light the darker days

of gloom and melancholia

born from intrusion

and swede.

this is quality,

a fortunate piece.

in blue writing

as if

it is important

you see

your time will come

i will wait politely here until the time
and hope predicted don’t change
nothing

no more

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.

dave asked about the utility bell, and war time candles,



following the wax theme, yesterday. i got my household

ones, 5 hours burning time, yet to be proved. they offered

me dinner candles, but i had leftovers ready, so kept quiet

on that score.

anyway, dave, over here, we had rationing as you know,

which continued afterward. things had to be simple,

saving stuff and time, and had a mark like two hungry birds.

mum bought the utility bell in woolworths, from the flat counter,

simple cut out metal, good colour, much valued in those days,

alonside papery chains and lanterns.

our tree had candles, i do not know when lights began,

i still have her candle ends left, fancy twisted, faded now.

i keep them special, use the newer ones , red and plain, and

remember my mum,

i will scan these to show you dave, later.

it is still raining.

small thing  ragged who knows all of it

pieces torn away

or

is it a moth here in the dark?

triangles bring mystery

a new mathematics



the rooms were swept yesterday

bones hidden

teeth implied



yet the shape remains embedded

winter brings
blind mountain soaked,
peat bogged, sulking
in wet cyclists, heaven colour
of gold on grey again.

he clears the leaves each day
from formal lawn
looks up
as i look at him,
a glimpse
outside .

good is in the small things.
.
pat says.

sometimes dots

i looked out yesterday at the rain
on and off all day

we were friends

more than that with promises that faded into silence.

i woke this morning the same

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

we were friends’

more than that with promises that faded into silence.

i woke this morning the same

she asked about side effects and though
after reading the instructions felt there

were none
noted before

when suddenly came the surge of energy

honest marks and lines different from the immediate gratification of a photograph. though with the latter enjoys the  creativity of editing, layering ; drawing in on the original idea.

time passes, passes. mind  so focussed that world outside own  skin forgotten.

a whisper from you came

a good idea

to stop those dreams and headaches

the moon came bright with yet another name

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.

where is the power house,
metal books he said.

concrete palaces for those
that prey.

he grew it plant like,
fought it,
numbered it
thirteen.

trawsfynydd, we forgot the buzzing,

only heard the wind, for

wind there was this time.

the sky predominant, a gap

for the light to pass

a whisper from you came

a good idea

to stop those dreams and headaches

the moon came bright with yet another name

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.

they  do not know the darkness

how the light can fade into latin

& all things unreasonable

yellow
drawn by the name not just the colour

and oh that name come true
on opening jim

is fading now
yet remains as the description

shades defining.

now I have to say that I usually like

the colour as items, yet maybe not

as entity.

I face the slate

grey

and bleed red

no words to describe the mass,

the danger of it all, the hate  that

rises.



the parallel,

the home, the black chair.



power house.

bone house.

going quiet sometimes, not knowing why.

being smaller with the year almost gone.

marvelling at the looseness of the rediscovered vest

forget the leg moisturiser,

therefore fail as a modern being.

red depleted.i use blue,
oh the darkness of it all,the surface tension,

primeval scream
hidden by centuries of crimson

touch of red

suggested at dinner, to make
a photograph splendid, i noticed

the same in paintings at exhibition.

looking out, the grave yard, noticed
a touch of colour by the white.

cutting,

bleeding the lead

into showers,

and explosive marks.

the power house rears its head again,

pouring images down

like rain.

when she heard that i had been drilling fitfully,

she asked why but i could not explain really. so

i added the stop.

it seems that some like sticks, while others do

not.

there are a few of us, one of us is      leaving.

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely. linen  hangs  heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready.

it don’t work if not connected, if not tuned in, you would think the experts would know that.  we need to signal to another.

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

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

today, another power house installed,

i have to let some things go
now, yet the this remains.

walk the rooms in horror,
see genius in corners,
there.

realise that he may cry
all the tears of life.

we asked if he referred to the war

which we consider affects us all

he nodded then sat down in his garden chair

remember the implications, was told the facts later.

much later.

the war house & after.

now

we dig within for solidity, solidarity, power to continue.  food is plenty.

we shall never know
for there is no microscope

here

moving on i feel it was a flashback
to the girl who wished for quiet and
can remember  in detail

so far we have read the rules
in black and white
in print

meanwhile others translate them in different colours

i read your poetry in the rain

liking the format, liking the days
that come natural now without
no planning

evolving gradually

early yet

I have to tell you
that

i went a different way
to avoid the usual

and maybe, and probably
i cannot fix it
so will look after it
admire it daily
unless it rains

james

comes a differing hue

with duck egg blue

the ironmongers in town

at one seventy nine

drawing the child with found fabrics

watching the marks come good, no dots
intended

yet they came
without warning

asked me who will be afraid of our ghosts

ghosts of humans
when we are gone

you feel like two people

that one is split in two.

that the other one does

look a bit like you

only more so

now is small stuff on paper
as who cares anyhow

we just carries on

regardless

see exhibitions

quiet slow and uneventful

& lasting impressions

a simple drawing out

no fuss

and sometimes late in the evening

think of it

leave the house

and return to the simple line drawing

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.

added bits and embellishments which caused remark

while the space between lines was so immense my head came heavy with drowsy

fell off

&

i did not return

traces remain hidden for the most part
only to come out on particular
occasions
without  warning

she said it without  warning
& i was horrified

painted my mug in happy yellow
drawn by the name not just the colour

and oh that name come true
on opening jim

bought her tea set gently in parts
each week from woolworths and i still have
some of it