. 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.

we talk  again, for these are not vertical.                           we walked the dazzled mirror, crept.

.small and slightly curious  conversations.

we chatted over manners and harboured hedges. these things  …

moved the line into a place of  rural contemplation.

sbm.



45809101515390816011771976450131_n

run from the full moon,

race while the sky turns red

and all is falling.



go to the shore, hide

while the world is at war,

and all is falling.



there is light on the

water, can you feel it

while all are falling?



sbm.

of november, remembering when
half the skin was gone, black
dress hanging.

remembering standing before
poetry,
half the words gone, the artist
we hope to be.

half times two is one.

we have multiplied.

numbers.

sbm

here this morning, treading one note at a time,

pointing toes, wondering about the roof

next door in all this wind.



vedro con mio diletto



now the days grow lighter, my head is

tied back on, and all seems well.



it all sounds worse than it really is,

the beams , you know, do creak so.



it is an older house, direct line will

not insure, as it does not conform.



i use another company.



sbm.

last year we had a fire,
chill autumn. this
year it is warm. swallows
drift.

last year we had an upset,
this year it is warm. swallows
drift.

these are the falling days.

sbm.

these are the shorter days, darker days, wood smoke, apple wood, colours of joy. believe in the world, that you can spell first time. be proud as you point out where you live…..

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.

the blue is a prim,
and pretty room, draped
with musical games
of chance,
for settling here.

harp strings
relay the vital net.
after Shakespeare.
the visitors leave,

lord Byron wrote
of hours of idleness,
the letters below,
and all the while
you have no love for me,
worrying over the empty barn.

sbm.

picking words, guarding some.

removing the cat, sentence
on the garden. keeping the
gardener. checking

this spelling.

days
of our content,
these darker nights.

counting down

failing hours.

counting words.

sbm.

fog and mist are very slow to clear,

affecting roads and visibility.

no affection here, no one is moving yet.

we hear mansel davies, see the lights,

they are working men, as are we.

some just start later.

he bet me that i did not do a good days work,

i won, just come and watch me.

sbm.

i have been away, met folk, lost a letter.

it may be a pattern, way of thinking, the peptide
theory.

it may be simply nothing, another idea
to fade in memory.

it was all uproar in the upper room.

sbm.

it is with difficulty i write this.

the bear was correct, yet he

is not the only one in the village.



i met another yesterday.



it is with difficulty as the keyboards

stick, while others have no empathy

how deep it goes.



many have drowned, drowned

dead.



sbm.

is hard this weather,
sloping garden, heat
and headache.

robin comes, alarming,
the nest nearby, we push
and shove the thing, watch
the swallow.

drag bags of cuttings,
look at the graves. rest

a while.

strange how the mood lifts,
this must be good
therapy.

some how.

sbm.

no conquistador, nor battle minds live around this block,

that i know . perhaps they hide secretly awaiting surprise

attacks.



some folk surprising sweet, inside stained with thought,

imagining.  i will not know them.



he said that i was useless at war, had to be the  metal medic.

then he bashed me bent. toy soldiers.



even that.



sbm.

daily post : conquer

model

so flimsy it is hardly there.

so worn, it is almost dead.
recreate the dying in your head.

so small it is hardly there.

so cheap it is almost dead.

draw it. recreate the scene in your head.

it is said that some folk do not draw properly
any more. discuss.

when all is fading, is it necessary?

no particular answer is required. maybe a thought,
here and there.

sbm.

Posted on March 6, 2017



we will not have blankets, if there are none, take the old rags, layer , stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed.



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.



the questions came that i cannot answer here   or ever.   did not count this time only the final one.                                     noticed the first ones  are now undone. the wrong knots.



maybe we need to check our numbers at the end to see if one or more are missing. ? we need to count them carefully, one side then the other?

work along the coast with thread and diligence. gather wools, layer carefully, we shall have warmth this winter.

eight thirty  till five.   it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind   meaning wasting time with wires and connections.



cover the surface.   it takes time.



sbm.

flight.   imagine it white with feathers,

bird’s wings.



it is an old room and as i change the bed

i think of you.



i regret the dust and crooked floor with

fondness, then as i lay the clean sheet

not yet tucked, imagine you laying your

broken body.



think on this.



sbm.

it is a huge space,
few fellow travellers, all counted in.

nicely embellished, we commented on it
our necks bent. the armoire was locked
of course, as is the meaning of it all.

they were laying the place for tea, so no
bell rang, no one spoke of it that day.

a constant sound, was it his voice?

they will pray for him, all is in disorder.

except the tea tables.

sbm.

old school hat.

panama.

no cigars, no canal.

velour in winter.

sbm.

i have not written much about advent, just two things.

yet i know it is here,      felt in   bones;         my soul. i

have no system now to believe  things,                     yet

the reminder comes without warning.                    each

year.

this year

to my own suprise, i find that i still can cry.                  it

is a long time passed. they say our work ,          our souls

are in our chest.

it is not just me

it is          family.

there is no photograph.

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.

have searched the archives lately.

find he knows stuff, facts, and        figures while i am astounded .              the sun  comes out by the  drawers.        open they show me birds and insects          did you know they cross their fragile legs      and tie with cotton threads.

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.

the title, not of my writing.   the larger picture , detailed me into submission.       revisited.

music

blesses  without recording.                               we have the radio.                           this  museum here.

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 library here.

i found perfumed , decked with statues and sympathetic leaflets to no avail.            i saw the people here.   studio, still, paintings.   i saw the artist there.                        the museum, past locked behind glass, and computerised screens, swimming

she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like your museum with pins and labels. i am pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a    new ribbon.

we work towards a new installation, whilst remembering all that there is

in the museum.

sbm.

orange.



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……



cut them.



maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.   need to count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely, leads    us onward.



simmer them.



what about this list, to do it before you die, well as she said, you probably can’t do it after. some may disagree – another belief. we try not to judge, yet that  bucket was not worth five pound,so



we paid two.



strain them.

ready for later.



sbm.

not keen on the word really, sounds somewhat    toiletry

or

occurring in a natural place/ america, or grizzly big furry

thing

that

may be a myth.

crouch is also disliked for one of the above, and the end.

the synonyms are disagreeable as far as i can see, so

i shall sit here nicely.

sbm.

writing begun, no hashtags, no

double dots to guide us. the travel

guide begins.



trouble is, i don’t

go very far.



sbm.

i have a new battery

so things come more

comfortable

without

the  timely pressure

as before

i went to see

tutankhamun’s

things

well some of them

then to oxford to

see some more

yesterday went

writing

today i work

and meanwhile

a yearning for a quiet day

while i expect on said quiet

day

will work

can be muzzy things, caused by a
sincere lack of liquidisation,
or a symptom of another particle.

substance is taken, ibruprofin, after
hunting the bags, the old bathroom cupboard,
which is tidy now. tea then, and typing, ensuring
the jaw and neck are slack, no tension.

think of montgomery, the garden, relax, and know,

that others have worse than tight head pain.

maybe this is smoke inhalation,
maybe it is nothing at all.

no hormones, no alcohol required.
bandages are useful.

sbm.

try not to ignore.

you have been right

so many times before.



sbm.



{talking to the bear}



daily post – qualm



#itrhymes!

#pufferfish

#warhat

the red coat was hiding under layers, but i saw it. red it is, worn, shabby. a friend you say. lining cream silk crumple. the label harris tweed, heather washed, as old. the back a thin satin sash to tie. …

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.   use the brain. remembering strong wrapping paper in folded sheets.   woolworths.   i have a modern roll that tears easily, yet now …

a meditation on thread, mediation of red, i dream of you.   clearly your clothes remain the same, worn, washed, pressed.   your ideas come different, you talk of immersion, and security, nothing was further from my mind.

remember the  old things, ways.   people needles and pins. hold on the shawl, wrapped round, pinned close, stay safe.   be well in your mending, despite the pain, raddled cotton threads.   pinned  to hold life, rusty hinges, prepared …

another day of counting, numbers. some escape the concious gaze, while some are far remembered. numbers incorrect, we move our gaze to mirrors. slanted the world looks pleasant, thread and buttons surround. this is not a metaphor..

the dream, the threads parted a while. visitors came, the day proceeded gently with stops and dictation, who is this?


we worried over news, trembled a while, gathered back the warp, the weft. today we continue.

sbm.

started with magic furry frost , clearing cars

to get to work.  early

the planes came over sideways,

lights shining, we stood and watched them fly.

it was all over face book, some complaining

of the noise, some like me, stood in wonder,

remembering.



a day of lumps, that fell to nothing,

so in gladness we lazed the frozen day

indoors, logs running low from christmas blazes.



it were a cold day yesterday. let it go.



sbm.

as he changed his words, the pictures changed.

a new meaning , a new endevour. i still think of him.

things move slowly steadily as snails in the garden,
yet, as i watched the fire, felt the heat, we started moving
toward america.

sbm

when was the first time.the first
time it was noticed that some one
was helping.

kindness.

the first thought on the sentiment there.

the beauty of it all.

it has been said before. that hate and anger
bring hate and anger more.

it may be the brains’ addictions.

we stopped by tescos and thought of you all.

here is a photo of one man who helped another man.

sbm.

words can be long,
as in bone,
and the soul,
oppose.

or hard, as in
can,
kite and ketchup.

this, us, miss
is hissy
as in fit.

unfortunately
there is no evidence
that the bards
had their own alphabet

sbm.

accept things. easy? no, i wrote of this yesterday.



looks better in visual than stuck in mind. html.



go with the flow.                       we had thought

it was an eel fighting yet it     was some string

in the current.



he said he had used the wrong nails,

had hoped for galvanised.



it is alright, we are not in denial.



there is a spectrum.



sbm.

it was not written early,

there was the bed to change, the washing to dry,

the neighbour’s dog. there were thoughts, yet

they were forgotten in the medly of chores.



it is written later, with coffee, the cat full of

cream.



it is a cold and frosty start,  lower degrees

in edinburgh.



the sun is shining, birds fly up.



sbm.

sometimes the boy plays on his own, in water.



sometimes it can’t be helped.



the pies are warm,and full of the tenderest

meats and gravy. which helps the day when

the belling is broke.



the bags came greasy,  left in the litter bin

nearby.



nearby, the boy stopped playing

and we wondered if the water was cold.



wednesday. betws.



sbm.

so the saving failed,                            thats

probably that i had nothing to            say.

oh yes i can talk loads, chatter,             you

ask anyone. most of the time we are  quiet.

there is the radio and the birds outside.

how clever you are that you can write about

anything.                              someties i cannot.

we hope it will come like spring,         quietly

in.

sbm.

dark

crossed

X



tucked in with you

look at the eye squint



it is black

nothing can get at  us  here

in the black



you know it all

i have told you                      over



your eye glints in the dark

you look the same              always



and



you say nothing



people walk by



it is a long time since i drew a bear of wool



((it is about abuse / homelessness/ the need for a place of safety))

a hot day at the mill,
fans cooled us, wool
sat heavy.

heat rose from the car park,
we busied.

made enough dogs.

i have no photograph,
the usual line.

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 bear says,

why aren’t i in the film,

i am your friend.



ah yes i says,

yet no one will

believe that.



sbm.

you can pull them out one by one,

they will not grow again.



leaves a gap.



you can pull them out one by one

they will grow back and

fill the gap.



sbm.

Yes we are all aging together and it is part of life. There are compensations for me: things not allowed in youth are permissable now. So i gets plenty of ice creams….

I have mailed Carol as I see I am on a big day out next Tuesday so am unable to come over for the meeting, and I am sorry.

I remembered proverbs and wrote the bit below. Please send my greetings to all and also from Rosey. Have a good summer and maybe see you in Port.

no, we did not recognise you,

had put you out of mind.



hair all pretty ,

echoing  affecting  voice.



there are some who have written

that you may be a bully.



sbm.

no items match my search.

yet i was not looking for anything,

much.



i have most that i need,

and want and am given

more

by those who love me.



given more by those

who don’t.



i am smaller now.

sbm.

leaned by the window cold / thought that if snow falls it may land /if trees grow it may be up /if we all plant seeds they may be food

rift winter days                                                             ­       curtains dragged across the gloom early
yet while light lingers we wander to the snow                                    hear the last bird call

snow or heavy rain dark the days are the evenings darker

forecasts bring gloom and panic then are cancelled minutes later the phone kicks off

ice is predicted / mountains white

my snow day

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely

linen threads hang heavy / needles preserved / small holes ready…

250064235375626932608264217839243961040896_n

slow on the road yet,
mist rising, as autumn.

birds sing, tea steams.

gently old radio
plays. down in the house
clocks chime, keys hang.

week went well,
all things considered.

we are safe here,
lucky ones.

an accident of birth.

place.

sbm.

i was away a while, since last summer‘s referendum. i have an

exhibition.

it was all leading up, then it was suggested that i wrote about

daffodils.

remember the repair shop?   where they fixed the old phone.

she said it needed two hands, so she could not write a    note
simultaneously
ˌsɪmlˈteɪnɪəsli/
adverb.
at the same time it resembled the flower.                            a bit.
it was a difficult day yesterday, the cat died, the boy threw up,
we had the article.                                       yet i decided to come
back
now the exhibition is up.                                  these things.
i have seen some people on facebook dressed as daffodils  maybe
with relation to rugby and/or saint’s days.
she was a midwife.
these things.
sbm.

now we are six,
no longer
five and four
quarters.

official.

so all has changed,
yet nothing has.

the year moves on,
small boys
come leggy. we ride
on trains.

we took photographs
as always.

sbm.

is retrospect. something to do with the war,
yet do we remember?

if it is light in the morning, then it will be
dark in the afternoon.

this is autumn, light fades, natural phenomena.

colour changes, we use the rooms, play the radio.

travel to see the mood. stay to feel the night.

this is the hour. nothing has changed.

yet.

all is changed.

sbm.