the old blanket is new,
a find from brynkir mill,

the new blanket is old,
have had it a while.

"I watch the blanket breathe,
hope it will never stop.

pinc, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love.

scares me, this intensity of feeling,
that never stops,

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

pinc is welsh for pink"

sbm.

one hundred and fifty faces,
for japan sticky. drawn some

years ago, she is still the same.
looking out constantly, her dress
a little loose about the neck, i often
think should have a k like knee.

perhaps the button should be fastened now,
hair washed. is she is too young a thing
to be kept here,standing in her own scaffold.

other faces will be posted some where
else, the cross added in red ink.

she is not for sale



sbm.

have been quoted before,
holy books, those with no label.

no one reads them, tied, just for
decoration. he said it was a
statement. unopened it spoke,
of double numbers.

wept, could not read
here,  now weeping cannot
know these words and cyphers.

a forbidding thing, to speak
in symbols, yet some
still do.

she said this is not the real world.

sbm.

laid some time awake, come
sadly in to the day. learned to
care again, and learning this,
remember not to care about wires,

these technical oddities, this modern
age. care about the old things, the ways.

it has been said twice, better
than not at all. have you read the old books?

in dreams make the things you love,
take them, show them to this world.

i will put them in exhibition.

sbm.

a positive gift, a hobby,

unlike philately and slovenly.



it is meticulous,  and out

of doors, so very healthy.



slowly collect plants

carefully, while grading

size and colour. as they grow

regrade, dry, press in bibles

ready for the fray.



I have read of this, will

take it up, immerse and

remember. number all

the specimens adequately

until I die.



I grade, to graven, I have gradened.



sbm.

we did not mean
to go to sea,
heads bound heavily.

we did not mean
to take the tide,
escape the crowds
and families.

we read arthur ransome
sensibly, sink gracefully.

sbm.

i am now snaller, than i used to be.

the name will be the title,
length an object.

all else is waxed and tied
as usual, making
it unusual. when i explained,
she asked why will you do
that?

because of the chained libaries,
burning books, the secrets
you see? no, I don’t
she replied.

we worked on quietly
together.

sbm.

to talk of dead folk

i was quietly drawing
at the old table and as

one can, I felt someone

behind me on the work
shelf

i turned
as it skittered away
with its prize to chew

outside

the last of my dead
mummifieds is gone

eaten as before

i am drawing some odd

stuff these days. meanwhile

my mobile still makes capitals
so I changes that

the breeze comes through the
window

while down by the hedge I get
bitten

easier now he is older
he tells me what he wants

i buy it
plus
a surprise

simpler now i am older
i tell them what i will like

they buy it
plus a surprise

… mothth …



faint.                                                  a soft breath, minimal sigh.



ththth.





gauze.                                                  the space between,    thin.



thth.



thinner still the sound.                                               on the wind.

seeds.                                                                                          touch



skin softly.                                                                                hardly

sense                                                                                  the feeling.

one feather floating.



thth.



listen.



sbm.







14463277101546387232561777804934958290103387_n

after meeting my imaginary friend, attending an important

meeting, where there was no importance at all, i drove

to see the fish, and met the capybara.



who was surprised?  its hair all needing drawing,

nose a blot, and the paw resting so. so

quiet it was, perhaps a sadness. it stood

alone, as did i.

the little capybara, there.



i took no photograph.

sbm.

i am eight now nearly nine.  tall.



18.65   work the deep mine.  small.



6  to 6,  break for bread,

and poetry.



do not whistle, save your breath.







18.70 .

apprenticed, looking

for promotion. chains.



he is forty one i think,

lungs are stone.





forty five,  19.03

done.



slate breath.



sbm.

first seen in ellesmere with period characters we felt may be best removed.



lucky to have one on my birthday with lights from a battery quite reasonably

priced.



visiting town and gallery see them there are quite a lot. more money as craft.



seems little houses are fashionable now.



as are pugs.



sbm.

little cardboard houses ****  in the rain.

disintegrate.



they flee and we should

integrate.



some of us have kindness, some

have tiny cardboard houses.



she knows, she saw it in the back

bedroom.



outside a helicopter flew by the mountain,

trees came down, she heard the chain saw.



it is raining again.



sbm.

the cure is not fat bacon, it is
the genes. gently move forward,
prompting all good behaviour, accepting
reality. it happens to most of us some
way.

three to ten days or more, with light
medication will help. as would new bedding,
deleting beige and floral lampshades.

how we laughed, bought unecessary items,
beat the plague.

without fat bacon.

sbm.

when i listen to cowboy films

on the radio, carve the pumpkin,

breath held in case they scalp him.



every year the same, festival stress

reduced  by wanton knowledge

that none of it matters, that I can acheive,

that maybe even, I could be worthy, the same

as you.



a surprise  party after,

no one came,

no surprise, no one invited,

only you.



sbm.

if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?

life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.

whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.

these things do happen,
to most people.

except some  seem immune to
harm.

who are the chosen ones?

the radio playes the same tune,
faintly upstairs.

sbm.

we have a memory or two.   the world goes dark, we teach and learn,     wait  for    light to appear



it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand  all words, that is the way of things.



it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power,                                       they, no disgust that reels and kicks.                                  yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.



drift. in air, in words.  symbols of poetry, cut and pasted.                                       literally. naturally .



everyday tiny things sing.



when some small birds have failed and gone                                                 others sound just the same.



touched by the small things, softly, we drew





we cannot delete things we do not like

sbm

it is a source of inspiration,
and research. it is written, yet
having writ. we use. imagination,
add a dose of suggestion, slightly
thinking this is fact we do not move
on
when
perhaps we should.

so moving on quickly we read the account
which is quite brief.

remember the voices.

know that caiaphas was just a man.

it will continue, good men die.

sbm.

you are not alone, i will help you.



i know.

you have.



yes. you only have to say



thank you bear.



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.

different these days. i said it did not face south,

when it does, despite the hedge. i had talked about

the bournemouth days, the sea to south, the road

led north.



now here, it does not face the sea, the west,

yet i still thought south, so please do not

listen to a word i say. this is how my brain works

these days.



sbm.

it happens to most of us,
some times, other times,
seem good, almost boring.

it knocks us sideways,
even assunder. i asked you
to carry me.

yet, you left me outside
in the rain. it has been
like this for days. wet.

most of us get over it.

use an umbrella.

sbm.

it says that most people are aware of the dangers of sunbathing

and that it is another adjective.



we had some of those yesterday.       plain words affect me deeply.



in the btahroom there is a book about womens’ health and beauty.

chapters on skin care from years ago before the war,   the second.



paragraphs on the dangers of being tanned, it says it looks common

like a working person  out of doors.                                  things change.



the book remains

in the bathroom.



sbm.

having googled it says one may lose a pound,

not in old money, in lbs, you may have heard of them?

young folk.

was printed in the back of exercise books along

with furlongs , rods and perches.



i tell you this you will gain

an insight for natural things,

and sleep intensely well.



sbm.

down the back lane there are puddles,

huge amounts of water fell, flooded the abbey ruins.



branches blown , creaking twigs while rain

stays off a while. she is a new walking partner,

quite fast, no bother.



minds empty ,we look at each other,

at sheep a while, still moving forward.



there are some now, that do not come.



this is the back lane, still

much the same.



sbm.

clover round small trees.

rain spots.


high house begs to buy,
french bird house,
old linen stitched,
pinned , labelled
tied with string.

a domestic thing.

later at home.

owls perched outside.

our oak tree.

a new format, yesterday.

sbm.

taken a while, slowly,
slowly the things came,
collected for the box.

to say thank you.

i layed a leaf, a number,
ensuring it was not 13.

i would not have minded,
but she may.

the photograph fitted,
then she said she likes
rusted metal,
a piece from the boot dump
then. declared.

explained that at the
post office, to hope
it passes customs.

sbm.

should be put away.

i know the rules,

the diatribe with grief,

reoccuring.



we have seen the wheel spin,

slower now.



feeling seeps

into winter.



there were a few of them,

or was it two?



sbm.

the jaws hold the teeth,

tells the story.

there are bits under nails, no

matter how hard the scrub, how

hot the water, strong the soap.

varnish over, yet the truth

comes out.

sbm.

she gave up bread and chocolate, told us many times.

ate ryvita smuggled it in, softer by the third day. lent



me ideas for writing.

told me it was for forty days, i asked why. she said it

was for lent.



i wondered if it was to do with jesus in the wilderness?

she said she did not know.



she explained.



it is just for lent,



bread and chocolate.



i wondered silently  if he gave up chocolate too

in that wilderness.



during dinnner i pondered loaves and fishes, kept

my thoughts to myself.



the dessert was chocolate. i ate it all



sbm.

mine were plain, smart and tailored.

viyella



hers were fancy with frills,  handed

down to me. mother said they would

not suit me.

gave them away.



i liked the flock, the crystal buttons.

i remembered them.



sbm.

i wrote of blood, yet did not share it much.

you may think we share our hidden thoughts,

yet some remain. it is a pretty day, with a light frost

and stories of the northern lights.

we walked a while yesterday,

he was visiting his sister.

i came home,  fingers bled.

sbm.

there are five of us here, to be a help

and comfort. each one has a different

aspect of care.



nurture ,  protect while all is

growing.



we are diffrent shapes, size and strength.



take us, use us when required, overdue

does not work here.





remember this.



sbm.

here is a youth three aye

club in town, she says,

they are nice people.

i am sure.

i once planned to walk with them,

it rained, i did not have

sandwiches.

now i am thinking

of travelling

the world.



possibly?



sbm.

as a child
Posted on March 14, 2014

come in dreams, the shape
of your face remaining.

there is a line now,

dreams and aspirations.



words and degradations.



lines deepen, water etched.



window open, birds sing.

mostly foggy here today.

sbm

there are bits  of us everywhere,

shed as we move, as we live.



most of it held together with skin.



no way to clear the debris daily,

it remains .boil the hankies then,

do your best to keep it neat and tidy.



spend the day in the warm, with plenty

to do, keep cheerful.



maybe watch the national theatre of brent.



revolution.



sbm.

afraid of the wheel

forgotten when it started.



never seen such a thing,

brothers in balance,

round and round

the circle turned.



young, they did not die.



then the horses turned.



no photos allowed.



sbm.

as you know,
some of us work sundays,
unless we work on monday.

some times we have this
day off, to have a weekend
of slower time. we pinned
the thought of you, carefully
35 times. needing more, we
shall shop on monday.

small gold at 20p a bunch
not counted. so you are
safe. i have his number
reinstated. twice have stated.


this does not mean i love you.

i shall send them to america.

sbm.

no post for days,
dropped on my mat
where the stray cat sprays
some times.

i have seen him he is pretty,
runs away.

i am brave though,
i hope you will be proud
of me.

the book came,
i read the first verse,
and cried.

it was such a lovely day.

sbm

overcome by woollen mills,

things on a window       sill.

it may seem,my friend, that I move a
little differently                  than others.

it does seem, my friend that the day
was so good,       i am overwhelmed.

with everything.



he said he can uplift my carpet

whilst    sounding very biblical

it is quite practical.   the notice

indicated that I could        pray.



maybe not this day.



sbm.

exams come to examine

every part of our character.

some times we pass, and passing on our knowledge to friends and family may help fears to lift, and things feel normal, a while.

the wind is coming again i hear, another exam.

you can forge the sick note.

how is it?


sbm.

some things are inevitable, old tea

sips badly, after all the work is done.



stains the cup if left standing,

remember the hotel, 1964,

we used to scour them especially

round the handle, then the base.

we peeled the tomatoes, and waited

for our boyfriends on the high wall outside.



the whitehall hotel. bournemouth.



sbm.

in the cold, frozen, the code will not work,

nor will the counting with interuptions, all

things moved about.



there is a discount, on top the discount, so

a discussion ensued on buttons,

roman costumes, whether egyptians

used starch back then.



my mother did, mixed it, dissolved

the lumps in a bowl ready. stiffened the chairbacks

pinned them in place tidy.



we hoped it was not a plastic sheet that covered

the bed shining, glad to see it

was mostly sateen.



sbm.

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.

time is limited these days. those one admired in youth devastate us now.   can we know all things, we only went twice ?   the back road was littered, rather blustery.   today   clouds blow in, leaves crake.

i took the shorter route this morning.



sbm

most of it was found,
yet i waxed, tied the books,
shredded cloth to rags,
bled a little.

arranged it all my way,
dismantled ,packed,
sent to the curator.

who installed it his way,
added the metal trolley,
i have coveted so long.
it all feels rather biblical.

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.





i guess yours sleep in bed, loved and cherished.                                              others love and cherish , yet their families sleep in mud,                                                                                                   on streets.



the words came suddenly. an odd day, no gentle people to woo thee, day of stress,      and horror, you watch the news.                                                         a day of reality, the reckoning that nowhere is safe.



come in dreams, the shape of your face remaining. there is a line now,        dreams and aspirations.   words and degradations.                                                                                   lines deepen, water etched.







the rain falls round our houses.







how small.

how white

the child,

skin rinsed

with tears.

salt in the wind.

©sbm

is on thirteen,  hope the ribbon won’t fray.



if it does we shall buy some other.  it is said

that in my job think lateral, i try,

for art’s sake.



yet there is still that straight line, rules

from years of brain, washing.



perhaps programme two, or one.



boil wash.



sbm.

it is a tableau.    oh!

made of moles. he

is a taxidermist

his partner works the pound shop

i hear.



all are around a manger



we have moley the ****** with molef,

angel moliel, the black winged one, little

baby molus

asleep in some hay



we three moles,  best thing ever



moleperds watching stuff at night



on e bay or view it in the shop



they call it a nativity. molivity.



oh!



tableau



. moles .



(so my timeline is  now advertising moles…..hahaha)