares.

i only feel  heat
from ox blood stone.

only the boy sees the fire.

sbm.

the honesty is still growing,

water seeps in, while 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, to be cleaned

in the spring.

the rain will come again.



sbm.

miss petherick

miss ******

miss dawson who forced the showers



spit & dribble

latin & greek

sisters



i remember all of them not with fondness

not with happy days



she wore a tie you know

het blouse were white & sternly sharp

terrified we went in after games to run

naked whether warm or cold



some had flat stomachs

better quality knickers



dawson had a diary to check when

we said excused it was our time

so we could keep them on

if we cheated she poked our skinny arms sharp



&



we were scared & ran through by the wall hoping

the water would miss



us



she disapproved of me

i feel

i disapproved of her



i remember cold days

divided skirts

ice on the field



the line between genders



dawson brought fear

she wore a tie you know

navy blue



i failed in games in greek & latin



was interested in art & liked bunsen burners & wooden stools

****** dawson wore a tie you know



miss jackson had a pony tail

i bet ****** dawson hated that

how there is no explaination there.

i will print one and place it wednesday.



reminded of basildon bond, now there is

an emblem, and quality paper. buy

blotting paper, to remember those times

of ink spreading.  the clues wrote backwards

if we choose to hear them.



so we talked of death, i find i know nothing

very much. except this is the softest

music.



sbm.

a neighbour came, to ask about his dog.
about going to kent, spoke of an exhibition
in berlin.

how they had photographs of the streets
where they hung people in that war,
the second world war, from lamp posts
in berlin.

he stayed a long time, looking,
in berlin.

there is a trailer of a film, to be shown,
here on tv.

it has waited many years.

night will fall.

sbm.







http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/berlin.htm



http://www.theguardian.com/film/video/2014/sep/02/night-will-fall-trailer-documentary?CMP=sharebtntw

gently go forward, then gently back
recreating past deeds and misdemenours
you thought forgotten.

gently go forward knowing we are mostly
all the same, with motes not spoken of,
except disorder.

gently it passed behind you, seen
clearly while looking for god.

gently gather autumn leaves to keep
in paper bags. these are the golden
days .

my friend.

sbm.

did you notice the different weaves,
the names, the celtic not. have you

heard the language, problems arising,
too long spent driving. two of them
work well, one is new paper
that will not ash the flame.

will you remember them, narcussus,
small people who suffer?

i will send their photograph.

sbm

it is a simple thing.



we hope for independance, privacy.



so we google, ask advice and listen.



take our time, let the thought wander,

heal ourselves.





we can even mend the  typewriter,

gifted by a friend, now there is a lovely

word.



soap cleans the ink away; the wind will

blow the water, dry the chimney,

clear the floors.



we have kept the old ribbon,

in a box.



sbm.

it is quiet in the garden

today.



the dog barks, part

of the ambience.



it walks backwards on a lead,

forwards when free.



have not seen that before.



my dog does not bark now.



#ghost



sbm.

win or lose.                    hedge  your edge.

write of parlay.             slowly ending bet.

forbidden child!             drift into another.

world.                                               tabbed.

dice or other  games.

no one wins…..

sbm.

7 years.
Posted on December 19, 2013

hence. it should have been darker,

the moon waning.  find the word

firmament, check the letters,

find the road visible, power lit.



find the window gone, water

seeping under doors, storm passed.



find an occupation, a boy for

quiet company, know it is better

than seven years ago.

2006.

sbm.

ran cold, constant
sound of wind and heaven.

streamed the house with sound,
music of the years, laughing,
singing. into
the house next door, whistling.

i explained, he came and
fixed the washer.

he is the gas man.

sbm.

we opened the door, closed a while and found the old nails

ancient rusty loved them kept them for the ages

who else will like rusty nails?

well

he did those huge hand made ones from the garden



it has been a long time coming

it lasted many years now is gone

all of it

all the straight ideals and weathered work.

who will come laughing now   who else loves rusted nails  & reddened eyes?

plans change

partially due to the weather

state of the roads



is that blood on the towel dear

or is it rust?

they moved her,  you know, from the trolly

to a plinth .not sure whether to be honored,

stayed  still with glass,    bandages

were bloodied.



a message came, choked on tears,

sobbing rose. that one should

notice her.



mrs ciano received a message.

sbm.

is this inspired by brymbo man,
or the medieval manuscript?

i have seen other work, more
valuable, skill full, commercial.

yet it is the smaller things,
that keep us busy here,
a forgotten word, shattered glass
and insects.

gold kicks in to try to claim
importance.

yet, it is just a little thing.

this time.

it is for sale,

sbm

the cat and the installation.



i have spent much time

thinking how it will be, how it may affect

those viewing, carefully sewed

the finger, placed the eggs, the paper parcel.



photographed the thing. that morning, all

was in disarray, the cat sleeping within.....



take care of the small box..



sbm.

where i kept  control,

when we have no control,

really.

it is a human thing

as cutting hair or mourning.

so we shopped till evening,

little things

relating to birds,

and cake at two

and six pence.

the empty house at fairy glen

reflects the tin hut

again.

other buildings.

©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.

look at the photograph,
a funny little thing.

who cannot type nor spell
effiiently, the words flowing
too fast from fingers.

hold the charcoal tight, add
fears and misgivings, sound the
angry words in stone. it is not meant
personal, we did not find the key.

so we work until tea, spoiling
the pattern with verbs.

the picture is set, sewn, scratched,
poignantly scraped.

we have stiff little fingers.

sbm.

it is not his tunnel, and he has

not googled it. the rest of us, mostly

google everything, to find a result.


she talks to me nicely, when i ask

her most things. astonished

when she does not know.


he will get it fixed in rochdale

i went there once

for sunday lunch

on monday.


never mind the predictions,

wait and see.


sbm.

(notes: - a bad hand refered to, when holding a sandwich.)

shown me. i touched
those little hats.

knitted, note the
decreasing on the crown,
a tidy pattern.

a random change
of colours there.

touch, to feel the softness
the quality, it is a special
yarn.

only three ***** left, one
pink, two blue,
both reduced in price.

wish you had made them.

sbm.

I cannot remember the date it occurred, possibly early autumn.



We noticed he was eating more than usual, a whole swiss roll after meals. Then he fell off his bike, and a neighbour brought him home. He worked on the railway, cycled the eight miles to the station; it was on Leybourne hill he collapsed.

Only we did not think of it as a collapse until the doctor came.







once again we come back to ourselves, our life ,

the reality of  things, we stumble through

neatly.



while all around is trembling , we weave together

with dreams and possibilies.



there is not much more to add, it is lighter

now.                                       birds sing early.



once again we come back to ourselves.



sbm.

drove home early, returned in the afternoon.



he saved me a sandwich. had a bit of a beard,

clean pyjamas.



we seemed happy.



sbm.