jim crow.

pilot stone.

dunoon.

walking the wood.

inverary.

burned houses
cannot
be rebuilt.

scotland

tiny wren.
blue hut.

tighnabruaich.

Your parchesi looks like our ludo. Late up today as was at the theatre last eve with friends and the star was upstaged. Most of the daytime was rain and I wrote stuff. It is good to be different, i like your work.

I like patterns and organising things.

the idea of a book is mine homework........

i have wood drying yet i admit to buying kiln dried birch logs from the farmers store

cracking good flames

My logs cost £12 for 4 bags and I buy those as  need. My neighbour brought fir logs at Christmas and I have hazel, oak and conifer drying. Keep warm James

 The  photo is from last year, my neighbour's path. He does not know the flowers and he strims them away. He is a farmer.

I like the salvage yards here and am a frequent visitor.

the sun shone

it was warm



i could not move the rock so

with the fire brick we made



a step thereof



sun stroked skin so

we decided to stay out



up the graveyard to clear the gullies

& gutters



terry called round at three

yet could not find me he

texted  later that evening



the sun shone

the bear raised his head & cavorted his red pyjamas

the news had come early



hey google woke him



it was then he knew he will be european a little longer



later he covered up with the blanket



she had said it will not be for long



#europemyhome

passenger to driver.                 i have never been upstairs on this bus.

driver to passenger.                 this is  a single decker

passenger to driver.                  yes. i have not been on the upper deck.



driver to passenger.                 i do not drive double deckers.



passenger to driver.              i guess you need two drivers with one to drive upstairs

while you drive below



driver to passenger.            the two decks are stuck together. the top goes along with the                                                      bottom deck with one set of wheels.

driver smiles

pause



passenger to driver.            there is a chocolate bar.



driver.                                    fudge.

sweet columbine who runs so lightly



please be me



flimsy misty dress

little smile of sweet & honest charity



let it be me

let me dance the world away

in black with  white & melody



let them like me & applaud



this world away



#europemyhome

dear one

please be kind & care

for those that have no home

no money

no health



while you buy handbags



designer



it was that holiday they said you bought it for some

thousand pounds



while he died out side the house from cold

leaving heysham

looking for a legacy i find nothing

no words no comfortable leavings

parting on the wrong side can be painful /

some hide secrets



five

pound discount on the lorry



explorers do not really need fancy notebooks





goods wrapped mainly in plastic the invention must have seemed a good idea

the sun came &

shadows lasted only a short time



it was quite a shock  that there are no boxes left

only those of a different size

quite a shock your anger that leapt from nowhere



of course it does not matter
yet with that and the moon how can one sleep

how can one pack and tidy when things are the wrong  shape and emotions rise

do me a favour and know it was a favour looking for boxes

foundation for these days
hard work won
there is another way with privacy and organisation
industry
leave things simple leave things be a while
oversight and overland travel

i was asked a couple of weeks ago if i looked out for the lorries would i describe
no not any more
yet the bridge is small and narrow seems room for two to pass

i took the other road wondering why the block  saw the burned ground
fuller cloud
looked down on the tower
went home alone

i am short without magnification
with electrical notes & other insignificant items
did i tell the story of my life
i asked before
i cannot say

69.

is this jane austen
the same that deleted
suggestions
yesterday.

is this the book mark
hunted for
in the bed.

light dispersing.

is this the character
squashed
with bad
intent?

or the sickly child
looking for escape…..

it was world book day
friday

ot thursday……

these days of jollities  cares slip away

shoulders down

we buy our little treat



mine red and white spotted

flamenco shoes



we visit the rarities,

charities and dusty

places where book binders

work late



tiny clean hands gently folding leather

the tourists ask

what are they using this slate

for

and are puzzled that is is just

*******

which slips

mean while
the chaffinch
stays by
the mirror

as you may know,

it was a seedy day

yester day

so i lit the fire and sewed

superman pants.



used herring bone stitch

soothing in white



watched the film

flickering

and remembered

fridays was fish



we had herrings

fried the skin crisp

the roes plump and hard



the boys liked soft

suppose they would



used old cotton,

naturally and the wire

needle threader

fingered stiffed

sewing done felt a little

better



more coal on the fire

all will be well

as i read

the herring fleet

words of fish

remember

newlyn days



fried egg breakfasts hard



friday, same as last week,

and all has changed

but not changed,

just the words are different



driving home i could not see

for dark and names,

yet i saw the power house.



i have the small boy

trousers to mend

and dry by the fire

and feel slightly

peculiar.

in scarborough

we saw richard wilson

but no one believed us





we looked for god in york

amongst the money changers

he had gone outside

with the music





in whitby we played boats

pirates the next day

and all the while we were changing

thinking of herrings and eating nuts



she caught a small thing

tiny tiny mouse

ate it

but the bitter entrails remain.

nasty



she could have let it go

damp drizzle
decorates
small spiders’ webs

in tescos tinned rhubarb is 70p at present

while six pots of varied flavour yoghurts are 85p a pack

two blackcurrant

he says grape

two with gooseberries

the others are rhubarb of course



i likes rhubarb a lot

i likes that the assistant calles me miss

& packs my bag neatly



saying that i noticed that theirs is already growing

in blaenau ffestiniog

peeping through wet earth



while someone on facebook says theirs is growing too



i ordered some from ebay & planted it last year yet

mine does not show  like theirs



i shall worry & fret about that whilst i eat my yoghurt

miss petherick

miss ******

miss dawson who forced the showers



spit & dribble

latin & greek

sisters



i remember all of them not with fondness

not with happy days



she wore a tie you know

het blouse were white & sternly sharp

terrified we went in after games to run

naked whether warm or cold



some had flat stomachs

better quality knickers



dawson had a diary to check when

we said excused it was our time

so we could keep them on

if we cheated she poked our skinny arms sharp



&



we were scared & ran through by the wall hoping

the water would miss



us



she disapproved of me

i feel

i disapproved of her



i remember cold days

divided skirts

ice on the field



the line between genders



dawson brought fear

she wore a tie you know

navy blue



i failed in games in greek & latin



was interested in art & liked bunsen burners & wooden stools

****** dawson wore a tie you know



miss jackson had a pony tail

i bet ****** dawson hated that

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.

have spent three days

handwriting, neatly. it gets

on my nerves that it is so

tidy, repetetive, that i never

did achieve the badge at school

for such a skill.

words a bother too,

always gentle, no grit

really, no filth, or dastardly

deeds.

i spent three days writing,

one eye closed, storm building.

you never know what goes on

behind the scenes.

sbm.

we stood in the lane
talking of old days
and fat bacon.

two helecopters
flew low.

the estuary.





i thought
the dakota
incident

would be
about planes



1234

(notes i wrote)

it seems you can google verything

and put your life a right

i just paints, and if you

read Terry Frost

you will understand.



drawing lines
in paper, cutting,
bleeding the lead
into showers,
and explosive marks


the power house rears its head again
pouring images down
like rain
while gavin bryars plays



repeated



jesu’s blolod never failed him yet

unlike the titanic

which sank

they  do not know the darkness

how the light can fade into latin

& all things unreasonable



today i write of glass and ashes inspired before

then swept by other’s moments witnessed  the cleaning

a month passed & in our surprise forgot the soot and dashes to burnish wax

today a small task.…



careful what you dream on a cusp of night

know that all stars are not the same



while standing the realisation have got it wrong

pale words a clue in the breathing

the stone set left in barns

caught the words hopefully in burning hands thinking that the sky was clear



though in the past

never so far away



i wish I can tell it in a more orderly manner….



did i sit quietly thinking

then place a few

things together?



yes



exhausting the star

i wish i wrote romantic on love

&

great escapes into relationships with hormones

that matter



or dreadful deeds

blood & ****** in filthy ditches



i wish i wrote like clever folk with long flowing lines that rhyme



i wish i wrote dark & meaningful in sticky ink on paper



instead i write small in code with biro or

on keys in bed a ‘morning



i am i am

life comes in many stages



we are more than what happened





some people stay home a lot nothing wrong with that & curtains drawn

had been home some time perhaps twenty six years when she persuaded me to go with the promise of a clean dress and ragged towel to hide in

the journey was fine in the bag with the elo wishing they were a wild west hero



unveiling was painful a challenge to follow such a handsome wholesome chap

before me



the comments came with nothing nasty yet my discomfort & embarassment rose as always

my body lagged sagged

my spirit broke





even so i may have inspired as i did those years ago



an old coat refigured with buttons and gatherings until i am become

to be



put on sale without the podium

teeth unchecked as i had none

sad

i thought it was abolished



she bought me

the child herself



yet no one owns no one



returned home

covered

curtains drawn





later i heard that karl lagerfeld had died

curtains drawn

no one owns no one

i am the solo flight

signs & patterns

non sensical

i am the timer

the quiet time

i am a broken plate glued

reused

i was a mouse found hiding

i am embarrasment while others are not

i am reluctant

a hero

another life

i could be a leader if you listen to me

i am non binary without your finery

i am no one i may be someone

listen to me

low

light darkens as the wind blows down our homes

here

power houses fail

decommissioned

light fails

wind blows……

a small thing  ragged who knows all of it

pieces torn away



work along the coast with thread and diligence

gather wools

layer carefully we shall have warmth this winter



once we touched through holes in blankets now we have our own demise

the news came suddenly

not everything
is
black and white



slip away
we watched them slip away



the news came suddenly

it was
the dream

the cloud
the quarry



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



are you sleeping
while i watch the burial
the pain
the madness
the snowdrops

are you sleeping,
while they hold her up



still the dog goes on each day
slower now
still the morning comes



forge forward
with obsession

a
variety of colours

there is another language



came with madness

romanticism

there is no broken glass

no face  at the window no god no more



sea birds

( notes on roots)

grow deep in ground may hold us down



i noticed the same in paintings at exhibition           looking out

the grave yard noticed a touch of colour                by the white



red that seeps insidiously into mind

spoils all things



things that can be mended



he said that most people throw broken plates away



the mass                                      the clouds lay heavy

rain came that blinded

again



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

a pattern of letters, ideas, or associations which assists in remembering something so it does we do and test ourselves early



on a still day i

can smell it here

when the tide

comes up to

the bridge

remembering days



life was unclouded

and knowledge

was simple



sleep came easy



ran through paris

streets

in black and white.

no sub titles.



painted circles

the land

used all the paint

the natural light

and st david



watched the colour

make marks

watched the light

turn dark



now i wait the early sun,

to take a photograph



i should like you

to be happy

it looks like a new poetic form-lovely

and there unfinished

tacked and smocked

the littled dress

sewn quietly with love.

bear knows no god Jared they said that all the insects will die extinct is what they said all the little things & he cannot bear it



a storm came yesterday dark and loud  the landscape veiled

awash a while

black things fade and all is grey



win or lose hedge your edge

write of parlay

we chatted over manners and harboured edges. these things … moved the line into a place of rural contemplation.

yes, the snow drops while small snow drops

light breeze

promise of a quiet day



yes, solemn

mournful is understandable



44.

another day
in paradise

45

bear says he has seen much

even suffered as is said



hoping to stay in europe

yet

nothing saddens as the news

came yesterday



that all  insects die

gone by

the end of a century



they say



noting

nothing for the feelings of the bear

they say it matter of fact as if no

one cares

demands are everyday

simple things can be priceless & while the words pound

grind

oh make us cry

while the world is turning there is a small hope to always return home



then



why did he mention the old house?

i thought he did not know

when he looked at me







i slept a darker paint

a place of nowhere

no marks no texture

clarity



from



days of research

at the old house

&

out in the land



feeling the way

through the history of this place



threatened



you ask for a fantasy      a challenge

this is a house full of ideas

statements

a house of dreams and nightmares





i thought he did not know

when he looked at me

he always had that small hope to return home





listed building

lurching sideways keeping my balance

i returned home

take a photo,
of the photo,
we have chinese
whispers. this
is beverley nichols
with the right
hon. sir esme howard.

you don’t get
names like that
these days.

nicole de laittre

met by chance/social media

i visited a place not seen before

makes songs & magic

newly born



it is a singular thing



stand entranced



this is a new note

step to another side



i visited a place not been before



sbm.



“you inspire me. Not to give up on my core in
fits of hasty shame

Ive not forgot the trenches-
I visit for cross purposes
I resist the urge to
anonymously destroy.

You recognize the handiwork
For im not without spiritual support

Others show their hyena faces to me.
Wheres MY hyena face? How can i conjure one to pacify the others? To stop the rounds-

“try the blue paint instead” comes a voice
a heavenly mixture of restraint and play.

I lose myself in the blue and brown paste
Holler at red ceilings
Try on the green when no one is looking.”

nicole de laittre

my small voice



are you alright?

i am worried for your welfare

yet fear an intrusion



wait

234



my small voice

are you ok?



i may understand if you explain a little



look at his face

my small voice

456



my hand touched his arm

i look away & say that



i may also feel this way



look down to my hands neat in my lap as always



789



my small voice



he leans in while i allow the silence

the silence lengthens



&



my small voice is quiet



we look out and the world passing by

his finger points

an understanding

where has the other one gone?

there used to be four of us



she said



she lobbed a pebble in the stream

watched the effect



another replied

he got sick & died



nothing will ever be the same again



water flowed

a bird flew up



third one commented

that he would be missed

that the bed would feel empty



felt bad that he borrowed the shoes without permission

took his money



she remembered how he scuffed his bike

down the path & ate hungry





the heron stood silent opposite on the mud



there are three of them now sat on the log by the stream

only one went to the funeral





the others

sent to school

bear bear

how will you mange with all this palaver?



life



your feet are sternly stitched

your waistcoat a blend

to button against stiff criticism

& political debate



a head start



nodding



mind your manners & stay cosy

in bed while chaos is all around



always be set in your own ways

&

grunt beautiful



know your life

will be loved by many

&



not the few



bear



while all around is quiet set out into

the world

to

be an example



love & otherwise

though i like white

& the invisible type

with glycerine

i find beauty in soap

the look the meaning

the cleanliness

my last sunday off work

a while

we close in january

just as well with this weather



all is quiet in town



& at home

find out that

that is more to do with the rugby

than snow



so plans are to watch andrew marr

with coffee

no cake

am intersted in politics randomly



the bread pudding i bought



is limp & wet

& only good with cream & sugar



after we tidy the crog loft with soap

and ingenuity

& knit later



the look on her face when

i said it is for homeless

which of course includes

refugees



i cannot forget

yet

am starting to fathom the meaning



only 3 degees below this morning

so now i ask bear,

what is ground hog day.



he says,

that is yesterday.

it is a good place

the logs were sold out yesterday

i go back monday



he has suggested i photograph

the other side

of the fence

and i will



farmers dolgellau

buying birch logs



kiln dried

imbolc
Posted on February 2, 2019
Imbolc ˈɪmbɒlk/ noun

i asked the bear,
do you know what imbolc
is?
he stared at me with glassy eyes.

i told him. it is
today.

crunch

where we slid last week

hard where once there was mud



gasp in cold air

touch the silver

spears



we are sorting wood

into piles

twigs into kindling

worry into calm



we are noting the vortex

the sensibilty from friends



the end of january feel

the stove is still warm this morning



1