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

back to the counting, how many

have there been, how many are left





still standing.



an issue for some, yet

we  amend the figures

here and move on.



lucky ones,  maths

divides and decimates

others.



yet it is the weave that holds

it all together, makes it strong.



be an example.



sbm.

fine lines.

solo option. wandering fog.

. read.



find the cost of clothes.

enough to keep

us for months.



help those who

need it.



some wear corduroy. make jam.



ride a bicycle.



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.

ants in the kitchen will leave by easter. he said it should be on the same day each year; he is learned, pronounced as two bits.

dusting

cobwebs away, yet not all of them. an old house., national trust where all is care and cleaning. they leave some now for authenticity.

it has been a wet winter, look at the water stains in the fireplace.
do not fret, i know you worry, i will paint it over in the spring.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that.
sbm

while all around is buzzing,
slightly dis agreeing with another,
on work, politics, whether box shall
have wheels. the tiny model shines gold.

i am taken reverently to a place
of packing. all creatures back
in to tissue. it is not crumpled
like mine.

untouched, it was his first one,
untrained, he is young and
full of hope.

it was a most surprising day
which left little appetite for
anything but grapes and pure
necessities.

it is good to have a break.

sbm.

flags to find us. decide which

petulant shadow hides

integrity.



honesty abounds yet the flags

will find us.



sbm.

school parties, crocodile rows.



she said there was an accident

waiting to happen on the stairs,



while others marched shouting,

little roman soldiers.



i hid in the auditorium and

checked the spelling.



seems that romans could

operate on people’s heads.



boring holes.



sbm.

from some one that wants all folk tidy

comes a promising revelation.

. stuff everwhere.



. brown and rustic.



from someone who wishes to clip

and straighten comes the point

of over growing.



isn’t it?



sbm.

start again. mid september,the cloak folds around.

dark at the window, rain streams the lights, lorries
drive early. mansel davies.

does the music sound different, does it ease
more readily in autumn. i write in halls, remember
the museum, work steadily, do you understand the delight?

strange that such a simple task can bring such concentration,
pleasure after a long day before. to clarify here, i had a day
at home, working. the clocks are never right.

sbm.

learning designers, two yesterday,
alongside history of weaving,
scouring the wool or fulling?

we have many questions. we
have the excitement about the
wool museum, pleasure for the chair
given secretly.

i was at work.

it is a gift, we say this over.

i think of middle mill, the field
and flowers.

we all think of many things, best
to write some down carefully.

sbm.

then they will understand

in america, yet they may

not understand here.



then.



i wish i spoke welsh

a bit more than i do,

i would hear

those sweet words.



perhaps i must talk

like the others, with grammar

and etiquette all educated,

good spelling, dots and stops.



inserted.



then, i wonder, where will

be the truth in that?

sbm

drawing slowly, carefully, a minute line,

not as in hours, as in tiny,   little marks

which mean EVERYTHING and nothing.



that is nil, please do not misunderstand,

yet how can you when i keep    dropping

letters.



when everyone is so different from each

other. so we must care and respect some

rules, forget the others.       it may be the

quality

of the lines.



that supports us.





sbm.

was possibly the turning point, that

changed a life, that emptied the cabinet.



be careful what you think, it may be horribly wrong,

then hearts will slide. so we sat in the window to watch

the world go by.



he said it was his first nose bleed, yet later found

that there had been  many others.



this looks like evidence.



sbm.

my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.



i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of death.



i tidy up,                        hang out washing.



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.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas.   remember that you stand alone. are not alone from                                                  criticism and contradiction.

beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated.    empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer,                                                    who cry in dark corners.





yet i have mislaid  the black beetle too.

it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.



sbm.

glass



is simply.



beautiful.



yet as all things,

some may not understand,

the underwear.



sbm.

have you been to the counting?


dazzled by words and numbers,

lines ruled to stop the vertigo

setting in.


have you sorted and straightened

everything, only

to find disorder later?


have you deleted your name

to find it written down again.


i spent a long time looking

in high boxed for those

who are missing.


have you seen the film?

i have.    many times.

sbm.

softly. it moved.
seen from the corner
of an eye. crept
round the edge,
looking.

slid round the door
and out.

i feel it lives
in the shed.

sbm.

numbers.



friday can be thirteen,

or something else entirely.



is it memory, history,

some                  thing.



he titled it profanity, the

subconcious.



so we write,      critique,

move dots and numbers.



deal with the outcrops,

note the                 faith.



friday can be thirteen,

or something else





entirely.



sbm.

the message of the day,
via text, while taking coffee.

agreed. agreed that this is
a good place to write,
where every one meets,
works, falls in love.

boy staring into her soul,
pre-raphaelite, next table.

man who bought all things
good for him, then me retainig
my friends and dignity.

passed an hour there, later
ordered the red things.

sbm.

clocks flip early

switch back while i was thinking



another hour falling

i

watched you in the meanwhile and made porridge



syrup  depleted

i watched you back to back



life in the wild

early it came,where there are no roads, no silent killer.

spinning. set me free. let me see  swallows return to

nest.

let us cause a reaction, turn our heads quickly. no one

is looking, there is no one here. we are not afraid of

the night.

we spin.

soft cottons, whimsy thread, mothlike.

turn about hour on hour. your time is

come.

we spin.

to spite  silent killers.

sbm.

(written for those with out understanding)

asd

gift

feels like autumn now, cat is in, windows misted.

a challenge to show  three trees as suggested.



the gentle good,  dawel disgyn,  little time

left, nor funds for flying.



tiny things become intimate.



you may put them in cases, or hang on pins.



straight or safety, it becomes political.



the choice is yours.



bulldog clips.



you are the curator.



sbm.

is history.     isn’t history fascinating ?

now with google, wikipedia  it is all there

for the taking. books from the library

can be heavy, yet

free and cosy to read in bed.



this is a rabbit gift, given on an anniversary,

reading.  the book is wuthering heights, one version.



on dvd, there are several versions.



a classic story, yet not history.



sbm.

a difficult day, i checked on him several times

yet he was mortified. hid under the covers all day.



the bear says he did not mean to cause a fuss, he

maybe a little different. he is not good in groups.



not all are neurotypical. so i says to him just now,

any better today?



he looks at me quietly.



sbm.

it is that time of year,

it comes and goes

in waves they say.

unannounced, this is the memory,

physical and mental,

if that wordis is politically allowed

these days. in disorder,  subconcious,

tide rising , lifting **** .

once realised, that it is time

again, settle back in to the season.

be known that i cannot keep things alive,

i have no power, no means of identification.

i cannot save you.

we are the living ones,

guilt and trouble feel,

this a work ongoing.

sbm.

are those that delight in small things

also permitted to be upset by small things?



the question raised

while waiting

‘i came from another country, you know,

quite some time ago. i lived in the jungle’



yes.



‘i have been here so long, i feel i belong’



yes.



‘ they call me an immigrant’

said the bear, sadly.



sbm.

in scarborough

we saw richard wilson

but no one believed us





we looked for god in york

amongst the money changers

he had gone outside

with the music





in whitby we played boats

pirates the next day

and all the while we were changing

thinking of herrings and eating nuts



she caught a small thing

tiny tiny mouse

ate it

but the bitter entrails remain.

nasty



she could have let it go

have you ever slept slowly,
holding all hand to hand,
savouring the softness,
dark of night.

they say there is a new moon,
i saw it sickled, bright. they say

that all will come right, while somethings
are wrong.

have you ever slept late,
not minding at all, that

things move slowly.

have you ever checked the date,
to see that time has passed
quite slowly.

sbm.

shall we go way to reinvent   ourselves,

come back angry,                      writing

bitter words of                      discontent,

expecting other’s            understanding.

shall we write vile words              about

our  fellows, to them ,  hidiing in profile,

masking internet.               complaining

widely rather than deal, as we are    dealt.

shall lines deepen, etched in           glorious

bitterness, or shall we return quietly, remain

just the same?

sbm.

rewrite it, add the dots, delete the rhyme.

erase the last draft, start again,constantly.

wrap arte facts in paper. box for transportation.

lose the plot,scrap the lot, fear the repercussions
constantly.

now there is a good word, if the space bar works.

do you wish you wrote longer stuff, important tomes,
well i do,
constantly.

it is all ready now, i just need your instructions,
and i know you have asked.
constantly.

sbm.

if i call her the myrrh bearer,

will you know which garden?



if i talk of the gardener,

will you know the theory?



did you study the book,

like them, or

have you a degree?



i have nothing, yet

was treated so..



i keep them in boxes…..



sbm.

it has been written before.



the first shall be last,
the last shall come first,

so saith.  first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come:

so saith,     they saith.

they come in  old cars,

small black .    sitting

forward concentrating.



some run a marathon.



sbm.

caged.

it is all there

if you look

little birds

as i passed i saw the room,  coal on your table,

spread neatly. wondering i glanced around,

saw the snowy  underwear on hangers,

the chandeliers.



it all showed pride and i know

you have seen it too. raddled

face in mirrors, knowing that we

are all much the same, without

meetings and disagreements.



so,

must we write about it before we forget,

before  people come and disagree?



they have small waists and a  national costume.



sbm.

you ask for serenity

yet

i have nothing here
in word.

i will make photographs….

from painting

i have the urban dictionary,
on line, and the standard
in the book case, thesaurus
in the cellar, where spiders
and cowebs abound.

my typing goes wild if
i get hiccups, whilst
the flow depends on
radio plays.

i was born in england, south coast,
now live in wales. we speak a different
language.

the difference should make no
difference.

i am older now.

sbm.

i assumed she is your mother, i watched you

both so kind to each other.



apparently.



i could not walk yesterday, was working.

the drive home that feeling came again,

after all those years.



the news was devastating. please be kind

to another.



sunday.



sbm.

takes us back to castle walls.

there is free parking there, you know,
just above the council one at probably
£4 a day. This is not a bad charge, is
cheaper than some places here.

we did not stay, wanted to be home.

followed the trail of black feathers,
saw those birds nesting, watched the train.

thought of you.
drove home.

sbm.

. double note.
Posted on November 29, 2014



this is not the usual tune,

not butterflies or medieval

fields.



this is a collaboration dreamed

by a window, watching the scene

shift. we have watched it slowly

change here, we like the sound of bells

calling across meadows.



this is a new way, calling back and forth

across the moors, traws fynydd, singing

with all the days of our lives.



it is natural to sleep.



sbm.

the battery is low, yet it has to be said,

that the five are anonymous, the photo

is random to embellish the tale.



they wish to be private, yet cared for

when i am gone. a promise is made.



meanwhile they carry on. good

work, company and care. while



we need to recharge, move on.



spoken sweetly.



sbm.

knew he was there when the

ornaments vibrated.



looked down the garden,

saw him. we have waited

half a year, and now the forecast

is bad. he said.



i was filming john and mary

for a friend. it is his title.



this verse is named,

mary and john.



sbm.

having trouble getting back.

difficulty finding words, of the
simple type, to type.

spell out the consequences,
of an easy life.

is it criticism, or a general sensitivity,
which abounds, confounds the
smallest heart.

she says we should not handle bats.

sbm.

space paced in air.
space quiets each noisy soul
into silent submission.

air humbled the cup, the face
the noise of the days.

the drawing waits
for time, as do all things.

a quiet space.

i took no photograph.

sbm.

only imagine the place
closed. it is colder this morning.

mrs ciano to be removed, one
part back to the museum, the

other packed and ready to go,
back, whence. she came from
an imagination, all bloodied
bandages,  hymned words.

in two parts, splinter time.

google her  remains.

the curator moves
on.

mrs ciano.

sbm.

so you work hard,
one task to another.

brain race, eyes cannot
keep up, reverse turn
read again. rush on
to washing, class and
garage. be known
that all is not italian,
though you wave your
arms, flap hands while
talking.

it can be an indication
of disorder, a slight
abstraction. tasks

repeating, sleep hard

wake to find a black shape
floating.

so you work hard?



sbm.

we discussed the hardness of the ground,
it is still quite cold. yet we found that moles
make soft places for planting.

dig up buried crocks for saving.

old photographs spur us on, to
care and treasure, to sweep and clean.

so wash and mend your broken plates
my friends, become a gentler way,
make a pleasant day.

look for mole hills, and old photographs.

sbm.

not that one is tired or needing rest.

this is words on the biblical sort.

do you think now, or simply move

on , repeating?

the installation is changed, the description

is many. these are the same twigs.

repeating.

sbm.

bear says he has seen much

even suffered as is said



hoping to stay in europe

yet

nothing saddens as the news

came yesterday



that all  insects die

gone by

the end of a century



they say



noting

nothing for the feelings of the bear

they say it matter of fact as if no

one cares