oh you are a beauty, showing your legs,                dress swinging.



in rhythm. in photos , little gifs,                                      to share.



how can we  look the same?                   i think i look different

now. now that i have grown,                          watched you grow.



now. now.



now that i helped  when you were sick.                   now.now.



now i am older and watched you die.                          all of you.



i say goodnight to some and remember                       all of you.



how can i look the same.                                                  now. now.



remember all that has been done.                                           how

can i look the same?



you are still a beauty.



dress swinging.



sbm.

during the evening after tea,

we wondered who had invented the chair,

so that we can sit, so, and sew.



perhaps the rock was too hard,

nothing to support the back,

properly.



period drama would be

oddly different without the chair.



the conversation moved on to

pumpkins, these days, and

noises made by porcupines.



seems Barry went to see the

capybara too.



sbm.

the challenge, 12 sentences starting with the same word – green.



:: green road :

green road is where I was born; in winton.



green grocer delivered each tuesday and thursday.

green front doors and hedges line the road, repetitive.



green shooting brake denotes uncle’s arrival, posh we thought,truth came later.



green our neighbour’s face as bombs fell/were pushed; she hid in the outside toilet.



green school knickers; janet next door under her gymslip.

greens up the garden, with spuds  & rhubard, runners & plums.



greens for dinner, liver & gravy; poor food, i guess there was rationing.



green her coat with big buttons,darted & half belt she wore while shopping.



green my mittens, shetland hand knitted; a souvenir.



green the scarf that matched, richer now.



green the sky; the storm passes.



sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

winter bare her soul.

medieval trees reach up

for solstice and better days.



sing in silence and simplicity.



sing for those in  remembrance .



dark winter bares the soul, those

that believe. sing in silence.



one voice breaks.

dark winter.



sbm

market day one, it is twice a week,

thursday and saturday, much

the same each day, books

for a donation, queue for the butcher.

waiting, eye the *******, ham and oxtail,

admire  pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.



all addressed with green stuff

for decoration. the bread lady

will let you hold her goose eggs,

feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.

you do not need to buy them, you can

carress them nicely.

they are soft when born, soft as babies are.



above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean

with springy hair and wearing arms that hang

below the sleeve.



he talked to a lady from london,

he said.

©sbm

having often like old clothes,
have bought small dresses, with
no one in reach.

hung, they look pretty, the
experience helps now in family
business, and how busy the
family is.

took time out yesterday, bought
small dresses, in the rain.

it is a small family affair.

sbm

she implied  that the buttoned ones,

were far superior to plain, some folks

folded newspaper to keep the chill at bay.

small girls wore thermogene, now

all is tee shirts, being chilly, but then

most have central heating, a few cling

to the coal fire, woodburners,

living flame.

proper vests were warm, tucked well in.

if you visit llandudno by the sea, you

still find these items, displayed quite

badly some may say, so we refer back to

those with buttons,  which may be better.

it was such a lovely morning.

sbm.1111

the landing has an unpleasant smell,
started the day before yesterday, warm weather.

air freshener spent, we use cheap perfume
from aldi. is my house not clean ? remember
this smell of old. some wee creatured done died
in the loft, floor boards, some which place.

i have spent hours looking for the body, to take to
the church yard gently, spent time spraying
madame glamour, my daughter.

know with time, it will fade, pass as all
things.

I found last years birds nest yesterday,
twined with horse hair.

the field is empty now.

one swallow.

sbm.

a busy little thing, buzzing down the estuary,

then back again, up and back,                          practising.


in order to acquire, improve or maintain proficiency in it.
“I need to practise my French”



no clouds to cover .                               it was a gentle day

of gardens, les cloche and legume given freely.



the pronounciation was not at all as it should be,

the company all welcome.



later the v22, toy osprey.                           delight.



sbm.

again, i reach the upper room.

floor teetered, me the cabinet maker,
offfered another case, one of mine choice.

she had lovely hair, said the space was moving.

so it was, betwixt a little crowding there,
wilfred owen, his letters and wooden steps,
to reach further up.

below they serve liver and onions, which
i am told is very tasty,

sbm.

it was 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.
aptly the grave digger, it seems

you can buy dead insects on line.

sbm.

summer winds scattering,

soft tissue, forty pieces

torn with a ruler,   smudged and marked.



tearing the words, categorising,

knowing

it is all worth it in the end.



you would be surprised.

sbm.

dreams, hours long. in tune .

there came some men with music,
hours long.

some times things seem so very
well, brings guilt for the others.

the process has to stop, some point.

space is cleaned, prepared again.

credo.

all things pass.

sbm.

write the words, she says
that helps.

it is a drop in the ocean, and cannot
help those already lost in the ocean.

it was said in depth we drown, and so
it is so.

we cannot rescue the drowning, record the names.

here.

so we draw dresses.

black dresses do not sell so well.

sbm.

mine, also
has
become a stranger.

how strange.

i often do not sleep,
so have decided
it is not a
problem.

there is always
another world
out there,
that is not ours.

i like mine.

i like your writing.



sbm

strange habit, breakfast at lunch.

strangle collars that hold, strangles
the voice into trebles. trinity
meaning three.

we fought the way from darkness,
into light, birds singing early
without the need, of alarms.

he said it was raining there.
here it was not.

now it is.

there are nuns in dolgellau.

sbm.

there is a feel in the air,
a change in the whether.

very place caused confusion,
pond dipping involuntary
shuddering, and delight at small creatures.

who play croquet with new rules,
we never knew the old, it proved
without flamingos
that i am not alice.

it is about a year now,
i blocked you.

sbm.

four boats were sent. all much the same,
all differing,

oars to row.

a cross to bear.

three left, one remains.

the last boat.

in depth we drown.

sbm.

possibly not, yet the deed was done,
the sword was plastic. raised we
engaged in sword, in word play.

always the actor he fine tuned
the pokes and prods, wounded me
a little. apparently i am self healing,
did not need to fall and groan so.

arise sir grandma to fight another
day. Yet i have given up that struggle,
i actually know that regeneration
is not endless.

i may not have a knighthood.

i have a gift.

sbm.

we has an immersion, when on for just half an hour,

we has hot water. enough for a bath. left on longer it gurgles,

heard downstairs.

all night it goes quiet, and i could bathe, clean the house,

wash the socks,

and have change left over.

a red light. while we are used to it, others may wish for better.

winter fires. the back boiler kicks in.

sbm.

initially,
crossed the great divide,
sea to the land, from
one to another, then, talking.

crossed the narrow bridge
talked of the past,
revisit the old place.
all plumbing and stair rods,
you know what i mean.

courage to walk away
from objects that irritates
our eyes, to eat another way,

with snakes and camphor oil.

you know what i mean. with
the kindness of strangers
to cross the mountain, be led
home.

they say it may be drizzly today.

sbm.

take the photograph
of the photograph,
we have chinese whispers.

we have the closing of the
house soon, wonderland.

removing all things metal,
placing sweet chestnuts
in corners. the outside
paint so very shiny,

it has been a pleasant summer

sbm

i think i may like to travel to small places,

old and full of history. deep aged fabrics

stained with the words of time. to touch.

pins to stop the pain,

that did not come

but now & then,.



was constant. a knife,

a shard of complementary

feeling.



no charge, yet desiring

to be free. i chose needles.



so fifteen inserted, i lay a while,

turned, at intervals. talked

of meridians and new sandals.



now there is another story.

they are very comfortable.





the pain?

sbm.

man and woman made,
children too, boast accents.

change things,
move the hat,, squeeze
euthymol, stand tall.

it was not trouble,
nor your fault, it is
the way of things,
some times.

hang on the swing
upside down, viewing
earth, hear the planes,
listen.

draw the lines. deflty,
then rub them out again,
forget the boundaries.

sbm.

in a letter to a friend,
never written, never
said, sad, it is impossible.

to explain. there will be khama,
guilt, ridden over mountains,
over years. tis tough is guilt.

in the back bedroom, hankies
folded ready, in every room,
in pockets now gone musty.

the pottery is dusty.
i have another life.

i have a new letter.

sbm.

maybe is the colours, red and white,
that appeal, the patterns, or the
retro items in the cupboard. he

gasped, and proclaimed the beauty
as the door was opened. so
yesterday, all was tidied, categorised,
more paper laid, for his, and my
delight.

he is home from holday.

sbm

see them sometimes while driving out the area,

or should i say whilst?



eyes stray while driving, could that be whilst?  it

does not happen here much, daily in aberystwyth.



by the pier.    keith the photographer films them.



a lot.



all together flying, in harmony. wish people would.



really.



round here, small groups fly up.



birds.



sbm.







shot_1483196453503

there are tiny, tiny plants
in conwy high street, for sale.

alpines.

folding the washing, out
came a tiny tiny beetle,
placed on the dining table,
the way to its freedom.

gaze at tiny tiny things,
the world becomes another
space.

this is precious.

sbm.

.charleston farmhouse screen .


criticize , critique, where is the difference?  read  google. read wikipedia and you will

see that eventually it becomes too much.                                                     that fateful day.



some say you have lost your memory,                                            think of the wrong name.



there are others remain the same.                                                  it may only be one sentence

yet is still part of the story.



an unfortunate phrase.



his name was             duncan grant.

two panels. there is no photograph.



sbm.

the dresser, will be dressed,
if not with work, something
else.

it is ready, will be sent, despite
undecided minds, impropriety.

will be sent despite blood
from bulbs, stranded fingers,
picked, plucked at rags, thead.

and filaments.

it seems the work is cupboards.

cabinet makers.

sbm.

is that your mother’s grave.
no she lived in bournemouth,
buried there.

why did you not bring her
here?

look a leaf fell, it
must be autumn now.

so we built the dens,
one with leaves overlooking,

one with sheets, pegs, ironing boards
as befits domesticity. it got hotter.

i lost touch, did not know
he is in hospital.

sbm.

it is just that some dislike

love poems, those the rhyme

all romantic. pretty though

they are.



some write of other

things, in a more

random fashion.



i like things private.



sbm.

an idea.

the work continues. red thread and all that abounds there.

the museums.



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. shall we mend the rags,

or pin them ?



remnants remain, hiding. working faster with out all those words, those images . bare bones of the fact

corrupted items  turn with dust.



stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed. work along the coast with thread and diligence.



sbm.



(thanks to the asmolean  and jen jones quilt centre for the prompts)

Posted on August 11, 2016

the bank cuts by,

the path next the
sea.

air is clean here,
sailors are honest
about the weather.



it is a good idea

to visit each year.



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 and groan.



i say again, a darker green.



sbm.

neatly pressed, uniformed,
looking for matron.

the vestibule, signing in,
taking out. small girl
grown older, bolder now.

these are the growing days.
big school, and endless
performances. not yet
the final curtain.

you made no difference
whatsoever.

small girl.

sbm.

things are not ideal,they never have been.



someone is eating the covers.i think the

time is right.



slowly we clean and tidy.wait for the shop to open.

wait for the table to be moved.this will be the sewing



room.



use all spaces.



sbm.

especially the mornings,
i need not tell you really,
you must know.

ok if there is no rush to go,
easy, cosy up and write.

i think they change the clocks
soon, throwing all into
misalignment, it is not
supposed to, yet remains
a mystery to me. we talk
about the war and daylight saving.

walking to school in the mist,
uniform,, and there
is another story.

it is darker here this morning.



sbm.

was a larger thing, not world news, happily,
not somethinhg to chew over.

amongst the colours, the gifts, the tiny cup,
cracked, collectable, among the people
at the friday club is friendship, a bigger
thing.

although many of us like smaller items,
we have grown to know that close friends
are a quite very big, important thing in a
life. small life.

sbm.

sound sounds like this in english. sounds familiar.

in the morning,             heartening                 lorries,

mansel davis, north to south and back again reverse

turn.



garden, sounds fresh so early,                           outdoor

noise.      indoors,

the radio plays.                                             brittle.      news

mumbo jumbo of politics.



birds sing.



tinnitus continues,                                                 softer now





sbm.

foundation for these days. hard work won.                 there

is another way with privacy and organisation.       industry .





leave things simple,

leave thing be a while.



oversight and overland

travel.                 the dead    depress.



overlook; i see the old horizon still.



planes flies over, one then two       we

can hear them from the window. over

there his story  repeats                 itself.



over sight me, over look you. there are

many of us.



legion.



sbm.

i often wonder if i              should recognise you

in passing,                            or are you gone now?



should i remember your name & your brothers.



would i laugh at the experience,      as happened

yesterday.



he walked straight past me without       blinking.



i guess i am plain now, without no fancy hair style.



blinking.



sweet heart.



sbm.



daily post



sbm.

grey  day, rain.
squeaky bath taps.

this is the valley
of the widow.

this is the day.
writing  the wall,
trees stand tall.

yellow flags, the route,
to glyn y weddw.

know these things.
life will bring. words
in books, paper air.

a name that still remains.

write it.

sbm.

left the ring in procession,
silently walked the track.

dust rose, the distance grew.

out of sight, talked in code and rhythms.

a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze.

on return, no one spoke.

sbm.

may be we have not written

anything today , or maybe

we have.



just not on paper or type, yet

in our minds with eyes and ears,

the smell of smoke and coldness.



it maybe we played the words

in arrangements, with feeling.



longing to walk, having  to work.



the garden changes, and it may

be, that we have written this.



sbm.

to sweeten life. the kiss,
use sugar.

we wrote the words,
print in blood, yet we only had
sepia.

a ruler to tear, fold
carefully, mix with shards
that worked from window
panes.

cotton lengths, blend with oil.
soothing balm.

we have a new bottle here.

the kiss
is up for sale.

sbm.

he chose the gardener, the myrrh
bearer, mother with child. it
was a lovely day, yesterday,           i heard
they were to go to the chapel,                  in
exhibition there.                             i am glad
i did them, that i swept over hills, watching
trees turn. topped gold now,       slate slants
in lowering light and wetness.

later i saw that you had taken photographs.

i was at the private viewing. sbm.

they did not know she had millions, neither did she. just collected one item at a time, cared fully for         each one of them.                                                                                                         catalogued in eternally.



words affect us deeply.   voices  come and go.                                           while the worlds spins with  people’s chaos and confusion.       yet.           above the noise of the day     they show me birds and insects          did you know they cross their fragile legs?





did you find a pin there, did you pick it up and stick it?   did you stay safe, wrap the shawl around and hold    it   close?        did you see my life breaking, bring me pins for mending? …



stick in be safe , despite the pain and raddled cotton threads.   to hold my life, hold the rusty hinges, prepare the coats of varnish again     .                    remember your mother’s pins, my friend.

be well in your mending.



she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like in a museum with strings and labels.

sbm.