simple notes, there is much discussion now,

where the place used to be pure quiet

and acceptance.



it seems to him that talking does not

get the job done.  however gently balancing

wool, soft  merino ,words fall . we have

many slight colours, no fading, only the physical

type nearer closing.



the writing helper, word count abound below,

while fingers fly.   he says the words come

at other times, you know, he may be right.



we have a slight covering of snow this

morning early.



sbm.

ann.

it changed the shopping habits.

the medication aisle, opposite

hair products, held responsibility.



so this is written past tense,

when   badges  were awarded for bandage

folding, tied neatly round heel, supporting

the essential ankle, without that feet

would hang in space.



noting the itallics.



there were crepe, support, cotton

slings, all quite cheap, yet not as

free as rags.



the next shelf was tablets for aches

and belly hurts from eating stuff too much.



folk are proud of how they talk, while in the

present tense.



and so they should be.



sbm.

she implied  that the buttoned ones,

were far superior to plain, some folks

folded newspaper to keep the chill at bay.

small girls wore thermogene, now

all is tee shirts, being chilly, but then

most have central heating, a few cling

to the coal fire, woodburners,

living flame.

proper vests were warm, tucked well in.

if you visit llandudno by the sea, you

still find these items, displayed quite

badly some may say, so we refer back to

those with buttons,  which may be better.

it was such a lovely morning.

sbm.1111

so the lights are fused, upstairs only.

the lamps work, they are plugged

in sockets of course, so that is

a different matter.

unlike anti matter.

so we have a torch, and candles

in the bathroom, which light up

the place nicely. inspires photography.

some videos not shown yet.

the handy man comes once

a month, mostly on a tuesday,

nine thirty till four, he can turn

his hand to most things, as

can i.

yet teetering on a ladder, i have not

the energy to lug the fuses out.

so we wanders in the dark, it can

be a pleasant thing.

we are carefull not to fall the stairs,

having done that before.

wish not to repeat it, interesting

though it was.

sbm.

green ribbon,

to tie the fringe back, hair had grown,

no one did cut it.  the girl was private.

hair bounced, shone, as they made

their way to town, down the hill.

it was a dark green, bottle green.

it may explain the love of ribbons

now.

sbm.

so we nipped into town yesterday.


again, on proper business no slacking.


though i have to say that i did linger

with a friend, discussed the jewelled mirror,

the state of play with gifts and those bibelows,

. we talk of them again that day. meanwhile

life continues badly for some here, while others idly

shop. we discover cotton gloves, another time.


scrabble for the juniors, who  make up their own

words, have a larger vocabulary than seven.


pink hanbag, not fit for any purpose than

delight and design.


we discussed correcting the till

error, decided it may just confuse, then

carried on our separate ways.


again.  this is dolgellau.


sbm.

that is the welsh spelling, guess the english

is hughes shop, where they have many items

of use, substance, for some an entertainment.

various style pins, in various size boxes, folded

cotton handkerchieves, with a separate room

for night and underwear, where the lady will

serve the ladies.

she feels the cod, and he wears winter mittens.

windows are colour coordinated, the clothes

link arms, bed socks abound. fluffy.

this is a most useful place, where one can

buy traditional, hire hats for splendid weddings,

hats will last, with  the marriage, time

will tell.

not visited, please do, it is next to  roberts,

the coffee shop.

both splendid premises. dolgellau.

sbm.

i thought of you.

i saw the film, then.

in dreams i thought of you.

on waking, on listening, i think

i thought of you.

upstairs the lights have fused.

sbm.

or should we say diary, notes

and conditions, terms and

editions. i wish it were so.



i wish it were stored safely,

that we hald each other tight

and out of harm’s way.



they say that patience is a virtue,

yet some times patients die.



shall you write this is the daily

blog, or lie?



sbm.

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.



hear the dog at pentre farm, barking.



later hear the water fall from

broken drain pipes.



soon it is february, lighter

nights.



sbm.

made of cloth, for bandages, curls.

ribbons as is the fashion now.



rags for bandages, cut finger, wrapped,

tied a knot.



rags rolled in the war, women who

lost their sons, their brothers, pinned.



the pins that did not mend.

rags of clothes worn in poverty,

and art.



remember the rag and bone man. some of you,

nothing wasted. i tie your gift.



sbm.

simple. yet the question

still asked so many times.



seeps under the door, through

the curtains, metaphorically. here

comes the spelling challenge,

the life of days.



here comes the wondering,

the question asked, ‘ why me’.



the reply comes. ‘why not?’,

and why  all this

punctuation.?



sbm.

you can see the mountain, the old school.

it is quite hidden, you will need directions.

up the lane then there it is, all period and

bibelows. all wisdom and friendship.



this is a town , where women

meet in friendship, help each other.



where small things and dainty, give pleasure.



this is a small place, a small life, a pretty place.



this is dolgellau.



sbm.

old spelling, the old book,

pure poetry.



double negatives are very positve

they say, so why change it.



why look to the land to find

boredom, when everything

is so interesting, if you let it.



why criticise all the while, while all the while

your battery runs down.



i think of my mother. she was not  at all well.



sbm.

the continental way is tighter, grip

the thread, there will be no loopy

stitches, no more.

this is the way to speak, gentle, no

inuendos, benny hill or carry on films.



nothing wrong with none of that, yet

carrying on your own way is honest.



the knitting will be neater now, the

patterns more selective, we are



wool gatherers.



sbm.

as if you had never left.

it is all much the same, yet much is broken.



shall we stick it, glue it

back into place?



will the cat shed fluff where we have cleaned

already?



things move on nicely, new horizons, yet

some times bathing, it feels

that you never left.



warm flannels soothe.



sbm.

how can it be a lay in, when we wake at five,

then up at six with the dog, to snuffle the garden.

did you see the sickle moon, means rain

some say.



how can it be a lay in, when you sit writing,

an hour with tea. believe me for this house,

it is.



being a postman for thirty years, he rarely

had a lay in either.

simple.



sbm.

to explain to you who cannot see,

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

hurts, that fit into  af 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.

four boats were sent. all much the same,
all differing,

oars to row.

a cross to bear.

three left, one remains.

the last boat.

in depth we drown.

sbm.

is probably that there is none, maybe.



is all a mixture, some  feel important,

others may seem like minor details,

yet part of that whole, that make us, makes

a life.



a small life maybe, yet some of those things

will be remembered.



sbm.

softly the curtain drapes,

arranged carefully, revered in mirrors.



they do say it is an antique french lace

panel. pretty with a pattern,  bows

and flowers. scalloped edges.



sits in the lamp light perfectly,

like some thing in a magazine.



country living.



wood windows, the wind got through

last night. the fabric moved

softly.



sbm.

a neighbour came, to ask about his dog.
about going to kent, spoke of an exhibition
in berlin.

how they had photographs of the streets
where they hung people in that war,
the second world war, from lamp posts
in berlin.

he stayed a long time, looking,
in berlin.

there is a trailer of a film, to be shown,
here on tv.

it has waited many years.

night will fall.

sbm.







http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/berlin.htm



http://www.theguardian.com/film/video/2014/sep/02/night-will-fall-trailer-documentary?CMP=sharebtntw

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.

there are bits  of us everywhere,

shed as we move, as we live.



most of it held together with skin.



no way to clear the debris daily,

it remains .boil the hankies then,

do your best to keep it neat and tidy.



spend the day in the warm, with plenty

to do, keep cheerful.



maybe watch the national theatre of brent.



revolution.



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.

is history.     isn’t history fascinating ?

now with google, wikipedia  it is all there

for the taking. books from the library

can be heavy, yet

free and cosy to read in bed.



this is a rabbit gift, given on an anniversary,

reading.  the book is wuthering heights, one version.



on dvd, there are several versions.



a classic story, yet not history.



sbm.

is there some thing in your eye,

did you see it properly or maybe

it is in the mind.  yesterday

came suddenly.



some of us weren’t talking, then

we did, yet some still don’t.



is this boring?  this is

the stuff of life today, random,

when life is soft, nothing precious

to worry of.



and now the snowdrops are out in the garden.



sbm.

in the cold, frozen, the code will not work,

nor will the counting with interuptions, all

things moved about.



there is a discount, on top the discount, so

a discussion ensued on buttons,

roman costumes, whether egyptians

used starch back then.



my mother did, mixed it, dissolved

the lumps in a bowl ready. stiffened the chairbacks

pinned them in place tidy.



we hoped it was not a plastic sheet that covered

the bed shining, glad to see it

was mostly sateen.



sbm.

it is a new store,the chapel architecture

restored. i remember the day they cleaned

the stone, noisy. i was opposite with cofffee,

trying to chat. he did not seem to notice

the interruption.



they have candles, subtle shades, non drip,

yet have sold out of ragged ribbon,

a big disappointment.



i commented on the perfume downstairs, told

it was new furniture and cleaning, that is all.



checking ebay later found reams of the distressed cotton

tape i had wanted, had a minor spending spree

at seven pounds fifty.



sbm.

went yesterday, there were floods by the cob,

seems the sheep were safe. quiet in the stores,

people still stuiffed, including me, aren’t

we lucky, fortunate in our lot. saw the lad from

the theatre, had a hug.



the next store,  just round the corner

sparrows outside bathing in puddles.



bought our sticks, some ribbon of course

50p

another installation?



I like hopping, it is a gift.



family language.



sbm

after twenty years, the backs need dusting,

the new one to be hung.



it is a little drawing, done with conentration

and love.



we drive the valley,  a new venue,

visit the pictures, there is no reduction

for being old, so we choose the best seats.



new years day.



sbm.

what can i say, except happy.



mine started after the solstice really,

it seemed to make more sense, yet



i will go along with the rest today, say happy.



we should say happy everyday.



i think it is a thread that runs level,

while the bad and joyous stuff, is

another, you know like those

graphs we did at school.

anyway, enough of the philosophy,

whille wind blows clear

outside.



happy new year.



sbm.

for those in peril on the sea

plays each morning steadily.



fingers tap the sounds, the words,

little ideas readily.        wore rags,

ate off broken plates before

it was screened.



yet i bet this is not a first,

not really our idea.



so we keep on mending, making, pray

for those at sea.



sbm.

started with magic furry frost , clearing cars

to get to work.  early

the planes came over sideways,

lights shining, we stood and watched them fly.

it was all over face book, some complaining

of the noise, some like me, stood in wonder,

remembering.



a day of lumps, that fell to nothing,

so in gladness we lazed the frozen day

indoors, logs running low from christmas blazes.



it were a cold day yesterday. let it go.



sbm.

on cleaning, finding moth.



although expired gently, lift

and place in box with the

others.



on old ribbon, slightly frayed,

wind, pin, keep for another day.



for work, for photographs.



on words, collect, retain the simple

ones, that do not confound,

hand write into paper

books.



post often.



on living. making notes.



sbm.

we have a clean white bed, slept late,

a shock to break the ritual. a treat

on a major scale. probably ten.



i think i may like to travel to small places,

old and full of history. deep aged fabrics

stained with the words of time. to touch.



feel the textures, the threads, know that when

all things are sad, there is a happiness to be

found, in these places.



in the ribbon she gave me, in the thoughts,

the gestures from friends, their aknowledgement

of who i am.



. it has been a happy time.



sbm.

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



and jesus is reborn up the valley.



now there is a story, meanwhile

arriving home to candlelight, fire the same

and hopefully all will be well a while.



the word count is 62, the years are 8,

and i dreamed it was 2 months ; longer

than all the other numbers.



i have been a long time coming home.



sbm.

wish i wrote dark, about deep insecurities,

a struggling childhood, i wish i wrote

like others with words of wonderfull

syllables,  bells ringing,

you know.



wish i wrote long tomes, to bore myself

rigid. to tap the hours away till bedtime,

early.



wonder if i shall write serious,

tell thee all  hard stories that

don't exist. i wonder if i shall stop,

when no one reads.



this is a time to wonder at the

dark hours leaving, waters receding,

black trees slowly turning. wintergreen.



sbm.

fingers tap.

can you hear the wind outside, the radio,

all things growing, I could. it was the start.



should have known this will happen,

to me, to all of us. some have had a

splendid year, while some have not.



shall i speak of crumbled cookies, of those

dice, which we collect?  no, i cannot speak,

i have no voice.



i tap the words with fingers.



sbm.

here this morning, treading one note at a time,

pointing toes, wondering about the roof

next door in all this wind.



vedro con mio diletto



now the days grow lighter, my head is

tied back on, and all seems well.



it all sounds worse than it really is,

the beams , you know, do creak so.



it is an older house, direct line will

not insure, as it does not conform.



i use another company.



sbm.

having searched for the word,

head reels across the room.





the path was mud, the willow cut

back to stump.



the memory remains.



snowdrop’s  green

appears.



this is not bethlehem.

sbm.

two voices, softly said, “yes” they cannot understand the numbers nor find their families.

sbm.

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 continue the theme

of recycled, flattened yet stil creased,

tied with inevitable red thread or ******

rags

again.



each year in the afterwards

we would iron the paper flat

ready.



the years go round.



sbm.

it is an traditional
afghan dress
look at the bodice.

encrusted with jewellery,
history, a desire to buy
is curtailed, only by
the price. i have
searched ebay for another,
more affordable, yet tis
this one, i love.

i can visit, touch
and take photographs.

the afghan dress
is £125, will not fit
me. that will not
stop me

liking.

sbm.

comes out every year,

stored in one of the

outbuildings.



this is neither poetic nor

important, yet

we walked down the lane

together, slowly.



to place the holly wreath.



sbm.

i was given a gift . not wrapped

just given.      before the winter

festival, before the anniversaries.



the gift was given

gladly received.

if i believed in all that i guess i would give thanks, yet  give thanks anyway.

one has escaped.



sbm.

maybe it was the lack of empathy,

the first sign in yellow. the others

were hidden, yet confessed deeply.



in red, the diagnosis, no doctors here,

we have common sense in blue.



understand the fear, the

need to lay and weep over all things.



legion, there are many.



sbm.

interupt the day, checking.

it is all there to find, old favourites,

new, they pray for those in

peril each morning, later



from the other room streams

the sound of glass.



one battery is spent, the other

depleting rapidly. during

the run up to christmas i shall

replace and back up.



meanwhile. plugged in the

piano plays.  classic fm.



i shall nip to currys after

lunch at maenan abbey.



sbm.

has big lumps, i seem to remember.

i have those and small stuff too.

mother had nutty slack, mixed

with water and other stuff to keep

it going.



can you still get that these days, i had best

google, anthracite was good i feel, and those



briquettes that i thought were for

richer folk.



steady fire last eve is still alight this morning.

the joy of a cosy life, one could say

it is a gift, even though i paid

for it.



sbm.

the same each december, advent .

the lead up. we have a memory or two.



the world goes dark, we teach and learn,

wait  for    light to appear,

with those albeit small birds,

singing.



we have comfort, medieval trees,

the coventry carol.

we drive in the dark.



sbm.