skid the surface,  another beetle, lives in water,         floats the tides.

dimple miniscus and glide.        she leans the bridge, watches    you.

shine under sun,         play your tune.

he told me there are more beetles in the world than                anything.

how nice if this were true.

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.

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.





the moon came early

a different window.



this does not mean i

have time,

i will be sewing.



i have made notes and numbers,

pinned it to the wall.



sbm.

is crosses. we used to think xisses.

stab the needle .                  threaded.



stitch the cross, tie at the back three

times.                                                 cut.



start again.                 cover the surface.



it takes time and patience to be  brave;

to face the consequences, to be         so

bold.



the calculations are seven.   full days of

stitching.



xisses.                                                 crosses.



sbm.

cold weather, a hot night you

haunted me, collapsed     one

hour after midnight.        sick.

tired i woke          remembered

you had gone a long          time

now.

later i sit and sew,         think of

all those things.
verb
past tense: achieved; past participle: achieved
sbm.

gifs can be an issue

when i contentrate

on work.



memes are impossible

to pronounce.



denounce the pass it forward,

copy and paste. why write verse

when



you can talk to me.



sbm.

untidy, never used as such.

have a bread oven         too,

redundant

now we have the            new

world.



a mix of excitement and haste

we tied the books, and hid them

there.



with the dusty            cruciform



and one candle.



one rag left hanging…



sbm

while i was gardening this morning,

the voice in my head said ‘ten years

ago, you had just died’.



the other voice replied,

‘ and you are still alive..’



sbm.

listed, not       short

listed, nor win prizes.



not often    published,

i do not submit.   not

until the    resolution,



a few days .



calendar days, some

remember.



the process has importance.

move the dots.



sbm.

i have cleaned the corner where you sat,

changed the cotton mats, removed some labels.

1.

.first memorial.



it is a ritual each year. yet i have mislaid  the black



beetle

with all the dusting.

2.

.second memorial..



it was some time ago we lost.



the sexton.



orange and black.



sbm.

get a cold, lose your appetite for cream. live on marmalade

with toast. the cat gets the cream till full, resplendent on the

radiator. the cream goes solid, the need to recycle comes clear.



yet



all we can do for the best is throw it down the toilet.



sbm.

first seen in ellesmere with period characters we felt may be best removed.



lucky to have one on my birthday with lights from a battery quite reasonably

priced.



visiting town and gallery see them there are quite a lot. more money as craft.



seems little houses are fashionable now.



as are pugs.



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.

making the work about making the             work.



knowing the cylinders are empty,                  you



had asked if i have heard of instagram. a relic of



how we judge by appearance.            i told you that

i had an old box brownie, a clue to             confuse.



it is good to talk about work that is about making

the work.



they like my badge.                                     at mostyn.



sbm..

winter bare her soul.

medieval trees reach up

for solstice and better days.



sing in silence and simplicity.



sing for those in  remembrance .



dark winter bares the soul, those

that believe. sing in silence.



one voice breaks.

dark winter.



sbm

a spidering across my face,  that mooned mirrored moment.



raising from sleep dreamed , dashed my hand to move it,



sadly this morning  find the remains stain, detritus with remorse.





radio news says the evacuation from aleppo is delayed.



history repeats itself.



spider.



sbm.

i came  trembling.         looked for the cloud

from those years ago.                         hidden

in mist,  a white wall .                       no birds

sang.

we are as nothing.

in this place.

sbm.

i do not have an
advent calendar.

it is a season
of dark.religion
waiting.

it may be
time to regrade

christmas.



sbm

some dogs run fast.



some run slower.



some dogs don’t run

anymore.



sbm.

i have not written much about advent, just two things.

yet i know it is here,      felt in   bones;         my soul. i

have no system now to believe  things,                     yet

the reminder comes without warning.                    each

year.

this year

to my own suprise, i find that i still can cry.                  it

is a long time passed. they say our work ,          our souls

are in our chest.

it is not just me

it is          family.

there is no photograph.

sbm.

to explain to you who cannot see,

the cloy, the quantity of water, tasks, and other

hurts, that fit into  a day. the moment

your feet slide into mud, with one word.

heard , read, imagined, the sentence dives and plays

whole, yet as days move on, flotation occurs,

buoys,  slowly we face back to sea , swim on.

either that or drown.

sbm.

will you watch the world             treading.



water floats my heart high, reflected red

below,                                              sky above.





will you hold me up when i am failing,  no

longer floating   .   will you play soft music

say



that we are in this together.meanwhile shall

we keep swimming



together?



sbm.

yet we have learned to            swim

steadily. wet, we wonder and count.



i wonder if it still works for me despite

the cold, the older body. they say i shall

be beach ready.



i do not think that now applies. i have



two nice bathing costumes.



sbm.

the shop was closed. the window;

the fifties’ kitchen, red and cream,

seen

as on an antiques show.

book of laundry planted there,

as if they knew, I wanted it.

to read the rules, regulations,

soaps and sudsy flakes.

dream of singeing smells

of ironing,  gas filled machine,

the one plugged into the light,

back then, green road.

boiling the whites furiously,

steamed  the kitchen.

copper stick bleached

beyond.

I could dream an eternity,

to learn the mastery

of laundry.

sbm.

so i got home,and the wind yesterday has blown some of the leaves away….

taken the holly wreath down  there and surprised to find I was crying.
( ah when you are under the weather things get to you……)
it will be nice to see you. the early days are hard especially this time of year.
your hat has turned into quite a project. i took it to mill to get darning wool,and it was pointed out that lots of the holes are indeed eyelets, and what a splendid hat it is.
also spoke of leaf bags and she said that if one have had the bags a while they will start to degrade…..
how much needs mending?
sbm.

do you listen as i do?

having moved the car up the lane

back wards ready for.

the day.           started well unlike

other years.

wait for the bird song , radio three.

eight thirty.                sunday bells,

stand.

in the garden.

listen to the bird song.

sbm.

you are younger than i ; stride out  quickly.

it is my birthday walk down the estuary. it

is good to hit the sunny patch and hear

the bird call.

a cold day,  november. we decide to

turn, return.

you mention that we had come far,  it seems

that you are walking faster.

or am i lagging behind. now.

sbm.

there are no photographs.

do not emblame your heart nor fear

that this is spelled. do not be afraid

that this will hurt you, for it will pass.



it is a romant

ic thing, a memory in a

vase.



hampreston.



sbm.

is this the final drop, slowly. not the white

wind blown kind that raises spirits.     this

is due to a colder day, early morning      five

below.



maybe this or a lack of adrenaline       caused

it, the coming together of years           which

slowly pass.



shadows of birds. dust motes in air.



marmalade toast.



is this the final drop?



sbm.

a story nonetheless, as are others. i prefer tintin

with snowy a dog. this year you have not told me,

confided. i have the little things that could mean

much.



not about money, more about family. it may

be time you told them.



it is time to regrade

christmas.



sbm.

it is that time of year,

it comes and goes

in waves they say.


unannounced, this is the memory,

physical and mental,

if that word is is politically allowed

these days. in disorder,  subconcious,

tide rising , lifting **** .


once realised, that it is time

again, settle back in to the season.


be known that i cannot keep things alive,

i have no power, no means of identification.


sbm.

there is a flower bed and a cow,
called margaret, how delightful.

the villagers are dressed
well for their situation,
their station.

the child drooped, pined,
no thought though
of horror and melancholia.

dressed in a plain clean way.

as are we all here.

sbm.

all the novels, and romance,

volume two to forty,

all others being

fakes

that need dusting.



the clocks are silent.

pink sands of time

stand still.



the glass is clouded here.





sbm.

the blue is a prim,

and pretty room, draped

with musical games

of chance,

for settling here.



harp strings

relay the vital net,

after shakespeare.



the visitors leave.



lord byron wrote

of hours of idleness;

the letters below,

and all the while

you have no love for me,

worrying over the empty barn.



sbm.

106.

we talked of hedges, again,
for these are not
vertical.

we walked the dazzled mirror,

crept.

small and slightly curious ,
is an artist in residence, here?

glass housed and labelled
ten years ago.

this house is closed, yet
will open at 10 am.

sbm

leonard wrote in medieval rhyme, a scrivener,

fond of the waltz, too.

i shall learn to. and wear a river’s disguise

water’s way.



shall we not see thee dancing?



i shall walk in the way and you may call us dancing

meandering thoughts, consequences, a pas de deux

many may see us dance, few will hear the music

. in and out of season.





sbm.

i have no manners, i will not    apologise

for being. nor say sorry for what you did.

and said.

i will not make excuses and reasons    for

your action nor what i did in repair.  i am

no gentleman, certainly     neither are you.

there is no sincere apology for my   being.

here.

sbm.

saw him twice, dying maybe dead at the walker,the larger  pictures.



he looked poorly, very grey, his friends around looking concerned.

his

sleeve flappy.



there was not much blood though considering all the wounded and dead

pictured there.



i like the paintings, very lively with not much life, mostly war and death.

some

criticise modern art for being gloomy, need to visit the walker full of death

and torture alongside

the jerwood painting prize. poor old napoloen, can you spell it?

look up the roof is leaking.



a lovely day.



sbm.

were extinct is this country once, have been brought back from holidays

abroad.



he said.



they smell of almonds and so does bakewell **** with jam and coconut.



and arsenic.



two on a slide to enlarge,male and female, slightly pink and quite pretty.



i can see his doins   without the lens. they live in beds you know, he said.



if infested one must be fumigated by the pest people, with some fumes.



i took a photo, yet wobbled in my enthusiasm so it did not work well.



i told the lady on the bus about them and she said yes she thought she

had  them once and cleaned incessantly.the doctor said it was gnats

that had  bit her.



she said she never puts her suitcase on beds while on a holiday, abroad.



sbm.

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.

did you know that we are the only         ones

who do not eat insects and that            there

are more species of beetles than              any

other creature. having lost the             sexton

i despair while some                                  tick.

they thought it was the soul from the     dead.





i thought penguins were smaller and         that

an elephant had more teeth than                 that.

you let me hold one;  it was so heavy          so you

show me the tusks too, and we talked about trunks

and headaches.

it was hot there and hungry so i went for lunch,

a sandwich, returned later to look through   the

microscope.the man in the museum helped me.

there are fibres everywhere and when our   coat

comes

off he said there is a shower we cannot see only

imagine.

later i saw a sputnick, yet i liked the mothths and

beetles best. so does the man in the         museum.

sbm.

let not words defeat me

in the chaos of this place.

I like to speak of abstraction,

tidy places.



I like my washing blowing high,

fresh winds and freedom,

scented with robins eggs

and butter flight.



I lived in a flat once, balconied

and still have bad dreams.

©sbm

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 in  clean

linen.



arises with perfume,            an                            uncertain memory.



it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as  love,             what

ever the germ or warfare



I find no word to describe, no random feather nor             dust on

my plate.                                                                            pass a finger.



that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys                       pounding

words and                                                                                    silences.



while music plays.                                                          that feeling. that.



syrup stings my tongue.





sbm.

the light of day and the cooker is gone.

i shall miss it and wonder at your strength.



sbm.

just one day left to write on  purple

for no particular reason except it is

suggested.



one day left to remember the    lilac

he wished was white, and then it was

so.



one day today to change the colour

of blood.



purple is family, the colour of walls ,

time of remembrance.



lavender will not grow here, the soil is

not appropriate.



sbm.

so, sir. i hear that you wear purple under that

sullen coat.                                                   i hear

it is the colour                                            of god.



yet those who do not believe wear it    proudly,

most of the time.                                             sir.



look at him.                                             just a boy.



sbm.

one slip is all, one step too far, the world turns around . no control, no eating,   disorder abounds. watch the ornaments fly…..

i am a fortunate, to live

without fear.

mostly.

with light shining.


sbm.

googling I read that  a perfect              sonnet

rules.  if according to terms ,           conditions.

you think so;   if you have gone     and done it

properly. I understand this                 situation.

yet some  like free form  verse .on      listening .

found words  have their own  stories. written in

any way seems  ok ,                 rather interesting.

finding rhyme difficult  will carry on,           grin

and bear it.  pause.               an unusual exercise

that may end in disaster.                 do not wish

to win.   am not good at being             precise

nor sticking to rules and break some……………

so here we are, there it is.                 a sonnet

in  its rights, wrongs and imperfections, init?



“While all the sonnets in this competition are in a sense an exploration of what a sonnet is, this was the only one that actually treated the topic in its subject-matter.”

there will not be a note on the door to say i have gone.



i have called you.

it is  extra  when



you go alone.now  i have tidied around and taken the

glory. stocked up, and locked the out buildings ready.



it is an autumn day, gold,  glistening from the rain

that fell last night. sun warms and the scarf becomes



unnecessary.



as is the note.



sbm.

no smoke rising.



he said my name over, over

now he may be gone.



there is no smoke, just

mist rising, snow

in the distance.



quite cold, the car alarming.



there is no smoke rising

today, my name

is not repeated.



he may have gone.left

the wild wood

for sale.



sbm.