balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite

fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.



have done this a while, got the rhythm,

the style of dressage and deportment

for one of our station.



i don’t have a badge, so

look with confidence, courage

so they know.               i quickly

fold tidily, imagine i am japanese

and check my hips in the showroom mirror.



i work on sundays, except

when i go on thursday.



so being monday, now

i change the bed.



carry on with the domestics.



sbm.

i could have bought it,

travelled to town, spent a lot of money.



others are famous  in paperback,

or hard cover, some are chaps, and other

words i do not get.



they write to me of stanzas

and i google the word effectively.



no, i did not buy it,

once again i made a gift,

for you.



handwritten.



sbm.

they play a different tune,

yet i can still sing it. they ask

for a melody, i found

i can  sing that too.



badly.



make it up generally, is

what we do here, it is

mostly acceptable, except

when it is not, yet i  don’t

often hear about that.



they wish i write different,

yet i do not.



i listen to john rutter.



sbm.

he asked if i like it, i said yes, you see,

i like scissors.



been waiting an hour or so,

for words to come, although

deemed prolific, i do get stuck

some mornings.



so at just past seven

thirty, i have made the beds tidy,

washed the dishes.

bathed, dressed and perfumed,

the cheap one, everyday,

still had no words

inclined.



yes, i do like edward scissor hands,

and i do so like scissors.



my mother had one pair

that I remember, made special

with words, and to be careful

it is the only pair.



damaged later cutting  a live

electric wire, she survived.



the budgie suffered.



sbm.

find them in the dark,

feel the weight, know

that this is quality.



test the balance, know

it is a good design.



switch on the light,

enjoy the look of them,

even the blue plastic sample.



holiday in oban,

scour the chartity, find

some good ones, buy,

to bring home as souvenirs.



inverary, visit their

castle of spoon.



it is a gift.

sbm.

help thyself.



once turned this age, decided

i may ask for help, seems i did not need it,

the blokes were all at tea, so chose

the tree, carried it to the car

easily.



i always have one, fresh green, i like

the smell, the feel of it. in the house,



whatever is happening,

happy or sad,

i like the constant tree.



i never used to ask for help,

until this last birthday.



it is a new rule, maybe

i shall break it.



sbm.

she is in the post. they

phoned me from the red

cross shop in fort

william

yesterday.



they will not accept credit cards

by phone, nor hand written

cheques, probably soon

to be phased out

anyway.



so i sent cash in

the guise

of a christmas card.



while downloading her photo,

the manager phoned to tsay

that,

she is in the post.



it is a gift.



sbm.

no need to talk, there is no one here.



no need to shout, we have no anger.



those were the early days, younger,

filled with grit and useless sentiments.



now we mindlessly watch, envy old  fabrics,

hear the sounds of another time, know

this is entertainment, a soothing way

to live now.



she said i looked sad,

perhaps i am.

i have a sense of wellbeing.

sbm.

he thought of moving it
out of sight.

disagreed, like to see it there
now, remembering.

see the reflection in the light
of my torch after dark.

the shape leaned against
the wall, the space in the shed
where it used to be.

we tried to give it away, no one
wanted it.

it has been a while.

sbm.

while all around is buzzing,
slightly dis agreeing with another,
on work, politics, whether box shall
have wheels. the tiny model shines gold.

i am taken reverently to a place
of packing. all creatures back
in to tissue. it is not crumpled
like mine.

untouched, it was his first one,
untrained, he is young and
full of hope.

it was a most surprising day
which left little appetite for
anything but grapes and pure
necessities.

it is good to have a break.

sbm.

. double note.
Posted on November 29, 2014



this is not the usual tune,

not butterflies or medieval

fields.



this is a collaboration dreamed

by a window, watching the scene

shift. we have watched it slowly

change here, we like the sound of bells

calling across meadows.



this is a new way, calling back and forth

across the moors, traws fynydd, singing

with all the days of our lives.



it is natural to sleep.



sbm.

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, soak

those stains in washings.


then look quietly, see a new.


cellular memory, let be, and learn,

that small birds fly up.

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 wordis 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.

i cannot save you.

we are the living ones,

guilt and trouble feel,

this a work ongoing.

sbm.

later the day dusks, air cools,

down the back track to the lane.


there is fire in the sky,

why don’t the trees burn?


one cloud hovers, red,

one cloud .

this is a later walk,

early mornings

spent writing.


see the birds roost,

hear the last call,

black bird

this is dusk.

sbm.

we are hand writing, at the table

fire lit, radio playing. scratching

words in time, rhythm comes

naturally, birds beat the window,

cold now, little feathers hoping

for food.

we now descend into darkness,

curtain drawn into night,

november.

mistakes crossed, all can see

the errors ,the blots,that soak

the skin, the stain within.

i am hand writing.

sbm.

the days of heaven gold

are coming to its end.

are we the children

of the fall, those of us

who dance in the leaves,

who fail in the cold or the

brashness of summer


read about the courage of others,

about the closing of doors,

against the rain and the wind

blowing.

read about the loss of brothers,

about the moving of house

escaping pain,and remember

these golden days of autumn.

going

read about the perfection

that never is, the quality that fades

in time, with crosses,

people’s minds.

read about the rain in the cwm,

that blinds and blinds,

and loses paths and footings

**
read about the days

in the old house

the days that are, and were,

and may come with dreams,

and fortitude.

read about it all, and i ask,
why do you read here?
here?

sbm

in dreams make the things you love,
take them, show them to this world.

i will put them in exhibition.

sbm.

having trouble getting back.

difficulty finding words, of the
simple type, to type.

spell out the consequences,
of an easy life.

is it criticism, or a general sensitivity,
which abounds, confounds the
smallest heart.

she says we should not handle bats.

sbm.

you know, he was at the

recycling depot out in

the rain, a sudden storm.



rescued, at no charge from

the bloke, who sheltered.



through the machine,

came clean. loved

and photographed.



he sits by the clock,

some times likes a sparkler.



sbm.

different season, extenuating

circumstance. hunger

nor poverty a reason.



look for kindness.



i saw them sweeping

the golden, leaving the

vehicle parked badly.



saw the wind change,

sky come clear.



it is mid november,

i drive the same road,

end lessly.



sbm.

requested for christmas,

it is the run up, you know.



passed  the idea by him,

verdict, boring, well it was

bound to be that or, wierd.



i told him it is beautiful, that

i love richard parker and

and a classic

animated character. I gave

him the message, i found

waiting.



his message to me is

cherry pie, so i stopped in

tesco, bought one for

tea.



it is a life of pie.



sbm.

so you work hard,
one task to another.

brain race, eyes cannot
keep up, reverse turn
read again. rush on
to washing, class and
garage. be known
that all is not italian,
though you wave your
arms, flap hands while
talking.

it can be an indication
of disorder, a slight
abstraction. tasks

repeating, sleep hard

wake to find a black shape
floating.

so you work hard?



sbm.

then they will understand

in america, yet they may

not understand here.



then.



i wish i spoke welsh

a bit more than i do,

i would hear

those sweet words.



perhaps i must talk

like the others, with grammar

and etiquette all educated,

good spelling, dots and stops.



inserted.



then, i wonder, where will

be the truth in that?

sbm

there is a skid mark in the mud,

where i moved the car early,

saw the mist rising on the river.



hear the black crow bird call .



home.



it is raining again today,

a worry when some work out doors.



i leave here early this

morning.



the academy.



sbm.

have missed it this year, plans never came together,

we meant to go together. i have stayed hotel, while

this is nice, have missed the freedom of the

self catering stay.



so absent from work a while, at home, i pretend

it is a self catering cottage, which of course

it is.

i play, and rest, eat little good things, watch

films till late, and have unsucessful laying  in.

if i was overly concerned with cost, of course

is cheaper.



we lit the fire the first time this  year.



burned your correspondence.



sbm.

ancient place,  much posting,  signs

for care, letters of fortitude and sadness.



face to the wall.



chair to the wall, sit slightly unbalanced

read, the language,  sentences there.



this one wrote it. wilfred owen.



oswestry heritage.



sbm.

never fails to excite me.with all the talk of leaves

here, falling, i am interested to see another breed

of folk that love and gather.

remind me of roseberry road, the younger days.



sat in the upper room, read his letter to his mum,

about the trenches, the first world war,  wished

to drown his sorrow in  that bloodied mud. the floor

tilted, a scrap lay crumpled.



each room has a different door.

we left, fell the last few steps.



sbm.

a small village, mayhap a hamlet, named,

one forgets the rules with all that has happened.



domestics done, we walk over to buy two pots

of pansies, a pound  for both , money for charity.



nice to be out, to see the neighbours’ houses,

to see what has changed while i have been working.



not much.



late light brings photographs, wandering  the graveyard,

yew berries abound. bird bones ready to gather, to box.



i thought of your disorder.



did you leave your hat?



sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

i woke, heard it, yet also saw the yellow moon.
shining through.

rain is noisy on the roof at huws gray,
where we buy slate chippings and talk
of log stores for the winter.

it is made of metal.

at the ironmongers we chat, buy bulbs,
notice the chip shop is for sale, now.

they sell night lights singly, at 20 p each.

it rained on and off all day, while I worked,
then,
it rained in the night.

sbm.

during the evening after tea,

we wondered who had invented the chair,

so that we can sit, so, and sew.



perhaps the rock was too hard,

nothing to support the back,

properly.



period drama would be

oddly different without the chair.



the conversation moved on to

pumpkins, these days, and

noises made by porcupines.



seems Barry went to see the

capybara too.



sbm.

struggle with the words,

tear wrappers back to reveal

the chewy pink, or bitter.  bitter

enought to split your head, the

packing says.



all gets too sickly, too sad,

when small boy agrees

it is good to hear  birds sing.



sweetly he tells me there are other capybaras

in the capybara house.

this is quite relaxing.



sbm.

is a challenge, with a little

subject every day. for fun.



scour the house, the landscape,

look for shadows, those that may

like you, even though it does not

matter.



i dreamed i cried, i dreamed i

missed him still.



sbm.

cracked  window looks at clouds, the mountain.

ledge, dead moths stretched out in

all their softness, stunned by light.



sewn curtains stir memories, indicate

a private place to weave and mend

a dream.



here are the items, the installations,

here are the photographs i take

each day. here are the worries

placed in the cupboard, with notes,

for you to read.



sbm.

after meeting my imaginary friend, attending an important

meeting, where there was no importance at all, i drove

to see the fish, and met the capybara.



who was surprised?  its hair all needing drawing,

nose a blot, and the paw resting so. so

quiet it was, perhaps a sadness. it stood

alone, as did i.

the little capybara, there.



i took no photograph.

sbm.

glass



is simply.



beautiful.



yet as all things,

some may not understand,

the underwear.



sbm.

how there is no explaination there.

i will print one and place it wednesday.



reminded of basildon bond, now there is

an emblem, and quality paper. buy

blotting paper, to remember those times

of ink spreading.  the clues wrote backwards

if we choose to hear them.



so we talked of death, i find i know nothing

very much. except this is the softest

music.



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 acheive,

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.

my clocks have not gone anywhere,
yet moved the hands as suggested.
tick happily round the house,
chiming out of time.

unlike most things in the house, they
need a flat surface.

radio and telephone are correct, other
things here are not.

three years to mend the mantleclock
in porthmadog.

sbm.

clover round small trees.

rain spots.


high house begs to buy,
french bird house,
old linen stitched,
pinned , labelled
tied with string.

a domestic thing.

later at home.

owls perched outside.

our oak tree.

a new format, yesterday.

sbm.

probably french panels,
just to difuse the light,
shatter the dark with bows
and dots. hung long
to travel more.

we pretend we are
in a magazine or ladies’
novel.

moths become a problem,
scattering the floor with
deadness, a fragility,
so,
they will be placed in a box
sometime,  a suitable
one  found.

there is a collection now,
the falling days.

sbm.

some things are inevitable, old tea

sips badly, after all the work is done.



stains the cup if left standing,

remember the hotel, 1964,

we used to scour them especially

round the handle, then the base.

we peeled the tomatoes, and waited

for our boyfriends on the high wall outside.



the whitehall hotel. bournemouth.



sbm.

in a corner, she hopes

people will see her, talk to her.



do they understand the question,

can they spell her name?

she is not for sale really, though price

on application.

writing helps, no one will explain

the bandage, the blood and the book.

some of us love her and have ordered

another measuring stick.



sbm.

they moved her,  you know, from the trolly

to a plinth .not sure whether to be honored,

stayed  still with glass,    bandages

were bloodied.



a message came, choked on tears,

sobbing rose. that one should

notice her.



mrs ciano received a message.

sbm.

who so mrs ciano ?



are you blest, is this

how to say your name?



ask the curator, learn

another world, where

not all is at it seems.



it is just an opinion.



they took the paper, the cotton

away.



sbm.

mostly think so these days, even when worked out as planned.

have been wondering what is the point, like is there a point?

or is it all pins and needles. over lunch, we discussed.



i chose the duck wraps, minding my pronunciation. she pointed

out that the point may be, that there is none, therefore

being one.

I am going back to montgomery to buy a measuring

stick.



sbm.

having eaten too much cheese, watched

surreal, tremendous film, find a head,

with headache at nine minutes to seven.



bravely drink tea, carry on until it fades,

the british way.  this is the least of the

worry in this world of ours.



ibruprofen takes this ill away.



the news is on the radio

next.



sbm.

in the store room with the robes,

boxed, marked robes. some people

don’t like labels, although  it is the source,

a holding.



installed, the lady called her wierd, name calling.



the paper, the pins.



i call her mrs ciano, pleased to see her

again.



we talk, and she is company.



sbm.

softly. it moved.
seen from the corner
of an eye. crept
round the edge,
looking.

slid round the door
and out.

i feel it lives
in the shed.

sbm.

having looked ,

realise they are just for me.



no submission nor application,

a wise, a brave decision. i have

dreamed of japan, some  places

are just too far

for me.



looking back i see

the island changed.



perhaps i like familiarity.



the same faces.

sbm.