is it enough that we do not write each day, that we travel on the old train sometimes.



is it acceptable to think in phrases, believe the attrocities yet do not share them

with friends.



what would they think of our diet and strange sleeping habits, we shall not tell them,

anymore.



is it a crime that we have spelled it wrong, and not go to heaven, which is okay

as our heaven is here, on earth.



the phone at the hotel was busy, and they have not rung me back.



yet.



sbm.

they are serving teas and cake in the hall with bunting.



my interest is the bull that lives on the parkland. there.



i slows if no one is behind to look .         or stop a while



he seems to like leaning over watching the traffic, while



i fall in love.                                                  it is a pretty face.



up the road the hotel is closed down.                             now.



sbm.

the shop was closed. the window;

the fifties’ kitchen, red and cream,

seen

as on an antiques show.

book of laundry planted there,

as if they knew, I wanted it.

to read the rules, regulations,

soaps and sudsy flakes.

dream of singeing smells

of ironing,  gas filled machine,

the one plugged into the light,

back then, green road.

boiling the whites furiously,

steamed  the kitchen.

copper stick bleached

beyond.

I could dream an eternity,

to learn the mastery

of laundry.

sbm.

maybe it is so, the creams they advertise
will work, blot out the lines,
that came with life, the fun and laughter.

i disagreed, yet he trusts all that he is told.
the wonder years.

we fed the ducks at bala.

sbm.

. red thread .



we did not know  the red thread of fate,              tied readily .

tied with inevitable red  or                       ****** rags again.

a meditation on thread, mediation of red,    i dream of you.

clearly your clothes remain the same, worn,           washed,

pressed.

your ideas come different.



be well in your mending, despite the pain,    raddled cotton .



pin  to hold life again.









The two people connected by the red thread are destined , regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. This myth is similar to the Western concept of soulmates or a destined flame.



(notes for Morrigan, May the first cabinet be locked, the second also, yet leaving the red key in, please?)

Room Two.



. Bound.



comfort bound in       clean                                                       linen.



arises with perfume,            an                            uncertain memory.



what else will you expect of me             . that, mis spellings or rags.



you see, i say it means nothing.   leather bound, broken, words lost



in boxes.





notes.



:: bound ::

    tied; in bonds: a bound prisoner.
    3.
    made fast as if by a band or bond: She is bound to her family.
    4.
    secured within a cover, as a book.
    5.
    under a legal or moral obligation: He is bound by the terms of the contract.
    6.
    destined; sure; certain: It is bound to happen.



Room Three.



.Crossing.



carefully you  drew crosses on my skin.   i looked at you ‘ kisses?’  no, you said,  crosses……



notes.



i have been asked about secrets, secrets, that I should not tell, and I tell you that I have been kissed truly kissed, and the tear tore my face, a water stripe, dipped in agony and love for you that must be a secret you said, you said, so I will write it here and print it, and print it, and dip it in wax, the kiss.i have been asked



Room Four.



. Stitching.



i have done this,      when all else are asleep,



stitching, thinking,         listening to the rain.





then  the voices                               stopped.



cover  the surface . that stitching can be

rhythmic,



and never mind the capitals. clever words

confound.

the littled dress sewn quietly with love.







we have  many more rooms  to describe…….

or should we say diary, notes

and conditions, terms and

editions. i wish it were so.



i wish it were stored safely,

that we hald each other tight

and out of harm’s way.



they say that patience is a virtue,

yet some times patients die.



shall you write this is the daily

blog, or lie?



sbm.

that feeling, that . arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings, opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling. track four repeated. that comes on waking finding   peace and comfort bound.



it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work



reading how the body works, you will have a better understanding, yet they do not        teach of this

at school. they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts, i did not know microbes fancy food,          move our choices.



the play continues, some of the old cast, new actors oblige, ideas on lack of addictive ways. simple days without receptors. singing under breath, numbers.



have you been to the counting?





lines ruled to stop

vertigo setting in.

two

three

four

five

two

three

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work.



sbm.

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.

could be anything,it is
relevant.

pins can be dangerous on the floor,
stuck in fingers, laid abed with a bandage tied,
his chest was tight, his head red hot.

soothed with oboe, finlandia ,rabbit,
the rag fell off out of site, the game
continued.

sbm.

darkness descends upon our houses.

watch  it unfold as predicted. you

did not listen.



you said it will all be great again,

not that it ever was. now we watch

as darkness descends.



descends upon our houses.

sbm.

we named it best eleven.        dark the day, the equinox .          we are survived.



light came, we saw the green ness of it all.                          we live in the country.



sbm.

so we moved the water **** to cover

the drain to the soak away. we live



in the country.



now from the window i see

rain dropping, dripping, filling

rust rain bin,



draining to the soak away. we live



in the country.



sbm.

kept in a box, precious.

lifted down for those to see,
that care.

did the understanding come,
the idea that all old things
are wanted, needed for their story.

not discarded on higher round,
where dust and moth abound.

the lesser garment became prefered,
as the last shall become the first.

we shall look at the photographs.

sbm.

memory is thought to be gone,
remnants remain, hiding.
working faster with out all

those words,
those images .

bare bones of the fact  replaced,
restarted, corrupted items place gently
in the box, tied.
turn with dust.

crosses.

sbm.

it turned up,   crowned a peasant

doll.



the ring.



imagination

set him free.



it is a safer place to be.



less words

are better.



the ring.



sbm.

the card is supposed
to be secret, yet
he saw it, imagined
what may be inside.

he was right,
i didn’t tell him.

presently he makes
a model car or
something exclusive,
under cover.

the lower field is flooded.

sbm.

it is an older mirror,
speckled with time.

liquid memories,

we make a place of safety
with our thoughts and habits.

our work. our souls
are in our chests.

look here, she said.
please, do not touch
the ladies bed,
with lavender and velvet pillow.

the way is barred now,
the time is past.

things have become misshapen.

sbm.

they play a different tune,

yet i can still sing it. they ask

for a melody, i found

i can  sing that too.



badly.



make it up generally, is

what we do here, it is

mostly acceptable, except

when it is not, yet i  don’t

often hear about that.



they wish i write different,

yet i do not.



i listen to john rutter.



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.

. another jacket .
Posted on May 21, 2016

i bought the jacket on tuesday
wore it on wednesday to work.

a retail outlet we likes to look
smart and proper mostly. wore
boots as it was cooler. i thought

it was blue, the girl said purple.

we all see things different.

sbm.

the bed is made, the linen clean.

bear sleeps.



yet it is not forgotten, that some

said because thier friends did.



that some lied and are deceitful.



the laundry man will come,

yet it is not forgotten.



this is history.



meanwhile

the #bear sleeps again.



sbm.

i wanted to suggest that they do not argue

it is nothing that matters

not death or  life threats

not fire nor flood

just driving



no one is hurt



back home he made the gate

from branches



we are mostly quiet



here

some thing is changing here,

so slight it can hardly be

noticed.



yet it has been.  a feeling,

came with the light rain .



the quietness



all things are changing,

by now we shall know it,

as

all things change.



we cannot alter.



that is the constant.



sbm.

plays.

while the book says
about one’s hair in winter,
while in muggy mild weather
the hair falls out.

shocking.

we must realise that
while the wind is in the
north or east,
hair will be crisp,
grow thick , curl easily.

mine didn’t.

the book says it is
an article of faith
among servants
not to wash hair all
winter.

it is an art.

we are on page 56.

sbm

makes me better, makes me worse.



it is all ideas that come in gradually.



best to do nothing, see what happens.



this is no race, no competition. this

is medical action for life.



sbm.


*
look at the little people.

arms held high. the medicine

is in the cabinet, they cannot

reach it.

was hoping to garden yesterday, clear the ground,
it was a challenge, with all that rain. so we
mended things, with love and string.

it is a challenge, 52 , to even think and google
meanings.

many types, immeasurable, not three nor for all
of us. yet those of us who do, may trust blindly,
childishly love our toys, cherish home, hold
memory.

i looked up, that does not mean i love you.

narcissus.

sbm.

i woke, heard it, yet also saw the yellow moon.
shining through.

rain is noisy on the roof at huws gray,
where we buy slate chippings and talk
of log stores for the winter.

it is made of metal.

at the ironmongers we chat, buy bulbs,
notice the chip shop is for sale, now.

they sell night lights singly, at 20 p each.

it rained on and off all day, while I worked,
then,
it rained in the night.

sbm.

what was there before the nettles?

stung, the memory creases with

the look of bones.

left in air.

who was here to write the words

on stone, the plaque.

burnished.

there is a flower festival, white. altar

snow.

did anyone come yesterday?

sbm.

#andrewbellon

we do not all know the same things.

we all have learned different. that
is alright.

takes a while to understand, to
know that the looms have stopped.

some times it needs time , fortitude
to get things back working.

with courage and wd40.

sbm.

i have been anxious for her,
add one small boy, out
on their own. big houses
make good companions,

yet, when all are gone,
only notes remain, who
will talk to mrs ciano.

understand the anxieties.

it has been said ,

” the mind of mrs. ciano cannot be packed away,”

truth in paralells runs this way.

she does not have a label.

sbm.

(quote, note* Andrew Bellon )

i am the solo flight

signs & patterns

non sensical

i am the timer

the quiet time

i am a broken plate glued

reused

i was a mouse found hiding

i am embarrasment while others are not

i am reluctant

a hero

another life

i could be a leader if you listen to me

i am non binary without your finery

i am no one i may be someone

listen to me

this is not a word i have used much recently, if i did it will be related to plants i expect.



adjective.



i may use plush in regard to velevet clothing, cloth, clothed. another adjective.



i shall not use it as british informal language, describing ****** attraction. no.



adjective.



i will prefer to write about fabrics or gardens. mostly.



this is a daily thing. here.



sbm.



daily post – lush

the frost came on the field

as the light failed. later

it warmed again.

it is a small garden,

that creates conversation,

hints at a deeper soul.

why mark your face with signs

and colours, look straight on.

look at the pleasure of a little garden.

sbm.

she as been away a while
i told you. probably with
the robes, boxed in time.

i spoke to you of her,
told you she was mine.
it was accepted.

she will be found, put
into exhibition , the academy.

art and the book,
mrs ciano.

sbm.

bricks are selected, organised, moved into store.



into the  yard.



with slate

tiles & edging

ready for a shortage.



rocks are left

for paid work.



he will come this thursday, another opinion.



i would say if questioned that neither of us

are athletic.



dogged

is a word.



sbm.

one small thing may be enough



each day comes layered



some pain persists

slowly





changes



with some interventions



have you heard about the brigands?

the hold all
does not quite hold them all.

i cannot close it now. offered

a space i chose the cards, eyes closed
metaphorically i suppose.

death comes in many ways, these ended in the
bag.

i wanted to choose yours, yours and yours, yet
it had to be done quickly, recorded, posted,
recorded.

there are 36 less, i repeat.the bag will not close.

the little book of death,
on the irony.

sbm.

1856

I work the deep mine

Small

1858

Eight now nearly nine.

Tall

Break your bread and poetry

Save your breath or whistle?
Save your breath or sing?

1862

Apprenticed

for promotion

Chained

Look

He is forty one

Lungs of stone

Forty five

Done

Slate breath

no sugar.

should i change my words
or is there no such verb.

are you learning language,
niceties, the will to live

after you thought all
was lost.

work together.
we are making a new world,
is this  our
earth and heaven?

sweet tea.

sbm

repeat.

vivid(2+3)=vivid(5)

or

vivid(2+3)-vivid(5)

is nought.

there is nothing found.

yet algebra and geometry are used

to build the castle.        this is vivid.

this is maths.

sbm.

i do not buy the paper, often read them in
supermarkets, waiting. friends offer, knowing

i have the fire.they have extra uses, for the house,
and garden.

Brenda Keough Evans gave me these gifts.

she is my friend.

i read the news online, not that there is total
truth in some of it ‪#‎biased‬

sbm.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging,
while i have seen so much. i forgot

to ask about your trip. i had driven
the mountain to see you, parked
nicely, kissed your cheek, talked

about the issues, seen the art work.

this morning is like autumn, though
still in july, softness lowering.

i am so sorry, i forgot to ask
about your trip.

sbm.

there it is, underneath.

old black book,

word and image,

i made of you.



grandfather.



only realistically,

i suppose you are not, but

that is what we call you.



the black book is found,

will be shown around.

funny thing is, i talk like a sketch book now.

of something in the air, can you feel it?

the cat has drank the milk again, while

we were busy yesterday.



much to be done, much to be read

and quantified.



and

while all this is going on we

see the news and



still find nougat wrappers

on the floor.



sbm.

is left behind with tiny writing. salisbury cathedral.



the back way. written in latin for those who matter.



those words and those words

an historian uttered sent me reeling          outside.

where air is cleaner.



oh , by the way

left you both there too. were you trying to appease

the barons?



sbm.

as you may know,

it was a seedy day

yester day

so i lit the fire and sewed

superman pants.



used herring bone stitch

soothing in white



watched the film

flickering

and remembered

fridays was fish



we had herrings

fried the skin crisp

the roes plump and hard



the boys liked soft

suppose they would



used old cotton,

naturally and the wire

needle threader

fingered stiffed

sewing done felt a little

better



more coal on the fire

all will be well

. some hedges are higher than others.               i wrote . a thing so private, so intense .



. simple , complex. no one will see it .                           note your achievements to date.



.hell no.                                                         i cannot think of it every day, nor have regrets.



.his life is different to yours.        i have discussed it fully, yet it will remain confidential.

. he is still alseep                                                                              and will remain so a while.





hers is the portrait, a girl. cracked window looks at clouds,                       the mountain.

ledge, dead moths stretched out in all their softness,                            stunned by light.



torn          curtains stir memories, indicate a private place to weave and mend a dream.



some hedges are higher.

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.

were extinct is this country once, have been brought back from holidays

abroad.



he said.



they smell of almonds and so does bakewell **** with jam and coconut.



and arsenic.



two on a slide to enlarge,male and female, slightly pink and quite pretty.



i can see his doins   without the lens. they live in beds you know, he said.



if infested one must be fumigated by the pest people, with some fumes.



i took a photo, yet wobbled in my enthusiasm so it did not work well.



i told the lady on the bus about them and she said yes she thought she

had  them once and cleaned incessantly.the doctor said it was gnats

that had  bit her.



she said she never puts her suitcase on beds while on a holiday, abroad.



sbm.

not of war, it is peaceful here.

I have heard such dreadful stories

of casualties, these days

and before.     senseless.



I would ***** my words

if it would help.


I can help this one,

a victim of the

hot and dandy night.


I will show you his photograph.


I took her into the woods, the grass was

too long, though cooler there,

she was too small.

sbm.