came from another country, you know,

quite some time ago. i lived in the jungle’



yes.



‘i have been here so long, i feel i belong’



yes.



‘ they call me an immigrant’

said the bear, sadly.

so the sky is pink, the window is open.



listen to the crow call, or is it a rook?



we have the memo.



‘it is cosy here this morning’, crooned the bear.

‘so i looked for images on clearing the jungle’ , said the bear

sadly.



‘it is where we live, then they mow it down, with

no regard, just bulldozers’



yes.



‘so where will i live now?’



i watched him curl up.

i was gone all day, and my feet hurt.

i folded tee shirts, was confused with socks,

tried to be good, got it all wrong.



what did you do, bear.



‘i stayed here all day, i don’t want the money’

he was still laying down and mumbling.



‘why have you not shared that one

about belief ?’



i think i forgot.



‘did anyone read it?’



i don’t know.



the bear slipped back to sleep

holding the rags.

you know how you can hear me,

when i am thinking. ‘yes that is because

i came from the forest, it is quiet there,

we can hear everything’

yes.

‘where have you been all day?’

here and there and felt the air

on my cheeks.

‘ so i hope the blanket of sadness

is lifting?’

yes. thank you bear.

well things are looking up‘, says the bear,



‘now maybe they will believe in me,

like you do’



yes. yet.



i can see and hear you.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low

like that, says the bear.



does this mean it is spring now? it is such a pretty

room.



yellow.

‘isn’t the sun warm?’  said the bear, ‘and look i speak in italics’



yes, it makes me feel better.



‘which the warmth or the format?’

so the bear looks at me and says,



‘ you mean it were the settings that was wrong ‘



yes.



‘so it was all your imagination?’



yes.



‘i feel a bit better now’

black bird sings early, the same bird calls late.
new light drowns darkness, spring spins around.
black bird calls early, the same bird calls late.
sonnet sings ten beats to another’s spare sound.

who asks for word, who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, which rule of rhyme or reason.
making of lines , counting the breaks, our hearts
open. this is february, split season.
moon draws the tide, upper river pools
on spring, a note , a sonnet , a dance
where light or other prayers redeem fools,
those who rage the world sons may change perchance.

on spring we write in fourteen lines, to date,

black bird sings early, the same bird calls late.

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.

the bear looked up and asked

have you written any thing today?



no, not much.



so then , no one will know

what has happened

today.



no.

if you stop writing

about me , will i

disappear?

will we be so quiet

no one will notice us,

any more?

the bear considered, thought

it may be nice.

it is a new little ribbon,

for you. i will tie here,

yet not too tight.



it has been a long time now.



yes, said the bear.

a long, long time.

who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, rhyme or reason.
breaking of rules,        our hearts
open.                         split a season.

on spring,                 slight chance,
light            or prayers can change.
sons      move in a prouder stance,
yet others rage.

black bird sings   early
the same bird calls late.
sense that nearby
one year came straight.
spring slides. the
moon draws tides.

so i says to the bear when he woke,



hello,

i will be quiet today.



why, he replies.



my friend has died.



the bear says, then i shall be quiet too.

he said that we will die,
as all things will die,
go back to nature.

i agreed.

he will remember me.

the whole family,
returned in the evening
cooler, cleared the hay
from the graveyard.

it was hot, so
i layed a cold
flannel on
his head.

blind man’s buff.

wherein the word buff is use
d in its older sense of a small
push.

the game later also became known
as “blind man’s bluff”; it is possible
that this name is a linguistic corruption.

again.

it,

blinded those that could not see

the love and idle artefacts, each one

a statement of nothing in particular.

phased those that drove the cwm

in site of home, that stopped, saw

nothing.

water that seeps, insidiously into mind,

spoils all things.

things that can be mended.

he said that most people throw broken plates away.

thank you.

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

and filaments.

it seems the work is cupboards.

cabinet makers.

a handy hint is the furthest place,
people like to be near. people may prefer
moving forwards, not looking back too much.

things go round, rebound. it is a lovely
journey, through the mountain range, glory
for writing,

travel journals, while all the while, we think
we travel the other way.

so we did.

near the marches.

it is my brother’s birthday
soon, , stopped
in the village to shop.

it is a good store, post
office at the back, steaming
gently, brown paper, calculating.

the candles are dear, just one pack left,
perhaps a power cut come lately?

anadin, i tidied, whilst i waited gently.

outside she wondered at the ivy
outside to inside the place.

some one moved gently
behind her.

i could not sleep with all
that wondering.

the wandering through
the marches.

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.

meeting
in the chapel,
house to pray on
small birds, charcoal
drifts. in air, in words.

symbols of poetry,
cut and pasted.

literally.

naturally .

the talk
came back to electrics
and ironing, side effect of
the tabernacle machynlleth.

drawing.

what small thing
touched you yesterday,
touched your heart.

among the larger issues,
outstanding nonsense,
did some thing
stop you in your tracks
to wonder.

one small thing.

did you too
forget richard parker ?

reading the line, moved the line
into a place of hedges, rural
contemplation.

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

as you know,
some of us work sundays,
unless we work on monday.

some times we have this
day off, to have a weekend
of slower time. we pinned
the thought of you, carefully
35 times. needing more, we
shall shop on monday.

small gold at 20p a bunch
not counted. so you are
safe. i have his number
reinstated. twice have stated.


this does not mean i love you.

i shall send them to america.



pins

seen in aberystwyth
lately, an other world.

away.

layers of paint,
wider crossings.

the man saw his father
in mirrors, helped
with tiny shoon,
helped with self
esteem.

it only took one
hour,
to blow
those cobwebs
away.

i met the story teller,
in the museum,
the street,
the place between.

some of it did not work,
so added red , text, news
paper.

some of it did not work,
added bunting, torn
paper.

most of it works now,
memory plays a part,
when we look
to the mountain.

the idea left us dancing.

use what is already there,
make do and mend, linen

threads hang heavy, needles
preserved. small holes ready.

shall we mend the rags, or
pin them onto wool pads
ready for discovery.

these are the planning days,
the filming ways, of
lifts and wild imagininings.

the tabernacle wales.
the tannery.

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 ground,
where dust and moth abound.

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

we shall look at the photographs.

she said, the time is right
funny how things work out.

the discussion was on the crucifixion,
how things get lifted, to cook
a cabinet pudding. it may have been
early, yet you see, the swallows are back.

the buttercups are out.

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,
this is not a a saying.

heavy rain lasted all day.

one is down, string
broken.

remembering now
metal birds in comics,
one flew over low
yesterday.

i fail to describe
this place as it felt
saturday,

wet green, womb like.

it is a colder spring,
now with rain.





rain, rain

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

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

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.

alongside a list of tasks
repair and defend, cut
small twigs with gusto
and imagination.

make conversation,
explore philospy at
the kitchen table
all gingham and pastry knives.

this was the order
of the day. thursday
the handy came, instead
of tuesday.

plans change.

work is steady, absorbsion
as if the outside world
is ended. looking up
find it has not.

stamped a hundred times
in rhythm,
war of the worlds.

a call, a message.

i was not excited.

it is forever autumn.

the poem read in steady voice
resounds. begs to share.

sending words out for pictures,
sending pictures out for words.

the voice reads on regardless.

a small thing remembered,
in mind, in music, the sharing.

the collaboration.

hearing everything in return,
unwanted, unwilling to partake
in all the particulars.

time will tell, while
decisions come quietly.

are you tired of waiting,
do you grasp the mettle,
write it down?

young man.

one bolt left,
not for sale as a whole.

yet carefully cut, sewn, packed,
the small room, it is available
to share.

have you heard his voice
high over mountains, repeating.

do you like this cloth, tradition weaves,
these old skills.

having told him this, the work continues.

rewritten, cannot write  the feeling,

feeling the rain              soak through.

hours, wandering                  the lanes,
finding the shore,     my independence.

watching the silversmith,  birds sing,

water

logged, lost,                                 happy
in the knowing.

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.

walked down to find a new grave.

then, i tidied yours.

you, who disliked a touch of red.

it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,

only just a theory,
yet used independantly,
alongside honest work,
for mending.

the film continues,
some of the old cast, new actors oblige,
ideas on lack of addictive ways.
simple days without receptors.
singing under breath, counting, unpacking boxes,
this is the lead. hints are posted, and may you believe them graciously.

for many times will you be tested.

there were substitles, out of focus,
we could not read the other language.
the film continues…. peptides.

they say, and close the stores.

it is complicated, to do with floor space and employees rights.

we had chocolate eggs, worked hard, let our arms loose.

warmer now, the sun shone, people came, visited,

smiled, fondled the wool, spoke of age and weaving.

he said there were many looms in his day.

he is eighty eight, he told me many times.

the cobwebs away, yet not all of them.


impossible, an old house. there would be

time, if it was national trust where all is

care and cleaning, though i have heard

they leave some now for authenticity.


I imagined it would cost forty five, yet it was sixty,

until the special offer.


we have washed and dusted,

spring cleaned, had time for the garden.


again.


it is a nice place

here.

during the day, sun shining,

is this spring, or summer

now? clearing the debris,

painting it white.



birds gather, as the

radio plays.



we dance in the greenhouse.

mrs ciano is home, well one of them.

some could say this is a forgery, yet

she was invited, mrs ciano is multiplied,

the answer is clear, may the fourth be

with you today.

we will empty the basket, put our things

back in place. mrs ciano is at home,



http://mrs-ciano.weebly.com/

was at the national library of wales,

you know, that big building in aberystwyth,

just after bow street. they have a red carpet on the stairs,

men standing at the base, to guard, to help you.

tie the books in cases, stare at the black book  again.

mrs ciano is labelled, and no one looks at her.

there is a castle here, though no one thinks so.



notes – Bob looked at mrs ciano

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.

there are a few, those who should tidy,

those who pump and clear, those who

investigate.



water beetles float their legs, paddle

the river, dimpling surface. hang on

the bridge , warming back and watch.

water men wear high visibility, while

the beetle shines black.



we have cut the paths

and planted bluebells.