dreams, hours long. in tune .

there came some men with music,
hours long.

some times things seem so very
well, brings guilt for the others.

the process has to stop, some point.

space is cleaned, prepared again.

credo.

all things pass.

sbm.

what to say, when you cannot help.

smile, when the work is overflowing,
when nothing froths properly. milk is not
my favourite thing.

never has been.

those dependant on never eating.
much.

a pause, a comma,here and there, sometimes
confuse. yet know the difficult task comes
easy in time, with practice.

you may not think so when the machine explodes,
covers in embarrasment. there is another mill.

some times it feels awkward.

the looms are still working.

sbm.

or is it, will it grow some more come october?

the drive is easy, flat, up and down quite stately,
neat stripes, well nearly.

little lawn by the pigsty , a bit rough, no problem.

the lower, is sloping with little paths and mole bumps.

we start off buzzing, then the engine steaming,
we pause, gather breathe push on, ankles bending.

was this such a great idea? looks good on completion.

friends came, admired the dresses, do you wear them?

no not really, they are just part of the furnishings.

i am not quite that tiny.

sbm.

look at the photograph,
a funny little thing.

who cannot type nor spell
effiiently, the words flowing
too fast from fingers.

hold the charcoal tight, add
fears and misgivings, sound the
angry words in stone. it is not meant
personal, we did not find the key.

so we work until tea, spoiling
the pattern with verbs.

the picture is set, sewn, scratched,
poignantly scraped.

we have stiff little fingers.

sbm.

some want their receipts, other don’t.

it is all a matter of taste, etiquette,
upbringing and security. in the bag or
wallet sir?

some check at home, that all is well,
secure and safety. some shred, while others
burn the evidence of careful spending.

i put them in the compost bin, where only
the resident mouse will see them.

it eats well there.

i know not its gender,
nor political persuasion.

there is a shop nearby,
a charity that sells
some things for a penny.

i bought an orange collander.

sbm.

the hold all
does not quite hold them all.

i cannot close it now. offered

a space i chose the cards, eyes closed
metaphorically i suppose.

death comes in many ways, these ended in the
bag.

i wanted to choose yours, yours and yours, yet
it had to be done quickly, recorded, posted,
recorded.

there are 36 less, i repeat.the bag will not close.

the little book of death,
on the irony.

sbm.

its a tidal river,
the sea water comes in to the bridge,
where they used to build boats.
the river full and still, mid flow,
i watched and looked early,
i noted the sheep tracks where we run,
parallel.

‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would,
the grave digger, grinning,
‘ happy new year’
and the same to you, angel.

years ago,
i may have jumped,
after you buried him.

its those like you,
that see the beauty of the river,
where the seal comes to play,
and the tide goes up to the bridge.

so we laugh and wave,
and go on our way
up to the bridge.

sbm.

http://tinyurl.com/o32x6fn

we think of , write of fish heads,
cut off.

placed in a dish we wonder.

the cat walks off, not understanding
the urge for recycling of some sort.

we know fish bone is good as fertilizer, yet cannot bear
to grind them. they float, stare at me ******.

smelly, not fit for the bin, nor paper, nor glass,
eyes blurred deathly.

as suggested, throw to the night creatures.

she said that some thing will eat them.

sbm.

may be beans or latrines,
who cares anyway. love them.

yes it is interesting to read,
to watch the animation. no need to judge.

this is the way to learn, to watch,
to think, take photographs.

google when back at home, read about
people, and know we may after all
be twins.

it is a big house, he spends his time
rendering the walls.

a dark bird has flown over.

sbm.

taste best to those who like them.

slightly ****, we ****, throw the stones
to the wild.

maybe they will grow.

the door bell rang, you came with
your sweet heart, when i was closed.

you drank the tea i made you, ate
my chocolate biscuits.

i hardly recognised you without your hat.

an odd affair. ate more plums, went to bed.

the words, no need to visit,
fell on deaf ears.

sbm.

the bikes are moved, down to the old
pigstye, by the toilet.

plenty of room, once
it was tidied.

shed was rummaged, everything
put in line, most things
remembered.

few things dumped, while others are washed
and ironed.

slowly, there may be room for the piano.

visitors came, talked of art and signatures.

they did not know the shed is tidy now.

sbm.

it is an obvious thing, yet you
were not looking.you had seen
round corners, down the well,
most places, yet in front of
you it was.

they came suddenly, i heard their
voices. we need to keep the pattern
straight, in time to the music,
there.

later, we leaned against the post,
ate little apples, looked at
the scene,

got bitten.

as always.

sbm.

quiet all night, then suddenly, the quiet
voice sings. it is time to speak, to make
a mark.

to dash the pencil ******* stone, break
the lead. erase inherited memory, genes
denied.

listened, it talks quietly, listen.

cut the paper, brace the ash, rub and smudge,
think again.

think if it had been you.

yours.

sbm.

wednesday, the shops shut early.

here.there are still tourists around.

or new people. i bought some sweets,
a thimble,a packet of screws, one
light bulb.

chatted about face book in the mongers.

i moved here in 1993. I am an immigrant.

sbm.

slow down when squirrels cross.

nut shells rattle the mower blades, so we
look up at the acorns growing. all is well
at oswalds tree.

she carried the cake, to and fro, it diminished
at each turn, a victoria sponge. while all the while,
the bodice remains private, linen buttons tidy.

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.

best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

this is not cross foxes. we will go to new places
again. i will show you things.

sbm.

start again. mid september,the cloak folds around.

dark at the window, rain streams the lights, lorries
drive early. mansel davies.

does the music sound different, does it ease
more readily in autumn. i write in halls, remember
the museum, work steadily, do you understand the delight?

strange that such a simple task can bring such concentration,
pleasure after a long day before. to clarify here, i had a day
at home, working. the clocks are never right.

sbm.

seems there is still some room,
an expansion, another way to think.

to think,that one can do things, often
means you can. difficult, sometimes, yes.

one step at a time, eating garden fruit
and fortitude.

a good summer for the garden, plans ahead.

hours of pleasure.

i shall take photographs.

sbm.

can be muzzy things, caused by a
sincere lack of liquidisation,
or a symptom of another particle.

substance is taken, ibruprofin, after
hunting the bags, the old bathroom cupboard,
which is tidy now. tea then, and typing, ensuring
the jaw and neck are slack, no tension.

think of montgomery, the garden, relax, and know,

that others have worse than tight head pain.

maybe this is smoke inhalation,
maybe it is nothing at all.

no hormones, no alcohol required.
bandages are useful.

sbm.

grass. is not growing so much.

set off early, blades raised. birds watched.

even stopping at the tree, to taste apples,
was quicker, forty minutes.

now then, she is right, they are small.

i was told to take the little ones off,
yet could not bear to do it. my loss.

they are tiny, they are sweet.

we **** them to the core.

it is mid september.

life comes looser now.

sbm.

opposite the house. is mowed
regularly, bordered with rose bay willow herb.

pink.

some say a ****, others an herb, yet it is
a useful plant, a stand together in public
space, glow in groups of style and ease.

now september, frothy beards begin to
gentle blow on air, then winter stems
remain.

fireweed.

pink.

i have no photograph.

.

pink.

to die back gracefully or be
strimmed.

sbm.

there is nothing wrong with listening,
it may be nice. other people’s voices
besides your own.

there is nothing wrong with helping,
forgetting your own agenda,
a while.

maybe we shall drive the weather, into
another season now the change of colour
is at the top.

she said i sound like seven, the other
required les nasal reverberations.

i do not read in public.

let us help each other.
be kind. listen when he
sends his love.

sbm.

yet a large loaf is too big for one.

each day we draw a dress, mainly charcoal.

it is disaster there, they sleep on streets,
there is no aid, the radio plays. for real.

each day we draw a dress, mainly charcoal.

pins cannot mend some things.those found
on beaches.
sbm.

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.

sbm.

i heard on the radio.

they decided to walk.

he asked her what she had..

nothing she said, nothing.

money? nothing, nothing,
nothing. nothing.nothing.

nothing left except my girls.

i have not lost them, we hold hands,
hold hands, hold hands.

we have nothing.nothing. nothing left.

they decided to walk.holding hands,

sbm.

you can come any time,ask me any thing.

i do not have an answer.i can talk about materials,
the way of my making, how it came to be here, how

everything is connected. I can make you a drink
if i remember, a little frangipane that i did not
make.

we can talk about solomon, the last boats, hair for lockets,
you can tell me of your work, for i am interested.

it costs nothing to come, to visit the studio, study
that within yourself with clear sight, know that we are
indeed the fortunate ones here.

we have a home.

sbm.

drawing on experience.

with friends, with food.

drawing on paper.

we worked together, he drew,
i messed it up.

it is friendship.

sbm.

it is a source of inspiration,
and research. it is written, yet
having writ. we use. imagination,
add a dose of suggestion, slightly
thinking this is fact we do not move
on
when
perhaps we should.

so moving on quickly we read the account
which is quite brief.

remember the voices.

know that caiaphas was just a man.

it will continue, good men die.

sbm.

unpicked ready for the day.

tried to convey joy, delight at
some where back before, some where
so badly spelled. fell on deaf eyes,
ears that cannot see some things.

it is the middle of some where,
one hour’s parking, no photographs
allowed.

he watched me through a window high,
had set the looms some thirty years.

he understood the wool, the thread,
the wonder of it all.

he said some people like utter *******.

as do we.

yet this is another day.

sbm.

research is kind, we have tried many colours.

we ate the cake, yet not wishing to appear
greedy left a crumb.

for a bird.

we wander through where the fence should be,
not minding the delay.

you see, we are lucky here, safe and dry,
yet
we do really miss that little dog.

gone now.

sbm.

rewrite it, add the dots, delete the rhyme.

erase the last draft, start again,constantly.

wrap arte facts in paper. box for transportation.

lose the plot,scrap the lot, fear the repercussions
constantly.

now there is a good word, if the space bar works.

do you wish you wrote longer stuff, important tomes,
well i do,
constantly.

it is all ready now, i just need your instructions,
and i know you have asked.
constantly.

sbm.

it is called hate speech and should be reported early.

know that this upsets, both parts, especially when you
are liked.

understand the way of things, the good feelings that
reside.

do you know that all will appear ugly if you speak so,
make you feel unsettled, and unhappiness flow.

i only say this, as some may block you. think early.

it can just as easily happen to you.

did you fight in the last war, did you earn your medals there?

there is a small bird in this house, perching on the chair.

sbm.

it was said that god saved them, yet
what a cost. i heard the news quite early,
it is an old radio. reeling we had tea, not
being in a place even to imagine.

most of us are speechless.then one raised
his voice

in fury.

it is unimaginable.

sbm.

oh i got it wrong, in truth the theory is right.

barbaric: the concept on kindness.

yet we learned about broken bones, bodies
that seep blood with water. we studied the mosaics,
good legs, good legs here.

the voices rather quiet. we have had a life time
of listening, yet not understanding really.

so let us go forth and compare alice to your god,
as we have done in the past..

yet know there is possibly nothing to fathom here.

oh really.

sbm.

the fence is down, it has been a while.

i can watch you. walking. watch you working.

you told me it will rain later, that my work

will stop.

yet the sun stayed all day.

the repair will come sometime, it
is down to the farmer.

harvest home.

we all have
boundaries.

i am no different.

sbm.

a set routine, tasks most days.

bread and butter, move a mountain.

yet it can be done slowly, only
looking at that which is completed.

not remembering the punctuation,
or rhyme.

enjoy the air, watch the frog,
hop close by.

know that when all is done, you
may sleep well.

night paralysis

sbm.

i do not buy the paper, often read them in
supermarkets, waiting. friends offer, knowing

i have the fire.they have extra uses, for the house,
and garden.

Brenda Keough Evans gave me these gifts.

she is my friend.

i read the news online, not that there is total
truth in some of it ‪#‎biased‬

sbm.

as christ the king.

we came up the back way,
from the avenue.

she did not know of the place,
she asked her friend.

down in the lower room, we saw
the empty food bank, their cases
full of treasure.

read the names, the words in latin,
heard all the questions. wondered
at the glass in blue, honored in red.

later, she entered with her father,
processed, then got married.

outside it was raining gently.

sbm.


notes:-derived from Latin, processio, from procedere, to go forth, advance, proceed

we do not all know the same things.

we all have learned different. that
is alright.

takes a while to understand, to
know that the looms have stopped.

some times it needs time , fortitude
to get things back working.

with courage and wd40.

sbm.

they came through dust, on
horses. appearing at seven.

he spoke through dust,
his voice as water.

i dreamed my hair was golden,
that people stayed. yet i
woke alone.

it seems a darker morning.

sbm.

on a hot day it comes through.

making hay. they blocked the path
for safety.

we have had the final episode,
things will change now. we may
have to alter the routine
for safety.

we are family.

through skin.

sbm.

or is it the air changing?

mood settles, or is it the
time of year?

light stretches for a photograph,
boys making hay. sun shines.

later we had tea in the garden.
the workshop is tidied, washing
is folded.

the old mower is ready
to be oiled.

a plane flew over.

sbm.

that mark denotes a question,
a line in a simple verse.

why do i write of him, does
it strike a chord. you know

i started to think of all
the past things at once.

history can be too much to bear,
in one sitting.

maybe his heart broke.

too.

sbm.

we worked it out, she had,
lived there over fifty years,
clean and tidy. the nightmare
over, i can face it.

face those that come with claims
and accusations,those with self
importance.

it seems it may be all religious,
i told him i did not believe,
it is just a story.

a good story at that.

absolom,the third son of david.

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.

i have said before that
some like such things.

rust and reddened eyes

he brought me an older nail.

we talked and planned new things
for the garden. i hope you do
not imagine it is marvellous, at
least it is mine for now.

we drew the plans with ant powder.

the house is mine a while. the family
came to see their old rooms, played,
shook hands and thanked me.

no need, no need.

it is all honest work.

sbm.

is this a mill, or is it a shop,
is it both, when did the looms stop?

twenty years now sir, yet you can see some
working elsewhere.

shall i write it down, all the pattern,
and most of the history? it has different fibres,
yet mainly wool in it.

these are made in yorkshire, the bags are italian,
yet i am from wales, an immigrant they say, yet we
are all from another place originally.

we came from the sea.

so let us move things about.

cloth by cloth.

sbm.

he came early today. screaming round the garden.

a gentle feel, all chill and autumn mist already,
with us only mid august, yet we know the signs the feel,
the smell of the tide in the air, here.

we panic as the small boy grows, as times passes.

they say quicker now, yet i am not so sure.

i went to town yesterday, saw the signs of another
world. stood in the bank some time, only one
assistant these days.

the sun colours the clouds with empathy.

sbm.

leave your ideas at home.
on the hatstand. forget all
that you have learned, things
may not be so.

all people have ideas, so
yours is not so precious now,
elder.

she told me that even things
at home have changed.

looking round we see they have.

reimagine the world, forget
the learning, start again,
then we may understand, or not.

king david.

sbm.

yet maybe it is not necessary.

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.

maybe it is not necessary, yet we
have. year in year out.

there is small hope, for folk
to do something different, that
is not their nature. maybe

they just wish to return
home.

sbm.

is saturdays at ten in the morning,
sundays later at eleven.

this too remembered in the bathroom,

where today’s installment
for every woman is
the importance of a good complexion,
aided by a moderate diet,

essential. an east wind to be avoided,
along with shell fish.

these do much harm
to the tenderest skin,
while wrinkles apparently
bring despair.

real pretty arms are never snowy white,
being pudgy and nerveless,
should be cream
coloured.

i go to the eisteddfod today.

sbm.