there is plenty of time to walk from town,

to give an opinion whenever requested.



there is time to talk, and receive gifts. make



time to buy some ready. it has been said before

that these are falling days. look at the wild seeds

and know that as splendid as you are, that



you are  one of many.



there is still time.



sbm.

no items match my search.

yet i was not looking for anything,

much.



i have most that i need,

and want and am given

more

by those who love me.



given more by those

who don’t.



i am smaller now.

sbm.

it is often the way, that we drift,



part company . return again

to our root.



not always where we think

it is, want it to be.



yet it is home.



sbm.

it was not written early,

there was the bed to change, the washing to dry,

the neighbour’s dog. there were thoughts, yet

they were forgotten in the medly of chores.



it is written later, with coffee, the cat full of

cream.



it is a cold and frosty start,  lower degrees

in edinburgh.



the sun is shining, birds fly up.



sbm.

it is a small room full of gifts

now.



wrapped in plain paper, tied with string

or cotton, held with pins.



we have a water heater, we have family



and friends.



sbm.

the gift. from the interior,    petr borkovec translated.



ten years. each day one is read out loud, for all to hear,

though no one is here.



page is marked, label from the cushion where she sat,

sticking out.



why not practice reading?



no one is worried how it sounds.

no one is here.



sbm.

may be we have not written

anything today , or maybe

we have.



just not on paper or type, yet

in our minds with eyes and ears,

the smell of smoke and coldness.



it maybe we played the words

in arrangements, with feeling.



longing to walk, having  to work.



the garden changes, and it may

be, that we have written this.



sbm.

little cardboard houses ****  in the rain.

disintegrate.



they flee and we should

integrate.



some of us have kindness, some

have tiny cardboard houses.



she knows, she saw it in the back

bedroom.



outside a helicopter flew by the mountain,

trees came down, she heard the chain saw.



it is raining again.



sbm.

is the key. yet it has not been done .



maybe it has,  look back in history,

use the links below. that will be

cheating.



so we set a task indoors with help,

and all comes new and tidy. there



are trees down up the           road,

he told me.               we are family.

today, later,       i will write of rain,

ignoring the words i wrote  before.



sbm.

numbers.



friday can be thirteen,

or something else entirely.



is it memory, history,

some                  thing.



he titled it profanity, the

subconcious.



so we write,      critique,

move dots and numbers.



deal with the outcrops,

note the                 faith.



friday can be thirteen,

or something else





entirely.



sbm.

seems i have reinvented

everything quieter than before.

wet autumn days or is it winter,

the change comes

gradually.

i dreamed a cloud of

falling leaves, awake to find it is so.

it is so very quiet here today.

sbm.

this critic is awkward,

sees the good, feels the grace.


how to say it, that the

mind wanders, that filth

detracts from the everyday.


that stitching can be rhythmic, and

never mind the capitals.


clever words confound,

googling interupts the flow

whilst dots are alaways

useful.


i have never done this before.

sbm.

shall we go way to reinvent   ourselves,

come back angry,                      writing

bitter words of                      discontent,

expecting other’s            understanding.

shall we write vile words              about

our  fellows, to them ,  hidiing in profile,

masking internet.               complaining

widely rather than deal, as we are    dealt.

shall lines deepen, etched in           glorious

bitterness, or shall we return quietly, remain

just the same?

sbm.

i wrote one hundred words,       exactly.

did i say much?                  i cannot tell .

i can tell you a it may be a        sad tale

of death, and collection, of folk gathering

by the gate.                    by my gate it fell.

sbm.

squirm with fear and emotion, at what is written.

freeze at the next sentence, it has nothing to

do with you.

laugh yet is it with nervousness?

these are new remarks, a new way to learn.

a group of friends here, it is one’s own feelings

that cause discomfort.

the price of coffe is reduced,

all in lower case.

sbm.

yet we ran out, and no butter too.

it will be a daily thing, now the grass is cut,

now the leaves fall. have you seen the path,

a newer colour, gold. it is the lilac leaves

dying.

the plan is made this year, so each day,

a little while, we will rake and gather.

bag the leaves tidy, yet still hope

the wind will come and blow some

away.

it was a full day’s work yesterday.

sbm.

fog and mist are very slow to clear,

affecting roads and visibility.

no affection here, no one is moving yet.

we hear mansel davies, see the lights,

they are working men, as are we.

some just start later.

he bet me that i did not do a good days work,

i won, just come and watch me.

sbm.

RE: . pdf .
sonja benskin mesher

06:07

Good Morning

I wake to find the internet is fixed,
so have read the document file.

as time is short, and the fact that
it all looks very well. I did like my odd spacing,
yet the dots are there.Let us go ahead and
both have a very nice day. I thank you

for all your work on this, and at
the weekend too.

i am very pleased, a little excited.

yes shall we refer to it as the journal.
sbm.

when i listen to cowboy films

on the radio, carve the pumpkin,

breath held in case they scalp him.



every year the same, festival stress

reduced  by wanton knowledge

that none of it matters, that I can achieve,

that maybe even I could be worthy, the same

as you.



a surprise  party after,

no one came,

no surprise, no one invited,

only you.



sbm.

biggest leaves on the high street,

oswald’s tree. no one swept, bothered.


we hurried by seamlessly, or did we?

some of us looked, a few of us bothered.


some of us helped each other. it is

always a nice day in

oswestry.

sbm.

do you think you will notice them more now, my love?

it is mentioned that you may not be present next year,

that your age is wrong.

all is agreed, we plan for the future, diaries intact.

do you think you may ponder more, my love?

or simply play in the lane, laughter ringing

this autumn air.

my love.

some trees die.

sbm.

surprising what you learn at work, from

carrying a heavy load. the day was slow and dark,

all day, never cheered.  he told that his ancestors

were buried in wool.

his banter had been ignored till this remark.

work stopped , heard  that all             were

buried in wool except the plague sufferers

and the poor.

a five pound fine to those that did not comply,

the register marked affidavit, wool or naked.

it takes some reading, is in wiki, go see.

last night we slept on the

linen sheet, and overslept.

sbm.

bought for my house, have reconsidered, it will be for you.

a gift, alongside other gifts.                              look after it.

found in a fishing shop.  gentle hue,                  alongside

floats, and fish lures, now that is a wonderful

word.

over the road, the water man said all looked                 well,

so we glanced out at the muddy building                    mess.

they knocked down houses and trees                     you know.

driving home was all autumn and bluster.

i shall buy a pink ball for the house,

another time.

sbm.

note. there is no photograph.

should one be listening?                        it is common courtesy, after all,

yet minds designed to wander,                         do so, through the glass

door where the waitress hoovers,               reveals her scottish descent

whilst delivering our coffee and the single biscuit each.            miscounted .

one  left over. no one takes it.       it feels like being in a hotel, she thought.

it is old. the floor slopes nicely, warm .                      the chairs supportive

while the sore throat slides gradually in….

sbm.

is retrospect. something to do with the war,
yet do we remember?

if it is light in the morning, then it will be
dark in the afternoon.

this is autumn, light fades, natural phenomena.

colour changes, we use the rooms, play the radio.

travel to see the mood. stay to feel the night.

this is the hour. nothing has changed.

yet.

all is changed.

sbm.

it has been a while since we spoke.

even now, you will not receive this letter,
along with others not sent.

some went away to exhibition, while others remain in my head.

it is the rule, no contact. today is cooler, we change the clocks soon.

i suppose you are nearly retired, yet i have lost track.

even so, i reflect on what i have done, i ask, what have i done?

it lingers in the past with no judgement here, they are good friends.
we may ask what have you done, yet it does not matter now.

all things pass.

i shall occasionally write, and never send.

no contact.

narcissus.

sbm.

slightly interesting.

all plans cease, while
other symptoms come on board.

yet think hard, while all is safe
and cosy here, others

sleep in mud.

sbm.

songs come via friends,
the books we read,
the place we breathe,
songs of the fading,of life

the words hit our hearts,
and sink in to stay, to pledge
another stage set,
small life

driving the land, the songs,
carry us along, to our place,
the constant places,
we think don’t change,


the song of love, spinning,
dizzying, head and mind,
words of the books,
black and white

so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe

sbm

busy these days.

fade. place into boxes.
political now.

hope the comments come shorter.

blasting . confine their fragile
history. while
outside they bleed.

a man helps another man,
another picture.

there is one pin left
for comfort. and
i am no younger.

sbm

as a child i liked cottage pie
for dinner, we had at lunch time.

i had one best coat, and maybe
a raincoat, gabardine mac. in
summer white plastic mac from
woolworths.

i hear that many ladies have lots
of coats these days,indeed i know
that.

yesterday i ate cottage pie at
lunch time, then bought half
a coat.

sbm.

laundry day is tuesday, it is collected.

brought back clean on friday, a card
label, cloth number, stuckt.

he uses the stable to deliver, not
disturbing anyone.

when all is unpacked, white and ironed,
we change again. it is another week.

the pattern continues. cloth numbers.

sbm.

even when very tired, the pattern remains the same,
the sentences longer. this is not an issue, and is
accepted gratefully.

they say that the latter will bring immense relief,
to try it consciously.

difficult words, go google, copy, paste then
even then,
it may be wrong in someone’s mind.

so continue to sleep in three hour slots,
and not to worry.

sbm.

i wrote of blood, yet did not share it much.

you may think we share our hidden thoughts,

yet some remain. it is a pretty day, with a light frost

and stories of the northern lights.

we walked a while yesterday,

he was visiting his sister.

i came home,  fingers bled.

sbm.

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.

it is said that some folk do not draw properly
any more. discuss.

when all is fading, is it necessary?

no particular answer is required. maybe a thought,
here and there.

sbm.

plus common sense, means you
cannot place it there. go down
to the beach to wait.

place it in a cabinet, nearly locked
until dismissed, then
go down to the beach
and wait.

do not label it, number it, read
the words and try to understand,
then on the beach.

to wait.

what does all this mean?

some say, politics, when on the beach
they wait.

sbm.

cookers, large , green with leaves.

a gift in a fishing net.

some are too high, even with the clothes
prop waving, they do not fall,

yet.

the birds will eat those,
ready for the winter cold.

no doctors to keep away.

he brought bramleys, so
there shall be apple snow.

the recipe book.

sbm.

is pure cotton. check. we can sew straight lines.

i had imagined the house shrouded, in cream linen.

ties. yet.

they said it is mostly green gingham nowadays.

they sew on mondays, twelve till three, any thing
that is required.

it is a big old house, quite dark to stop the fading.

there is an example.

i can tell you so much more. yet.

maybe it is best to see for yourself?

i saw green gingham check.

sbm.

when was the first time.the first
time it was noticed that some one
was helping.

kindness.

the first thought on the sentiment there.

the beauty of it all.

it has been said before. that hate and anger
bring hate and anger more.

it may be the brains’ addictions.

we stopped by tescos and thought of you all.

here is a photo of one man who helped another man.

sbm.

he is a man, who helped another man,
bravely.

small plastic, hiding his love,
only 20p.

bought him, pointed out his bravery
to others, the beauty of a man helping.

another man.

i have not yet taken his photograph.

sbm.

the jaws hold the teeth,
tells the story.

there are bits under nails, no
matter how hard the scrub, how
hot the water, strong the soap.

varnish over, yet the truth
comes out.

sbm.

you may already have the things you need.

just look.

it may be that there could be a piano,
small
neat and shiny. the front may be gone, so that
the bits inside are beautifully visible.

moth.

it may be that all music was learned carefully.

or it may not be so. there may be no piano.

moth.

sbm.

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?

there is a book, we did not buy it, perhaps
a need to find out for ouselves.

it has become a metaphor, a place to be lost in.

he said they bolted the looms down, we disagree.

sbm.

write the words, she says
that helps.

it is a drop in the ocean, and cannot
help those already lost in the ocean.

it was said in depth we drown, and so
it is so.

we cannot rescue the drowning, record the names.

here.

so we draw dresses.

black dresses do not sell so well.

sbm.

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.

sbm.

reading how the body works, you
will have a better understanding,
yet they do not teach of peptides
at school.

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

it seems we are not in so much
control, perhaps that is why
we like routine.

rituals.

i read a lot yesterday, then
mowed the lawns and went
empty headed.

sbm.

yes, you can get used to it.

even that. it is a frame of mind.

it is not a problem, if you think that.

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

the finer cloth is sent to scotland to wash,
it smooths the fabric, tightens the weave,
makes the pattern stronger.

think what you like, the mills continue.

sbm.

the night draws round,and while the lights
are out we wander in the gloom,
wondering.

why was the work on censorship, censored,
why
was mrs ciano rejected?

why do people be angry. make choices.

yes sir you may buy the ring, for a
thousand pounds, or choose to save
someones life.

sbm.

i guess yours sleep in bed,
clean and cosy, safe, loved and cherished.

others love and cherish , yet their families
sleep in mud, on streets, wherever they can find.

they have left the place where bombs drop on children.

yes. a person simply decides to drop barrel bombs on children.

on everything.

now be angry.

sbm.

it is a huge space,
few fellow travellers, all counted in.

nicely embellished, we commented on it
our necks bent. the armoire was locked
of course, as is the meaning of it all.

they were laying the place for tea, so no
bell rang, no one spoke of it that day.

a constant sound, was it his voice?

they will pray for him, all is in disorder.

except the tea tables.

sbm.

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.

the sheds are now tidy.

sbm.