while taking coffee
in a particular place
******* on chocolate torte
slightly melted,
the lord of the manor,
reading.

grew a headache
from the stuff, too much
sweet , too much
information, all too true
to pattern.

so we dtrove home, and
got on with it.

nissan huts.

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.

water flows down this valley. wind blows

round our houses.i have said it before.yet



seems that those who should know better,

talk of gods, may judge the             people .





live in remote places.



between mountain, sea.      the land becomes



dry.



this arid land.



sbm.

52.57.

something happened, something
changed inside me, the moon slipped sideways.

while all remains the same, something is different.

did you speak to me, was that you I heard in the
garden calling.

is it really such a little thing.

the connection.

sbm.

we will not have blankets,

if there are none, take the old

rags, layer , stitch and stitch

by hand till fingers bleed.

work along the coast

with thread and diligence.

gather wools, layer carefully,

we shall have warmth this winter.

we will have quilts to share.

sbm

leave your ideas at home.
on the hatstand. forget all
that you have learned, things
may not be so.

all people have ideas, so
yours is not so precious now,
elder.

she told me that even things
at home have changed.

looking round we see they have.

reimagine the world, forget
the learning, start again,
then we may understand, or not.

king david.

sbm.

some things need not be kept,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.

others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.

some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.

the photograph.

this does not mean
i love you.

sbm.

he asked if i like it, i said yes, you see,

i like scissors.



been waiting an hour or so,

for words to come, although

deemed prolific, i do get stuck

some mornings.



so at just past seven

thirty, i have made the beds tidy,

washed the dishes.

bathed, dressed and perfumed,

the cheap one, everyday,

still had no words

inclined.



yes, i do like edward scissor hands,

and i do so like scissors.



my mother had one pair

that I remember, made special

with words, and to be careful

it is the only pair.



damaged later cutting  a live

electric wire, she survived.



the budgie suffered.



sbm.

he last thing,            i saw

the plane fly over.     busy day.


they only fly when fine,

we had some words on that

and laughed.


i pointed out the

unusual insect on his shirt,


smiled about those midges

stuck in skin so soft, which worked.


the horse watched, swayed

went down to roll.



i sewed the buttons  back on.

sbm.

from where comes the love,
comes the pool of fear,
the fright of interrogation,
guilt,
i hear.

from where comes the mourning,
late afternoon,
and evening,
comes the spirit,
and singing,
dancing, ringing.

i hear the bells,
the crows,
the chaffinch,
and it shows,
my hearing.

from where comes the whistling,
comes the pool of tears,
the laughter we hear.
here

©sbm

comment, been asked to write?

has it all overtaken the urge
to say the things you hope,
the words you think.

one is important as the other.

i told him that i do not get
angry as expected, try to do
my best.

told him about the situation,
why i cannot drink
hot chocolate, now.

yet i shall comment soon,
and just maybe
try the drink again.

(holding nose).

sbm.

a small thing, ragged.



who knows all of it,                   pieces

torn away.                                 framed.



an exhibition again.                 Christine.



only you know most of it.       Christine.



sbm.

can you believe it.              that it was said?

red cross.



we should help    people in this country

first, not those abroad   scared and dying.



that she asked about her washing,      yes i

hang it in the garden, in    sun and breeze

to dry fresh.



she replied that is what peasants do.

do you believe that?



red cross shop.



some say she has a face lift!



sbm.

why will i want to or think of it

at all.                      in lower case.



aren’t we all    complementary,

designed with different features

and ramblings, not pausing for

breath.



we live in the country ; know that

all are different, enjoy a good time

overall.



pause.



aren’t we all in this together,     a

question with gritted              teeth

eventualities and commas.



do not worry over things. said this

before.



all together.



the difference could make no difference.



classified.

so the bear has become a companion.



of sorts in times of sress

and needlessness.



i call him darling sometimes,

not often.



some days he stays in bed ,

not often.



some people are witnesses, study

the evidence.



i prefer the bear.



sbm.

with great love and care ( adverb) he made them. each one             by hand.

most were killed before breakfast. visitors asked to see the bodies,  having

none, he imported them from abroad.                                    more  killed than

the somme. thousands after dawn.                         he has models now of dead

soldiers, some with arrows in.

small scene          first world war,                            glow in the dark.    memorial.

having spent time among his battles,   i went and ate a donut.           lovingly.

sbm.

instead of the same every time,

see how it turns out, it could be

better.



depends,

on what one hopes for. maybe

we thought that word was

easily understood, never

under estimate the power,

the mis interpretation

of one sound.



the class went very well.

sbm.

wednesday, the shops shut early.

here.there are still tourists around.

or new people. i bought some sweets,
a thimble,a packet of screws, one
light bulb.

chatted about face book in the mongers.

i moved here in 1993. I am an immigrant.

sbm.

been talking on language.

never understood  before, now
on meeting again have no idea .

he talks about.

just my style has changed ?,

my whole life .

differs.
from here to there, not just
my hair.

least of it.

a meeting , round the round table.

he speaks a different language.

raw stringy man

how shall i prepare?

sbm.

met a friend for lunch and tea?

done the wrapping, sticking
and packing, most work has gone,
some has been hung, so i am left
with paper and bits below, new work
coming in.

the bottles are up for sale, and
am drawing an erasure with all
my might.

have you seen my writing site?

yes, we had kippers on toast, tasty.

sbm.

aesthetic, showing the words for anaesthetic, little creatures placed

to sleep a while. on waking find that spelling is not so awkward now.



checked without books.           cover the title with rages and     kisses.



i see they use different gases all with difficult arrangements of letters;

there are crumbs under the keyboard. he did warn me. the w crunches,

it may be toast. while all around is                          aesthetically pleasing

clouds gather, we await the friday.



nothing matched #asemic

sbm.

all things change,
except they say, one.
changes come

squirrels and disarray.

river ebbs, flows, tidal,
otter marks erased, the lane

quiet now. locals walk, leaves stir.

in passing we remember those.

birds fly up, we laugh again.

he gave red wine, will bring logs.


sbm.

it is always there

in the bathroom,

ignored, as was the photo.

yesterday it came to light again,

every woman’s toilet,

book.

edited by mrs robert noble,

not dated, yet dated.

are artificial aids justifiable,

how to have a dimpled wrist

with excercise,

means, and massage,

a moderate diet essential.

we do not wish a muddy complexion?

no. nor to wear the years

away in sad ness and regret.

we just need an excellent lotion,

for tired eyes,

and carry on, rejoicing.

all that there is.

plus the photograph.

sbm.

your birthday at the zoo.
while
we were at the national
library of wales, aberystwyth.

high ceilings, automatic doors.
trod carefully the red carpet,
saw the landscapes quiety.

film maker in residence.

webmakers in conference.

tape tied book, reminds
me, silent face a memory.

i will return to the
national library of wales,
aberystwyth.

no photos allowed.

sbm.

it is a dusty lane, as requested.

new flight taken, wildly singing, in all directions,

while we mowed,            while the ants invaded.

as i knelt,            the grave digger came down

again. it is about time,                          he said,

laughing.

tethered the horses at the gate,

then the farrier came.

it is my brother’s birthday

today.

sbm.

nettle rash and ants
sting. love letters.

sbm

they moved the mirror,

when blankly looking

found nothing there,

ex cept

vertigo and framed

birds nesting.

the moon jars, have melted stone.

i thought he wore a red wind cheater,
it was a boiler suit.memory kicked in
already,

my brothers’ faded jackets,
waterproofed, cracked with age,
rubber lined, elastic cuff.

to cheat the wind i suppose.

i inherited.

not the corduroy shorts ,
which were
dyed dark brown each season,
passed from brother to brother,
not to me.

my mother supplying snake belts
for slippage, and parafin oil
on slicky hair.

those days things faded.

sbm.

**notes, we have no photograph.

thread your way through,

place the ends for the birds.

they ask nothing.

sbm.

sunday morning is often quiet here early .the radio playing.



did you know they play music alongside bird  song. a special

moment.



we sit quiet and listen.  you see i think the swallows have gone.

i did not see them leaving.



in syria they drop bombs   to gas the children.



sbm.

don't you see, he said,
nothing will feel right again.

these things you have done,
may erase any sympathy you gleaned
from the past,
as awe full as it was.

sbm.

it has been a while since we spoke.

even now, you will not receive this letter,
along with others not sent.

some went away to exhibition, while others remain in my head.

it is the rule, no contact. today is cooler, we change the clocks soon.

i suppose you are nearly retired, yet i have lost track.

even so, i reflect on what i have done, i ask, what have i done?

it lingers in the past with no judgement here, they are good friends.
we may ask what have you done, yet it does not matter now.

all things pass.

i shall occasionally write, and never send.

no contact.

narcissus.

sbm.

it could have been simple, days of sewing crosses.  red.   eight thirty  till five.



it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind   meaning

wasting time with wires and connections. some leads led to                 nothing.



some things are not as planned, so rather than be defeated, deal with gusto and

enthusiasm. clean the dust of ages.



then sew on regardless of what is to come. stitch into overtime.         complete



the task.





sbm.

come six twenty four, much
is done already. words are
discussed, will be till evening.

one was discarded, as not being used
these days, while some misspelt
took on other meanings. the work load

creates tension, while skin crawls
back to back.

at six twenty seven, the music
ends.

sbm.

she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at,

nothing to buy, like in a museum with pins and labels. i am

pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a    new

riboon, black and red stripes horizontally.

ˌhɒrɪˈzɒnt(ə)li/
adverb.

no, nothing is for sale now and who will want it these days?

she had moved the cabinets, so we paced the upper rooms.

sbm.

declared love, declared shame
for brymbo man living in suburbia.

declared love for mindless blobs
of gold, medieval collections. here.

ah, we discussed the tonsure,
denoting all humility,moved

quickly to primark, all things
underworn. yet there was no

brawn, yesterday. half day

closing.

sbm.

did the breeze come
late last night, or did
some one slip into the room.

you were sleeping.

was there some one in the house
creeping
down the stairs. looking,
another time for thinking.

you were sleeping. now waking
wonder at the blessed company
of mindful thinking.

tidy the curtain.

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.

. give things .

to some one else,
will they fall upon flesh,
rip it, rearrange,
leave to sleep?
maybe it were their rags.

handle with care,
small eggs hold with love,
rearrange tenderly, add cake.

we saw hedd wyn, yesterday.

sbm.


Hedd Wyn
Poet
Hedd Wyn was a Welsh language poet who was killed during the Battle of Passchendaele in World War I. He was posthumously awarded the bard’s chair at the 1917 National Eisteddfod. Wikipedia
Born: January 13, 1887, Trawsfynydd
Died: July 31, 1917

to most everyone.

so we quote desiderata,
get on with the
deal with it some way.

on a good day
the bikers come,
a certain age,
in accents, brown leathers,
buying cheap pens,
and kittens.

there is no harm is looking,
some say.

it was a strange moon
last night, and now it is the day.

sbm.

looking for numerals?        while there before

you stands solomon, cracked regarding his son.



absolom, oh absolom.            looking for god?



while all the while they are wanting your money.



looking for  wool gloves? all a plenty  at the cathedral.



this is where they display their wares, while the

architecture outside looks vaguely roman.



sbm.

i liked it. bought it.

slight regrets in that i
felt sadly, it made me
look elderly.

wore it anyway, having
paid charity, and was
complimented all day.

i either have
demented vision,
or my shape will do.

empire line
is more flattering,
so now are we
back to discussing
jane austen, period drama
or escape from the past.

sbm.

we walked the stone,

he kept the path tidy, closed a while,

is open now . as the sky opens

through willow arches, white calves

and butterflies.



he cuts the shrubs, hedges, and rakes the path tidy.



it is arthur’s stone.



sbm.

it is a ritual, it is the music,
the loom, the gestures, the

night before christmas,
hand over mouth, awe

and wonder. some sounded
fire works, dogs cowered.

some sounded bells, calling
the village to come.

some stayed at home, wondered
at the small things surrounding.

the weaver of raveloe.

linen thread.

sbm.

she said her father was jewish and proud of it.



they visited the synagogue, i know where it

is. i stood outside.



he was a green grocer, broke his back, her mother

looked after him.



she a seventh day adventist, i went with  her sometimes,

on saturdays.



i never met her father, he died early.



she said.



sbm.

if the dress is ripped it can be mended,

if it is shredded it can be lined

with net for strength and longevity.

*****, will wash it, iron and air it,

loosely bind into keeping,





a collection, memory

of those halycon daze.





will buy a suitable hanger.

©sbm

to some one else,

will they fall upon flesh,
rip it, rearrange,
leave to sleep?
maybe it were their rags.

handle with care,
small eggs hold with love,
rearrange tenderly, add cake.

we saw hedd wyn, yesterday.



sbm.

slow down when squirrels cross.

nut shells rattle the mower blades, so we
look up at the acorns growing. all is well
at oswalds tree.

she carried the cake, to and fro, it diminished
at each turn, a victoria sponge. while all the while,
the bodice remains private, linen buttons tidy.

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.

best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

this is not cross foxes. we will go to new places
again. i will show you things.

sbm.

ceilings, automatic doors. tread carefully the red carpet.
watch.                                                the landscapes quietly.



the



building where I lost myself, found one    worn stair,

walled words                                                  on bravery.



we laughed at his phone         vibrating the glass table,

automatically.                           there are no  heros here.



just quiet and responsibility.



books bound in leather.



©sbm.

i am a detective a bit

like

harry lime

looking for a beetle

blackened ; crusty with a smart serge suit from

foster brothers



went missing a week or so ago

the full moon following



reported by a family in the

cellar concerned



by its legs waving wildly ; sock dangling

backed on flagged floor



missing person



crisp printed poster

denoting