some things take longer than others,

oh, these trite sentences we use, yet

maybe this is true. at last i balance,

lock the gates efficiently, not mind

the mirrors, speak respectfully.



some things take time,  relax,

find your family. speak carefully.



it was a long evening, programmes

on monsoons, and the ganges.



we fell asleep quickly.



sbm.

the cat and the installation.



i have spent much time

thinking how it will be, how it may affect

those viewing, carefully sewed

the finger, placed the eggs, the paper parcel.



photographed the thing. that morning, all

was in disarray, the cat sleeping within.....



take care of the small box..



sbm.

only we don’t talk so.



he said he will by a tank top

for the gig, i though ooh,

how ghastly. he came back

with a vest, black. quite nice.



thats a vest , i says, no he

says, you wear a vest

with a suit, tidy.



he means of course

a waist coat.

he is from ameica.



sbm.

especially the mornings,
i need not tell you really,
you must know.

ok if there is no rush to go,
easy, cosy up and write.

i think they change the clocks
soon, throwing all into
misalignment, it is not
supposed to, yet remains
a mystery to me. we talk
about the war and daylight saving.

walking to school in the mist,
uniform,, and there
is another story.

it is darker here this morning.



sbm.

twisted into an explosion,
grandad’s wire from the shed.

it can be anything, with
imagination, just twist it
into shapes,
he said.

i told him about the sculptor
margaret mellis,
so then he made
a wooden thing.

sbm.

instead of the same every time,

see how it turns out, it could be

better.



depends,

on what one hopes for. maybe

we thought that word was

easily understood, never

under estimate the power,

the mis interpretation

of one sound.



the class went very well.

sbm.

taken a while, slowly,
slowly the things came,
collected for the box.

to say thank you.

i layed a leaf, a number,
ensuring it was not 13.

i would not have minded,
but she may.

the photograph fitted,
then she said she likes
rusted metal,
a piece from the boot dump
then. declared.

explained that at the
post office, to hope
it passes customs.

sbm.

she as been away a while
i told you. probably with
the robes, boxed in time.

i spoke to you of her,
told you she was mine.
it was accepted.

she will be found, put
into exhibition , the academy.

art and the book,
mrs ciano.

sbm.

did i write of them yesterday,
boxes, things are different today.

these are the old ones, shabby,
kept
a while for usefulness, now used
for slight installation, an ongoing
gift.

one holds a book of time, one has
many things, you know, the cotton,
and the string.

it is a gift.

tissue paper crumples, bone
pastes this life together, a

gift.

sbm.

did the trick,
covered the label nicely.

white shiny boxes, free to
those that work there.

nicer than throwing away,
a waste.

these will go into exhibition,
full of archives from the past,
not locked behing glass.

she gave me the old photos,
i had lost them,
yesterday

I found them.

sbm.

is a short word in varying degrees.

a slight one, can be alleviated with
unecessary treats, parfum , curling
round in soft places.

lift the spirits with little things, be
glad it is not a more serious form
of the word.

i drove the road yesterday, it
is such a pretty place.

sbm.

90p, smells of road repairs,
winter fires at home.

decoration only,
adds colour to the bathroom.

gentle room, probably
needs a splash of orange.

traditional soap suitable
for all ages.

contains mainly things,
naturally antiseptic.

sbm.

surround this area,
live inside. loving
lamps ,damp autumn air.

shadow,               films
with out words, stuttering.

moths, yes i usually write
of moths, now long legs
come into play. outside

planes fly over, estuary
birds call. autumn.

sbm.

one slip is all,

one step too far, the
world turns around .

no control, no eating,



disorder abounds. watch
the ornaments fly, we feel
like alice. one minute turned
to weeks, and wish we had
our camera to film the scene.

these are indeed the falling days.

i am not broken, maybe cracked.
if you read me, you knew
that anyway.

sbm.

if the dress is ripped it can be mended,

if it is shredded it can be lined

with net for strength and longevity.

*****, will wash it, iron and air it,

loosely bind into keeping,





a collection, memory

of those halycon daze.





will buy a suitable hanger.

©sbm

and cross one side to another,
harbour to the beach.

no city here, this is
the country.

sea  tide
pools up by the bridge..

mawddach.

sbm.

is little. painted bad,
so i bought it ,
£4.

it has become an installation
with eggs, which was at home,
in the outbuilding, where i
keep the idle atrefacts.

after bottling stuff with blood,
bones, i packed it nicely with
tissue, to send to the academy
for exhibition.

i must  take better
photographs.

sbm.

slight rain, you could say
drizzle, soft. a gentle day.

opening new ground. sand
underfoot reminds of
younger days. toast
also a comfort in
an age of other things.

pattern of tiny souls,
searching just for crumbs,
patterning a place to lodge
in life.

slight rain brought out
the coloured coats,
talk of tides and fortitudes.

opening new ground.

the church was closed.

sbm.

lay the boards,
balance those you can.

softly the music plays.

there are no rules,
conquer space,
those idle artefacts

mostly red,
borrow
or buy cheaply.

it does not cost much,
to be friends, to dance,
create an atmosphere.

some things are red.



sbm.

has mostly left the building.

one imagines packed
in sellophane,  other
sundry packings, boxed
for transporation, waiting

a collection. alongside
the robes, trollies, and

coffee making services.

she is a small thing,

accompanied by other things.

sbm.

i have been anxious for her,
add one small boy, out
on their own. big houses
make good companions,

yet, when all are gone,
only notes remain, who
will talk to mrs ciano.

understand the anxieties.

it has been said ,

” the mind of mrs. ciano cannot be packed away,”

truth in paralells runs this way.

she does not have a label.

sbm.

(quote, note* Andrew Bellon )

only imagine the place
closed. it is colder this morning.

mrs ciano to be removed, one
part back to the museum, the

other packed and ready to go,
back, whence. she came from
an imagination, all bloodied
bandages,  hymned words.

in two parts, splinter time.

google her  remains.

the curator moves
on.

mrs ciano.

sbm.

will not do, really,
it may have to be wood,
from ikea
after all.

he made do with cardboard
boxes, sticky tape
for sound,
another room.

i have news of mrs ciano,
looking well, in the old hotel.

i cannot get there
to see her.

history.

sbm.

most of it was found,
yet i waxed, tied the books,
shredded cloth to rags,
bled a little.

arranged it all my way,
dismantled ,packed,
sent to the curator.

who installed it his way,
added the metal trolley,
i have coveted so long.
it all feels rather biblical.

sbm.

small gifts. buttons,
came, loose, tiny.

some in packets,
some in jars, stray
one in the pocket,
washed now,
probably lost.

lately we had
one in exhibition,
with thread still
attached.

the larger ones are private,
kept round the house
for comfort.

i heard some people
dislike them, phobias.

appalachian spring.

sbm.

we arrived together, me late,
she was early.

regarding faces, we both
have a poor view of our own,
regard for each others.

it is to do with lines.

i am older, she is younger.

we work together.

sbm.

wonderland is packed away, quietly.

nobody said nothing, i worked alone.

blaenau, lines of washing, very white.

then he told me of the boot dump,
the myths were true, soles of soldiers,
burned on the crimea pass.

we need to find the stone.

sbm.

last year we had a fire,
chill autumn. this
year it is warm. swallows
drift.

last year we had an upset,
this year it is warm. swallows
drift.

these are the falling days.

sbm.

requires a scanner,
patience,
strength of spirit
for so many works.

i like repetition,
i have proved it.

balancing
skills come into play,

tableaux.

it was my job
in the office,
now my pleasure.

sbm.

leads to another,

torn paper
may be fish.

important work
or less.

crumpled,
a memory
of silk.

to place in reverence
or start the fire.

i have learned
not to believe
all i think.

sbm.

seems to be required
these days.

perhaps always.

he says there is no meaning,
i believe him, for in this life
of vaguaries
i make my own.

this is the work.
i mean it.

sbm.

some things are slower,
smaller. a delight.

short while sat
in the sun, a pile
of bricks for comfort.

she gave me string.

sbm.

only bought for decoration.

sometimes it is good
to stop suddenly beyond
unreasonable doubt. you

may find things you like,
people to inspire you
with paintings, stories
of
grecian gowns, gathered.

we are both going to london.

sbm.

there but for the grace,
go i, you, maybe three.

there has been critisiscm
on spelling, living , even hedges.

yet there but for the grace.

some things are simply
said.

sbm.

we have been to montgomery
again. it is a pretty place, bunting
across the square, so by the open
window, with fresh scones, we talked,
listened to the quiet. narrow walls,
bricked faces. there is a church
of course for leaving useless requests
and confirming friends. it may
be that i have no photograph.

yet will add a photograph.

sbm.

i have the urban dictionary,
on line, and the standard
in the book case, thesaurus
in the cellar, where spiders
and cowebs abound.

my typing goes wild if
i get hiccups, whilst
the flow depends on
radio plays.

i was born in england, south coast,
now live in wales. we speak a different
language.

the difference should make no
difference.

i am older now.

sbm.

if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?

life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.

whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.

these things do happen,
to most people.

except some  seem immune to
harm.

who are the chosen ones?

the radio plays the same tune,
faintly upstairs.

sbm.

always liked newtown,
now seeing the peripheries.

not been to glansevern, now
i have.

never had a red dress
made of paper cloth,
now i have two.

the same. i have not a
photograph yet,
so will shoes do?

sbm.

high tide, leaves turn
early here, by the junction,

late august.  many
roads here, all picturesque,
this is north wales after all.

talk of splendid isolation,
bleaker days to come.

pain passes slowly, we shall
have autumn.

sbm.

can you see
the little arrow
there ?

can you see your past
before you?

i have felt the air breathe,
waiting for another chapter.

while all the while
the time moves on
regardless.

sbm.

heavy rain, lowers the tone,
shape of trees, shadowed
now.

he spoke of winter green,
a childhood thing.

sbm.

or the repetition,
that excites the mind,
small notes on paper.

torn from the rest,
simply with the rule.

metal makes a straighter line,
rags to edge the word.

these words are mine.

seeds
fall.

sbm

come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.

now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.

we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.

she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.

a day of rearrangement.

as you were.

sbm

slow on the road yet,
mist rising, as autumn.

birds sing, tea steams.

gently old radio
plays. down in the house
clocks chime, keys hang.

week went well,
all things considered.

we are safe here,
lucky ones.

an accident of birth.

place.

sbm.

in a white room, blood on the pillow.

empty rooms sublime, look how
the light comes, how the red,
glows.

into warmth here, and above.

he is a solitary man.

sbm.

i go, meant to be recreation.
are so, yet food
for learning, sometimes
  yearning ,third
attribute.

driving home, remember the attitude,
of body leaning.
we look at the mountain passing,
and weep a while

this is the memory, the memory.

sbm.

(title inspired by a friend)

then we went to work by bus,
early, cold, usually,
sat on the back seat.made friends
over months.

one condemned girls
like me without knowing
my history. one was marked
with spots i did not see.

i only saw how kind he was to me.

sbm.

good name.

i often spell it worng,
ask him.

met on the station,
like a film, black and white.

kissed, discussed the world,
and poetry over coffee, in exhibition,
with fish n’ chips, recommended by
the locals, tasted like dripping, lovely.

visited an old house,i talked about
my old house, we discovered cures
for ghastly things with diagrams, all
spelled with ‘f’ s.

over tea, we turned black and
white again. decided,

any difference should make no difference,
the third word not allowed,
no more.

good name,
we are friends in colour.

sbm.

hard to keep rules,
where there are no rules.

hard to be a yard stick these days,
when others use meters.

found it exhausting, packing,
making the installations. it

is not hard, yet my mental
got exhausted.

i went to the party.

sbm.

packing things in paper,
becomes the work, performance,
thus,
unpacked remains ditto
the effect.

sound, smoothing,
discovery of found mementos,
blood and rags.

will there be effect,
or as a facebook posting,
to be slid over, looking
for weather and new
connections.

the paper is creased badly.

sbm.