there has been rain,
the printer is fixed
in the cellar, damp now.

we have the dehumidifier,
buzzing, while paper curls.

liking the look
we print the words.

the size and administration
must be constantly
not changed.

although we are trying
different colours.

i went to see the printing
press in porthmadog, was
given recycled ink.

he had blue eyes.

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.

a luxury, to have time
to check, doubly,
font and image.
to twice the normal extent
or degree.

things happen, we deal,
cards are set, dice thrown.

life moves on.

no time to double check,
change things before

is set in time , in memory.

two times,
in two ways

we multiply.

sbm.

how can they make such rigid stuff
from soft wools, take the thing then
harden it.

they say it will last a lifetime, hold its own.
tradition.

looks as if it would hold
the rain out, repell the scattered
words of cold,

and evil. a coat so heavy
it dragged us down.

there was crocheting yesterday,
with blue and softer yarn, a small ply.

a gentle thing, a memory.

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.

remember days before food waste,

scraps for  dog,  cat maybe

some pig.



sitting until my plate was clear,



hash. tag rationing.



peelings were taken down

the garden by the rhubarb buckets

or

aunt olive made wine from that

with tea dregs.



he came every other day, pig man as

it was acceptable in those days.



when

there was no food waste .       mum

darned socks



sbm.

while all things have changed.

rubbers are now a derivative of oil,
latex still drips from trees for certain usage.

we talked on god, death and whitsun,
on sunday. we banged the glass, together.

it broke.

there is an island near the holy head.

st michael.

one of the bears is my ancestor,

illogical i know. he has come to

live here quietly respecting

all that is happening now.



what is that?, he said in itallics.



it is my phone.



how do you explain that?



same as i explained it to him,

i can talk to people who are not here.



ah, the way you talk to me?



yes.



sbm.

given cutest toys,
they drew, charcoaled
evil monsters.

eyes bleeding lead,
fingers bled,
graphite stained.

asked to draw
things they loved,

created Things.

the novice drew her sewing set.

half term, big schoool.

sbm

hello, i am 89 and still in good health,

much like the queen, may i sit here?



i am waiting on a toasted tea cake.



i have not seen the garden yet and never

will. i shall sit by the bus stop later

and talk.



i worked in the motor trade.



sbm.

today i am drawing boats,
using charcoal, integrity,

connected memory.

smudged.

cut lines in paper,watch shadows grow,
marks leap up, move down into grapite.

fixative , varnish
seal, create headaches.

glue the power house, paste and be
******.

these are the drawing days,

days of endless music, looped.



how much he loves her.

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.

waking up knowing.

meeting the ones
we like, along with those
we do not warm to.

maybe in time
after admiring the
underwear showing.

a compliment will
not go amiss,
when kindly given.

now the blackberries taste
good, the damsons
do not.

yet.

sbm.

and good manners.



no need to rush.



make your decision,

then perhaps,

politely let

civilians run away.



wait a little longer than one hour.



the lack of time creates disrespect, debate.



what happened to kindness, good behaviour?



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.

They said it was fixed yesterday.

It wasn’t.

Asked me to do checks.

I made excuses so an engineer is coming.

They say.

Yesterday I made pancakes.

it is a lighter shade
of a darker green,

a fern behind at
benmore gardens.
dunoon.

later we had tea,
an empire biscuit.

we always do.

sbm.

again, and weaving.



we listen to the coventry carole,

the little tiny child, fingers tapping

in time, the medieval, the membrance

of cathedral . walking up hill chanting.

repeatedly. they moved the stairs.



we hold the cotton, the wool

for comfort.



sbm.

. found verse .



County Wicklow is a region south of Dublin in the east of Ireland. It’s known for its namesake mountains, Irish Sea coastline, country estates and the Wicklow Way.



A herpetic whitlow, or whitlow finger, is an abscess of the end of the finger caused by infection with the ****** simplex virus.



Fancy!





31. dark & tiny hand.

do you know that it is june,

and that it seemed to have come quickly,

while we weren’t looking.

they say it will be a very wet and windy

day for north wales.          i live there.

yet i have floral  cotton dresses ready

for the sun.         which will come.

we had a lovely roast dinner sunday,

the last day of may.

sbm

small items for sewing and other notions.
ribbons wound carefully secured with a
nice topped pin, not the ordinary.

it should be so, or sew.

buttons in bottles, and jars,
safed for the occasion, with
occasional poppers, oft worded
press fasteners unlike hooks,
and eyes,known as hooks and eyes.

the word appears in chaucer’s
canterbury tales, appears here,
too.

haber dashers have patron saints
just like all the other trades,
alongside worshipful companies.

at the mill , all is tidy now.

sbm.

we used to sit the rise and think of this.

drive the evening hunting the blue           flax fields .

found and waded the poppies outside the ****, then

worked the red thread.

again.



danced  the lane,                 brown boots through dust.



look at me.

dr.martens.



i sometimes sit and think of this, sometimes   dream

in bad, often in yellow.



**** covers the land in places, my eyes           smarting.



so once again we speak in                                     crosses. i



think the hanky may be yours.



dr.martens.





sbm.

two installations, the old garden,
blue bells, wild garlic fuelling the air.

rain soaked, watcing the rooks nest
high at rosemundy, falling backwards
woke to find just a dream.

the doves
were plaster.

rosemundy.

sbm.

he asked me to do

it. pick it up with fingers.

i did. i love him.



it was in the way

of him playing, so with no

disgust, i moved it.



we had a lovely

day. the sun was warm. he will

be nine on tuesday.



sbm.

do you glue this, fix that,
or do you simply replace.

you must know by now,
we eat off mended plates,
and rise when  birds sing.

it may be a forgotten thing,
those cotton hankies, darning,
repairing old , hung together
with string.

yet, it may be you do the same,
standing tall, waiting.

for pins.

sbm.

near the marches.

it is my brother’s birthday
soon, , stopped
in the village to shop.

it is a good store, post
office at the back, steaming
gently, brown paper, calculating.

the candles are dear, just one pack left,
perhaps a power cut come lately?

anadin, i tidied, whilst i waited gently.

outside she wondered at the ivy
outside to inside the place.

some one moved gently
behind her.

i could not sleep with all
that wondering.

the wandering through
the marches.

sbm.

. the timetable .
Posted on February 19, 2015

is on the front bedroom wall,
a reminder of other days, and latin.

homework, was a separate issue.

seems we will return, see those places.

she says it is all changed, so have
i . seems like another life, as i
stand back.

we shall go to the museum.

sbm.

irregular, you came, your best clothes

shining.



never mind. the first tune hit the mind,

patterns and mathematics.



the kindness that is, mixes

with dampened autumn air, and your woodsmoke.

sweet oak.



all that there is. here.



sbm.

i posted it, titled it.                                 civil war.

stopped and wondered how any war, any fight,

any death, anger and destruction. any child hurt.



can be termed, ‘civil’.



even with punctuation.



marks.



double meanings.



sbm.

it is the moth that speaks.
the jaw holds the teeth.
..

arrives unexpected from darkness,       some winters’ mornings,

opening  the door to the sound of    one black bran  bird calling.



track four repeated.                                                                     that



comes on waking finding peace and comfort       bound in  clean

linen.



arises with perfume,            an                            uncertain memory.



it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as  love,             what

ever the germ or warfare



I find no word to describe, no random feather nor             dust on

my plate.                                                                            pass a finger.



that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys                       pounding

words and                                                                                    silences.



while music plays.                                                          that feeling. that.



syrup stings my tongue.





sbm.

i could write the story of my life remembering all that was,

forgetting the things i forget. i couild start at the beginning,

work through to the end when it comes. it could be that way.



may be, i have already written much of it in bits and       scraps

here and there. such is the way of it. some things come random.



not as you expected.                     i was to tell my story, you said.



i cannot be

bothered. there is no interest.



if there is, it can be googled, gathered, stitched quilt like into some



image.



i cannot remember my granpa fondly, for he was dead a while before.



you told me your tale, silked tongue, the things you wished me to know.

not

impressed.



no need to impress. cat **** leaves on skin leave black marks. remember?



recall the smell.



i could write the story of my life.



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.

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.

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.

that  amaze and delight,

the

abundance of colour,

plants, perfume of history.

it is the sounds among us, the

peering into the poem. it

is the gathering streams

that swell and please.

home grown veg,

then pause to watch

the tadpoles, insects, all

small creatures delight.

it is a large garden.

sbm.

it is the rule,
now . we try new things.

i have houmus, thought
of you, pat. she bought
rye bread, thirty percent
reduced.

in price.

i bought a mending set,
packed in a tin, like the war,
full of little things.

pincushion, tomato shape,
with pins stuck in.

i bought you a geometry
set. draw shapes, measure
angles.

have you,
tried something new.

recently?

sbm.

over the roof, low
flew above me, hovering.

called the gardener, he came
running. we watched the
red kite.

together.

they used to be rare.

sbm.

one man is upside down,
the other man helps him.

these are the better days,
no one has weapons.
sbm.

in a letter to a friend,
never written, never
said, sad, it is impossible.

to explain. there will be khama,
guilt, ridden over mountains,
over years. tis tough is guilt.

the back bedroom, hankies
folded ready, in every room,
in pockets now gone musty.

the pottery is dusty.
i have another life.

i have a new letter.

sbm.

autumn apples, gone from
the tree, a few this year.

coxes then , singly in the florist,
basketed among the flowers.

lunch at 20p, rattle the pips
to make sure. slice neatly white,while
watching the wind strip the leaves.

this is an autumn apple. break time
in the staff room. only the pips are left.
to grow again.

sbm.

tried to persuade him to leave the bed.

nice clean sheets today. no, i am staying

in the raggled mess .



like our government



you know of such things, and what about

the laundry man, he comes tomorrow.

he will be disappointed.



send the cover, keep it clean so no one

notices the mess underneath.



isn’t that what  they do?

isn’t it?



yes.



sbm.

who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, rhyme or reason.
breaking of rules,        our hearts
open.                         split a season.

on spring,                 slight chance,
light            or prayers can change.
sons      move in a prouder stance,
yet others rage.

black bird sings   early
the same bird calls late.
sense that nearby
one year came straight.
spring slides. the
moon draws tides.



sbm.

did you not know the house is tidy,

when you criticise the hedges?. did



you not know my garden is neater

than yours?.



now.



you came from the north adding racial

remarks.



yet act the same here

as that which you say they do.



it is such a


conundrum
kəˈnʌndrəm/
noun
it is kind of you to help,
to feed the cat.
am i the only remain
this side of the village?
sbm.

so we gets up early having dreamed of you,

and planned all the good work.



takes to the garden before the heat sets in hot.



done half when we hits a rock, bent our blade.



all things may come right in time, if you

loves the ones you think you don’t.



yet then, what do i know really, except the metal

twisted.



the washing is on nicely, while i takes the *******

out.



sbm.

a spidering across my face,  that mooned mirrored moment.



raising from sleep dreamed , dashed my hand to move it,



sadly this morning  find the remains stain, detritus with remorse.





radio news says the evacuation from aleppo is delayed.



history repeats itself.



spider.



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.

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.

market day one, it is twice a week,

thursday and saturday, much

the same each day, books

for a donation, queue for the butcher.

waiting, eye the *******, ham and oxtail,

admire  pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.



all addressed with green stuff

for decoration. the bread lady

will let you hold her goose eggs,

feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.

you do not need to buy them, you can

carress them nicely.

they are soft when born, soft as babies are.



above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean

with springy hair and wearing arms that hang

below the sleeve.



he talked to a lady from london,

he said.

©sbm

we has an immersion, when on for just half an hour,

we has hot water. enough for a bath. left on longer it gurgles,

heard downstairs.

all night it goes quiet, and i could bathe, clean the house,

wash the socks,

and have change left over.

a red light. while we are used to it, others may wish for better.

winter fires. the back boiler kicks in.

sbm.