decent . good manners may be retrospective.          breeze soap defunkt.



an error occurred, meanwhile back in the bathroom, soaps and dentifrice.



look you, this is an older place, where there are instruction books. it runs

through the family.                                                                                         now.



we wash our face each morning and before bed at night.                   some

things are worn clean every day .                                                      don’t you?

sbm.

coming home can be.



frightful, in snow or heavy rain,

dark the days are, the evenings darker.

forecasts bring gloom and panic, then are cancelled

minutes later, the phone kicks off.



ice is predicted,  mountains white



i  may be reborn in this valley….



now there is a story, meanwhile

arriving home to candlelight, fire the same

and hopefully all will be well a while.



the mouse, the bear,

are quiet ones.



the word count is 62, the years are 8,

and i dreamed it was 2 months ; longer

than all the other numbers.



i may be a long time coming home.





sbm.

etchings are probably finer than carvings, i bet the latter are more country based, as in
rural.  wood blocks made from twenty years .
he has done me a service, how to be happy . no need to buy and sell,        we can  look
and enjoy..
the wax came later, as did the currant slice. neither resisted, the cake        one pound
ten pence.
i placed the white paper bag in the village                                                            recycling.
so very nice to me today too late, i have resigned.                                                 my self,
my work is honest.
i have turned it all upside down, and most of the crumbs are gone, with added blowings.
verb
verb: resist; 3rd person present: resists; past tense: resisted; past participle: resisted; gerund or present participle: resisting

    1.
    withstand the action or effect of.
    “antibodies help us to resist infection”

noun
noun: resist; plural noun: resists

    1.
    a resistant substance applied as a coating to protect a surface during a process, for example to prevent dye or glaze adhering.
    “new lithographic techniques require their own special resists”
    sbm.

pyjamas from the line, rain rinsed. complimented. not mine really.

left by his estate, three quarters of an acre, where the washing dries.



on a good day or tumbled in bad weather. often it is milder here when

it rains. you can smell that too. most things have a scent, not always

nice. though.



particularly like early grey and burned toast, although there are now

warnings on the latter.                                                             with butter.



ashes of roses.



©sbm

there is no replacement for mummy’s hammer or its official    name.

i saw one of a different style today…

more gutsy,  i laid it straight, removed the things for                charity.

the boxes all looked very well.                                                           no dust.

none that i can see. phillip glass is eighty now, the hammer from 1930

or soon after.

the middle drawer.

sbm.

pirate gun, a toy from woolworths probably.



they said to put my eye to the sight and pull

the trigger.



no caps, yet the hammer caught my lip. swelling.



badly. water to my eyes.



nearly forgotten yet i find that something still

triggers

what is assumed          a long forgotten memory,

bruising

“A bruise, or “confusion,” appears on the skin due to trauma”



aggravated note.
aggravated
ˈaɡrəveɪtɪd/
adjective

Law
adjective: aggravated

    (of an offence) made more serious by attendant circumstances.
    sbm.

time is upon us, as he writes, fine  dust from the fire,                                       the old way.



we used to sit the rise and think of this. drive the evening hunting the blue           flax fields . found and waded the poppies outside the ****,             worked the red thread. again.                     danced .



it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that, he said.   does this mean it is spring now? it is such a pretty room.                                                                                                           yellow.



down by where we park is a cement mixer, sometimes.



©sbm

there are no set ideas in this house upon the repetition of words.        we are sorry that you cried.

it has been a good morning so far.   with fried eggs on toast and the air. sorry that i was hopeless, even with clues.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging, while i have seen so much. i forgot to ask about your trip.   i had driven the mountain to see you, parked nicely,              kissed your cheek, talked about the issues.

it all showed pride and i know

you have seen it too. raddled

face in mirrors, knowing that we

are all much the same. we move



on. on.

together.



sbm.

it has been so, so many years. dormant.



hurts and atrocities.



you did not know you said it.

did not remember.

did not mean it.



sixty years later, passed it forward

when you shouted.         this is how

things go                                   round.



for which i apologise.

hurts and atrocities.



sbm.

darkness descends upon our houses.

watch  it unfold as predicted. you

did not listen.



you said it will all be great again,

not that it ever was. now we watch

as darkness descends.



descends upon our houses.

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.

she orders  a sonnet about modern           tech

nology , some         recent language            urban

slang.  wiki  & googling    helps while spellcheck

defeats nistakes .            publishing on blurb and







lulu. gifs  no issue.  focus                        on  taste.

.work.   memes are impossible to       pronounce.

denounce the pass it forward,            copy/ paste.

why write verse when   we can talk or   announce



loudly.. save in my cloud to edit                  share

. no rhyme no more.                         no elizabethan

manner.          we taps  it clear.        is with difficulty

keyboards sticky,                 some have no empathy



that I prefer old ways. yet                       computer

smart create in a more abstract                manner



©sbm

run in parallel lines, find words have no control. the lake on the other hand, padded , dark through medieval floating green. a day of shifting gravity, i wonder to slip

in gracefully,

after diving nicely

clear eyes ,

bound throat.

remember the cold ness of the day.

glow in groups of style and ease. now.

die back gracefully or be
trimmed?



sbm.

dreamed of devastation,           flew miles        low

over concrete .   skeletons,      bones of the thing.



all is dust, as dust we have become.                 slow.



grey.    nothing moves here no more.          no sighs.



they have forgotten us.        we have forgotten them.



are we  now the bones of what we were?



bad night dreaming.



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.

. some hedges are higher than others.               i wrote . a thing so private, so intense .



. simple , complex. no one will see it .                           note your achievements to date.



.hell no.                                                         i cannot think of it every day, nor have regrets.



.his life is different to yours.        i have discussed it fully, yet it will remain confidential.

. he is still alseep                                                                              and will remain so a while.





hers is the portrait, a girl. cracked window looks at clouds,                       the mountain.

ledge, dead moths stretched out in all their softness,                            stunned by light.



torn          curtains stir memories, indicate a private place to weave and mend a dream.



some hedges are higher.

sbm.

should have gone deleted. you went and liked it, commented.



now is done,  we are  as exposed.

we are responding to the prompts.



reportage.  write again, tomorrow.



we are witness.

nothing is as it seems. there are enough disturbances in the world,

without another. stay under glass.



though it is a secret, we have none



sbm.

lay dead . do not speak nor ask for   fear.

lay quiet. do not write nor tell. there    are

new shoes by the wardrobe.     at an angle.

still. do not move nor participate in  any

way.

do not breathe, nor cry. there are    new

shoes by the wardrobe,            new shoes.



sbm.

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.



need to count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps

us safely, moves us onward.



have faith in good and pleasant ways.  be kind to the one next to you.        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.   he slipped back to sleep holding

the rags.

it was nice to sit quiet, watch the shaking, the belief in all those things.

good to hear the voice raised at the back.



sbm.

they come in groups. i have said it before. two came yesterday, pacing by the trees.

none were visible, none were heard, so

we talked about the history, the work and where we came from. the door is bricked

up now.



covered in wool against the cold.  bales taken down river , down to the harbour down

to the cob.



on boats .



they came in packs.                                                                                                  some time ago.



sbm.

thread bare.



nap worn                           the                 warp threads show through.



sounds sweet, none of this plush and sensuous end.            bones

of it.                           roots of it.                                 linen at the birth.

the death.



who needs  descriptive dialogue?                       we have imagination.



show me a photograph.

we see different things.



sbm.

that was another life. style and sewing        the work                books.



these will be passed to me later          with particulars on   starching,

gophering, polishing linen. glass works over a few hours. these days.



those days were the foundation for these days. hard work won. there

is another way with privacy and organisation.                          industry .





leave things simple,

leave things be a while.

sbm.

we used to sit the rise and think of this.

drive the evening hunting the blue           flax fields .

found and waded the poppies outside the ****, then

worked the red thread.

again.



danced  the lane,                 brown boots through dust.



look at me.

dr.martens.



i sometimes sit and think of this, sometimes   dream

in bad, often in yellow.



**** covers the land in places, my eyes           smarting.



so once again we speak in                                     crosses. i



think the hanky may be yours.



dr.martens.





sbm.

Butchers used to hang their pigs (ham) by the tendons (strings) in the back of the knee. The Hamstrings are actually 3 different muscles that work together to extend the hip    and flex the knee.
Basically the hamstrings most important job is to make sure your leg doesn’t fly off your body when you run.
Yes, Found words with capitals. Then there are cheeestrings which i find taste of  nothing
in particular.
He was not tongue tied in the medical sesnse, he stammered and was bullied over it. While
I stood by with love and embarrasment .
We have since learned a thing or more.
Then there is the thread to consider,                             yet I understand that some use thorns.
Stories continue of bound feet and
crippling
people.
He suggested that body dysmorhia may be at the heart of things.                                           bdd.
I fear he may be right.

Research Albino.

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.

itch                                                          a little word.           onward.



he said it itched for three years, so long                                 that

when it stopped he missed its presence.                    such a little

word.



cut your nails, do not scratch

do not tell anyone.      do not

post on facebbook, like       or

share.



try the remedies, research the dates and                      nourishment.



do not scratch

do not      tell

anyone.



when it stops                                                                 you may miss it.



itch





zzzt.



zzzt.



sbm.

so now i ask bear,

what is ground hog day.



he says,

that is yesterday.



sbm.

i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.



.

it is written



listen to your inner sounds.                                                                           I do.



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, above the voices, she heard you.   it is enough to make us cry.





yet.



if you confess there are voices there may be                                                           diagnosis.

prognosis.



defenceless

maledictus



they speak to us in latin,



people’s voices
besides your own.



sbm.



japan-3

that feeling, that . arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings, opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling. track four repeated. that comes on waking finding   peace and comfort bound.



it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work



reading how the body works, you will have a better understanding, yet they do not        teach of this

at school. they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts, i did not know microbes fancy food,          move our choices.



the play continues, some of the old cast, new actors oblige, ideas on lack of addictive ways. simple days without receptors. singing under breath, numbers.



have you been to the counting?





lines ruled to stop

vertigo setting in.

two

three

four

five

two

three

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work.



sbm.

it has been written before.



the first shall be last,
the last shall come first,

so saith.  first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come:

so saith,     they saith.

they come in  old cars,

small black .    sitting

forward concentrating.



some run a marathon.



sbm.

a book of a certain size,                                                             some prefer content and romance.

having moved things around                                                    the cat finds contentment near the

books on mental health.



she said it is especially nice for children.                              i think everybody, yet do not reply.





the cat has aspergers,

the dog is black.   the

case is               finally

diagnosed.         she is

married              again.

the dvds are in alpha

betical order         tidy.



to get out again you must press the big button. most people forget until all the     pushing

fails. is this helpful? probably for some it is ,                        while others pay 30p for printing.





sbm

have you collected seeds of many years, packed, labelled,                                                   dated.

have you died, and left the table unprepared. i have them now in boxes,                                 a gift.

from those who love.                                                    they will bring me work, joy,                   an independent air.

seeds need water.

sun stays later.

i have imposter syndrome, never diagnosed yet googled when heard on                             radio live .

there may be too many additives these days                                       not enough honesty grown.

she said i should have something                                                               new in the greenhouse.

i have, i said, and thought of  you who

planted the seeds.

sbm

stand back to spite the craving, look on as from afar.   people, some write hymns & mantra others watch tv, not the news.               oh no not the news, the truth is too depressing, a bit near the mark.





i guess yours sleep in bed, loved and cherished.                                              others love and cherish , yet their families sleep in mud,                                                                                                   on streets.



the words came suddenly. an odd day, no gentle people to woo thee, day of stress,      and horror, you watch the news.                                                         a day of reality, the reckoning that nowhere is safe.



come in dreams, the shape of your face remaining. there is a line now,        dreams and aspirations.   words and degradations.                                                                                   lines deepen, water etched.







the rain falls round our houses.







how small.

how white

the child,

skin rinsed

with tears.

salt in the wind.

©sbm

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.



i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of death.



i tidy up,                        hang out washing.



demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is a small hope to always return    home.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas.   remember that you stand alone. are not alone from                                                  criticism and contradiction.

beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated.    empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer,                                                    who cry in dark corners.





yet i have mislaid  the black beetle too.

it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.



sbm.

&



we walked on up near the copper mine , a darker place.                          got to thinking.



&



it comes as no suprise. often ill they die.                                   it is the way.     it is not sad.



&

we are sensed with  loss.                                                                                 that includes you.



he says that’s where the wind comes from,                                       to go most everywhere.



&



probably do not miss him.                       he was not around us much, well  not at all really.

he buggered off.   no inspiration then.                                                   yet.   he was my dad.



&



some day i will carry the bones inside.



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)

she said hello, smiled.                                                        i smiled back with no regret.



the books are left tied tightly.





woke up to see the shy pink. clouds.



we stood together working pushing rags through to make things neater. others searched the lines, the crossing, looking for reincarnations.                               we thought they were sheltering from the rain.



another day of vinegar soaked words. another play on keys, as we drift through           winter days.



curtains dragged across the gloom, early, yet while light lingers later,   we wander to the snowdrop drift, hear the last bird call.



give things to some one else, will they fall upon flesh, rip it, rearrange,    leave to sleep? maybe it were their rags.                                            or handle with care, small eggs hold with love, rearrange tenderly.



?

. it seems the work is cupboards. cabinet makers.



sbm.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that.   does this mean it is spring soon?



i did not know you, yet when  i saw that you were gone too,                                            i felt sadly.



i stood and looked at the blackthorn trees.



black bird sings early, the same bird calls late .                                                      drown darkness.



&





small things shelter.                                       there is much to research, decide to believe or not.

there are so many stories, re-enacted with a hyphen.                       there are watermarks left.



the lime kilns are empty now, yet the mass remains, the wonder at the shape.       ( spring



will.)







sbm.

. red thread .



we did not know  the red thread of fate,              tied readily .

tied with inevitable red  or                       ****** rags again.

a meditation on thread, mediation of red,    i dream of you.

clearly your clothes remain the same, worn,           washed,

pressed.

your ideas come different.



be well in your mending, despite the pain,    raddled cotton .



pin  to hold life again.









The two people connected by the red thread are destined , regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. This myth is similar to the Western concept of soulmates or a destined flame.



(notes for Morrigan, May the first cabinet be locked, the second also, yet leaving the red key in, please?)

Room Two.



. Bound.



comfort bound in       clean                                                       linen.



arises with perfume,            an                            uncertain memory.



what else will you expect of me             . that, mis spellings or rags.



you see, i say it means nothing.   leather bound, broken, words lost



in boxes.





notes.



:: bound ::

    tied; in bonds: a bound prisoner.
    3.
    made fast as if by a band or bond: She is bound to her family.
    4.
    secured within a cover, as a book.
    5.
    under a legal or moral obligation: He is bound by the terms of the contract.
    6.
    destined; sure; certain: It is bound to happen.



Room Three.



.Crossing.



carefully you  drew crosses on my skin.   i looked at you ‘ kisses?’  no, you said,  crosses……



notes.



i have been asked about secrets, secrets, that I should not tell, and I tell you that I have been kissed truly kissed, and the tear tore my face, a water stripe, dipped in agony and love for you that must be a secret you said, you said, so I will write it here and print it, and print it, and dip it in wax, the kiss.i have been asked



Room Four.



. Stitching.



i have done this,      when all else are asleep,



stitching, thinking,         listening to the rain.





then  the voices                               stopped.



cover  the surface . that stitching can be

rhythmic,



and never mind the capitals. clever words

confound.

the littled dress sewn quietly with love.







we have  many more rooms  to describe…….

we have a memory or two.   the world goes dark, we teach and learn,     wait  for    light to appear



it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand  all words, that is the way of things.



it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power,                                       they, no disgust that reels and kicks.                                  yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.



drift. in air, in words.  symbols of poetry, cut and pasted.                                       literally. naturally .



everyday tiny things sing.



when some small birds have failed and gone                                                 others sound just the same.



touched by the small things, softly, we drew





we cannot delete things we do not like

sbm

the start of things, the making of the welsh cape.                      tapestry. we have none here, we have a blanket,     washed and faded.               we started the research and found he lived near the thing he wanted.

we have spoken before. the looms stand idle,                                      some in store some with recognition. machines work less in cold, sheds                              and lack of encouragement.                                we worked the day with thread and needle,      only turning forward, cutting cotton backward.



it is the softest white ply.   woven correctly into squares.   neat.                                    colours merge, while  patterns change through            punctuation   marks.                                  those            looms lay quiet.

seems we have not been to all the mills, never will.               some are gone, yet we have seen them. seen things that are never there.                                                          lost our way, if there ever was one?



yes, you can get used to it. even that.                                       it is a frame of mind. it is not a problem.

we visit trefiw.

we heard the looms working at the top,                                                             so ran the stairs to watch.



we laughed at the odour, the noise and excitement.                                                 hung our arms loose.



again.



sbm.

wrap the house around you, then                            leave it.   out into the only world you know.   anxiety  comes with                                        the unfamiliar.                                                     they call down the chimney.

so i will go back.   look at the buildings. two museums hiding,.               look at the buildings,

this is a mill town.

i watched you both so kind to each other.              apparently

the drive home that feeling came again, after all those years.

some days are soothing, having made a new pattern.                       we have heavy work.all those years ago when i followed  instructions              never thought that i can change them.

so i got home and the wind has blown some of the leaves away….   surprised to find I was crying quietly.

yet   we still wander touching. personal items.

beware the glass, it rattles. beware the clever words.                           at the mill the cloth is heavy

sbm.

have searched the archives lately.

find he knows stuff, facts, and        figures while i am astounded .              the sun  comes out by the  drawers.        open they show me birds and insects          did you know they cross their fragile legs      and tie with cotton threads.

school parties, crocodile rows.       she said there was an accident waiting to happen on the stairs,   while others marched shouting, little roman soldiers.            i hid in the auditorium and checked the spelling.

the title, not of my writing.   the larger picture , detailed me into submission.       revisited.

music

blesses  without recording.                               we have the radio.                           this  museum here.

the name will be the title, length an object. all else is waxed and tied as usual,      making it   unusual. when i explained, she asked why will you do that?                 because of the chained library here.

i found perfumed , decked with statues and sympathetic leaflets to no avail.            i saw the people here.   studio, still, paintings.   i saw the artist there.                        the museum, past locked behind glass, and computerised screens, swimming

she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like your museum with pins and labels. i am pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a    new ribbon.

we work towards a new installation, whilst remembering all that there is

in the museum.

sbm.

comes easy if you practice,

if you gather leaves, drive the roads

safely.



flatten paper, hope it tears

slightly, obtain a drifting

look with tissue.



white on white always

works to give a ghostly effect.



it may be you just use envelopes.

yet some  find that packets with

string are more romantic.



always thought i was, yet  do

not join into one, i remain separate.



is that an awful thing?



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.

the questions came that i cannot answer here   or

ever.



did not count this time only the final one.    then

noticed the first ones  are now undone. the wrong

knots.



tomorrow  go back to mend them.     perhaps i do

not want this to end. do not wish to move on from

here.



this is another year and we are quieter now.



sbm.

the red coat was hiding under layers, but i saw it. red it is, worn, shabby. a friend you say. lining cream silk crumple. the label harris tweed, heather washed, as old. the back a thin satin sash to tie. …

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.   use the brain. remembering strong wrapping paper in folded sheets.   woolworths.   i have a modern roll that tears easily, yet now …

a meditation on thread, mediation of red, i dream of you.   clearly your clothes remain the same, worn, washed, pressed.   your ideas come different, you talk of immersion, and security, nothing was further from my mind.

remember the  old things, ways.   people needles and pins. hold on the shawl, wrapped round, pinned close, stay safe.   be well in your mending, despite the pain, raddled cotton threads.   pinned  to hold life, rusty hinges, prepared …

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..

the dream, the threads parted a while. visitors came, the day proceeded gently with stops and dictation, who is this?


we worried over news, trembled a while, gathered back the warp, the weft. today we continue.

sbm.

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.



days indoors sewing joins     one thread to        another

bring quiet contentment, though some       may wonder.



we are all making crosses, with patience one or      two



become kisses.  did you know?



they came to see and made the connection.



sbm.

they talked of god while i was focussed on the layout,                 the format of the thing.



i told them i had tidied the box, they wanted to see and gasped        when all was opened.



look at the words they cried, another language, so old and dusty.           do you know there

are things not written anywhere?  the page lay open the word in bold, the edges crumbled.



excitement  tasted in air,              another visit is promised with no word of god.         ahem.



the other book left tied.

paradise lost.



sbm.