write the words, she says
that helps.

it is a drop in the ocean, and cannot
help those already lost in the ocean.

it was said in depth we drown, and so
it is so.

we cannot rescue the drowning, record the names.

here.

so we draw dresses.

black dresses do not sell so well.

sbm.

i like wool, and tidying it,
notice the flecks and textures,
sneezing once again at the mohair,
with no news, no more
of sahara dust, move on

to admire couture of the linen dress,
the bias cut, and tucking, quite a feat

in these days of mass produced.

the duchess wore a coat like no other,
my daughter says it makes no sense
these days, when all others just
grab clothes ******, and get to work.

we reckon her mother in law’s brooch
will be sewn on preventing loss.

we all experience this in some way,
loss that is, not the queen’s jewellery.

i like a working day

sbm.

possibly, yet his life is different to yours.



i have discussed it fully, yet it will remain

confidential.



he is still alseep and will remain so a while.

the bear is a private little soul, these things

affect him deeply.



his life is different to yours.



sbm.

having often like old clothes,
have bought small dresses, with
no one in reach.

hung, they look pretty, the
experience helps now in family
business, and how busy the
family is.

took time out yesterday, bought
small dresses, in the rain.

it is a small family affair.

sbm

take the photograph
of the photograph,
we have chinese whispers.

we have the closing of the
house soon, wonderland.

removing all things metal,
placing sweet chestnuts
in corners. the outside
paint so very shiny,

it has been a pleasant summer

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

oh you are a beauty, showing your legs,                dress swinging.



in rhythm. in photos , little gifs,                                      to share.



how can we  look the same?                   i think i look different

now. now that i have grown,                          watched you grow.



now. now.



now that i helped  when you were sick.                   now.now.



now i am older and watched you die.                          all of you.



i say goodnight to some and remember                       all of you.



how can i look the same.                                                  now. now.



remember all that has been done.                                           how

can i look the same?



you are still a beauty.



dress swinging.



sbm.

it was my beetle, dead, not buried.
i keep them, yet it fell
to the floor,
mysteriously lost.

we try to turn disasters round,
here, knowing it will be found,
some time.

my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.
aptly the grave digger, it seems

you can buy dead insects on line.

sbm.

man and woman made,
children too, boast accents.

change things,
move the hat,, squeeze
euthymol, stand tall.

it was not trouble,
nor your fault, it is
the way of things,
some times.

hang on the swing
upside down, viewing
earth, hear the planes,
listen.

draw the lines. deflty,
then rub them out again,
forget the boundaries.

sbm.

strange habit, breakfast at lunch.

strangle collars that hold, strangles
the voice into trebles. trinity
meaning three.

we fought the way from darkness,
into light, birds singing early
without the need, of alarms.

he said it was raining there.
here it was not.

now it is.

there are nuns in dolgellau.

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.

summer winds scattering,

soft tissue, forty pieces

torn with a ruler,   smudged and marked.



tearing the words, categorising,

knowing

it is all worth it in the end.



you would be surprised.

sbm.

there is a feel in the air,
a change in the whether.

very place caused confusion,
pond dipping involuntary
shuddering, and delight at small creatures.

who play croquet with new rules,
we never knew the old, it proved
without flamingos
that i am not alice.

it is about a year now,
i blocked you.

sbm.

the memory starts clearly aged ten. kept in the fitted cabinet, second drawer down, mother’s scissors. i guess they were around before in a more muzzy state in  mind.

she may have kept my fringe tidy  when i was not taken off to the barber in the village. he used a plank across the arms of the chair to seat me. i was small then.



she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did. once i saw her cutting greaseproof; different rules apply.



we  had only one pair. just one pair that i remember. i felt that mum gave them great importance, transfered this feeling.

i wish i had kept them, even with the damage.  the incident was one afternoon .



a lamp needed moving,  plug removing and my brother put it off for various reasons. we heard the noise, the bang , we saw the feathers.

those days many people had budgies, ours was blue usually. i think green was a different price?

so mum cut the electric wire with her special scissors to remove the plug, still plugged in. a hole then  in the blade. mother put to bed, we probably took her tea. the budgerigar tidied and settled we all moved forward with experience.



i wonder still if this is why i collect scissors here.



sbm.

pins to stop the pain,

that did not come

but now & then,.



was constant. a knife,

a shard of complementary

feeling.



no charge, yet desiring

to be free. i chose needles.



so fifteen inserted, i lay a while,

turned, at intervals. talked

of meridians and new sandals.



now there is another story.

they are very comfortable.





the pain?

sbm.

it is just that some dislike

love poems, those the rhyme

all romantic. pretty though

they are.



some write of other

things, in a more

random fashion.



i like things private.



sbm.

initially,
crossed the great divide,
sea to the land, from
one to another, then, talking.

crossed the narrow bridge
talked of the past,
revisit the old place.
all plumbing and stair rods,
you know what i mean.

courage to walk away
from objects that irritates
our eyes, to eat another way,

with snakes and camphor oil.

you know what i mean. with
the kindness of strangers
to cross the mountain, be led
home.

they say it may be drizzly today.

sbm.

the landing has an unpleasant smell,
started the day before yesterday, warm weather.

air freshener spent, we use cheap perfume
from aldi. is my house not clean ? remember
this smell of old. some wee creatured done died
in the loft, floor boards, some which place.

i have spent hours looking for the body, to take to
the church yard gently, spent time spraying
madame glamour, my daughter.

know with time, it will fade, pass as all
things.

I found last years birds nest yesterday,
twined with horse hair.

the field is empty now.

one swallow.

sbm.

winter bare her soul.

medieval trees reach up

for solstice and better days.



sing in silence and simplicity.



sing for those in  remembrance .



dark winter bares the soul, those

that believe. sing in silence.



one voice breaks.

dark winter.



sbm

neatly pressed, uniformed,
looking for matron.

the vestibule, signing in,
taking out. small girl
grown older, bolder now.

these are the growing days.
big school, and endless
performances. not yet
the final curtain.

you made no difference
whatsoever.

small girl.

sbm.

to sweeten life. the kiss,
use sugar.

we wrote the words,
print in blood, yet we only had
sepia.

a ruler to tear, fold
carefully, mix with shards
that worked from window
panes.

cotton lengths, blend with oil.
soothing balm.

we have a new bottle here.

the kiss
is up for sale.

sbm.

left the ring in procession,
silently walked the track.

dust rose, the distance grew.

out of sight, talked in code and rhythms.

a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze.

on return, no one spoke.

sbm.

a busy little thing, buzzing down the estuary,

then back again, up and back,                          practising.


in order to acquire, improve or maintain proficiency in it.
“I need to practise my French”



no clouds to cover .                               it was a gentle day

of gardens, les cloche and legume given freely.



the pronounciation was not at all as it should be,

the company all welcome.



later the v22, toy osprey.                           delight.



sbm.

mine, also
has
become a stranger.

how strange.

i often do not sleep,
so have decided
it is not a
problem.

there is always
another world
out there,
that is not ours.

i like mine.

i like your writing.



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.

in 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.

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.

again, i reach the upper room.

floor teetered, me the cabinet maker,
offfered another case, one of mine choice.

she had lovely hair, said the space was moving.

so it was, betwixt a little crowding there,
wilfred owen, his letters and wooden steps,
to reach further up.

below they serve liver and onions, which
i am told is very tasty,

sbm.

maybe is the colours, red and white,
that appeal, the patterns, or the
retro items in the cupboard. he

gasped, and proclaimed the beauty
as the door was opened. so
yesterday, all was tidied, categorised,
more paper laid, for his, and my
delight.

he is home from holday.

sbm

the dresser, will be dressed,
if not with work, something
else.

it is ready, will be sent, despite
undecided minds, impropriety.

will be sent despite blood
from bulbs, stranded fingers,
picked, plucked at rags, thead.

and filaments.

it seems the work is cupboards.

cabinet makers.

sbm.

grey  day, rain.
squeaky bath taps.

this is the valley
of the widow.

this is the day.
writing  the wall,
trees stand tall.

yellow flags, the route,
to glyn y weddw.

know these things.
life will bring. words
in books, paper air.

a name that still remains.

write it.

sbm.

an idea.

the work continues. red thread and all that abounds there.

the museums.



much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.


linen threads hang heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready. shall we mend the rags,

or pin them ?



remnants remain, hiding. working faster with out all those words, those images . bare bones of the fact

corrupted items  turn with dust.



stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed. work along the coast with thread and diligence.



sbm.



(thanks to the asmolean  and jen jones quilt centre for the prompts)

things are not ideal,they never have been.



someone is eating the covers.i think the

time is right.



slowly we clean and tidy.wait for the shop to open.

wait for the table to be moved.this will be the sewing



room.



use all spaces.



sbm.

water flows down this valley. wind blows

round our houses.i have said it before.yet



seems that those who should know better,

talk of gods, may judge the             people .





live in remote places.



between mountain, sea.      the land becomes



dry.



this arid land.



sbm.

may be we have not written

anything today , or maybe

we have.



just not on paper or type, yet

in our minds with eyes and ears,

the smell of smoke and coldness.



it maybe we played the words

in arrangements, with feeling.



longing to walk, having  to work.



the garden changes, and it may

be, that we have written this.



sbm.

see them sometimes while driving out the area,

or should i say whilst?



eyes stray while driving, could that be whilst?  it

does not happen here much, daily in aberystwyth.



by the pier.    keith the photographer films them.



a lot.



all together flying, in harmony. wish people would.



really.



round here, small groups fly up.



birds.



sbm.







shot_1483196453503

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.

possibly not, yet the deed was done,
the sword was plastic. raised we
engaged in sword, in word play.

always the actor he fine tuned
the pokes and prods, wounded me
a little. apparently i am self healing,
did not need to fall and groan so.

arise sir grandma to fight another
day. Yet i have given up that struggle,
i actually know that regeneration
is not endless.

i may not have a knighthood.

i have a gift.

sbm.

can you believe it.              that it was said?

red cross.



we should help    people in this country

first, not those abroad   scared and dying.



that she asked about her washing,      yes i

hang it in the garden, in    sun and breeze

to dry fresh.



she replied that is what peasants do.

do you believe that?



red cross shop.



some say she has a face lift!



sbm.

time is limited these days.

those one admired in youth

devastate us now.



can we know all things, we

only went twice ?



the back road was

littered, rather blustery.



today



clouds blow in, leaves

crake and groan.



i say again, a darker green.



sbm.

he chose the gardener, the myrrh
bearer, mother with child. it
was a lovely day, yesterday,           i heard
they were to go to the chapel,                  in
exhibition there.                             i am glad
i did them, that i swept over hills, watching
trees turn. topped gold now,       slate slants
in lowering light and wetness.

later i saw that you had taken photographs.

i was at the private viewing. sbm.

comment, been asked to write?

has it all overtaken the urge
to say the things you hope,
the words you think.

one is important as the other.

i told him that i do not get
angry as expected, try to do
my best.

told him about the situation,
why i cannot drink
hot chocolate, now.

yet i shall comment soon,
and just maybe
try the drink again.

(holding nose).

sbm.

was a larger thing, not world news, happily,
not somethinhg to chew over.

amongst the colours, the gifts, the tiny cup,
cracked, collectable, among the people
at the friday club is friendship, a bigger
thing.

although many of us like smaller items,
we have grown to know that close friends
are a quite very big, important thing in a
life. small life.

sbm.

the challenge, 12 sentences starting with the same word – green.



:: green road :

green road is where I was born; in winton.



green grocer delivered each tuesday and thursday.

green front doors and hedges line the road, repetitive.



green shooting brake denotes uncle’s arrival, posh we thought,truth came later.



green our neighbour’s face as bombs fell/were pushed; she hid in the outside toilet.



green school knickers; janet next door under her gymslip.

greens up the garden, with spuds  & rhubard, runners & plums.



greens for dinner, liver & gravy; poor food, i guess there was rationing.



green her coat with big buttons,darted & half belt she wore while shopping.



green my mittens, shetland hand knitted; a souvenir.



green the scarf that matched, richer now.



green the sky; the storm passes.



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.

been talking on language.

never understood  before, now
on meeting again have no idea .

he talks about.

just my style has changed ?,

my whole life .

differs.
from here to there, not just
my hair.

least of it.

a meeting , round the round table.

he speaks a different language.

raw stringy man

how shall i prepare?

sbm.

he last thing,            i saw

the plane fly over.     busy day.


they only fly when fine,

we had some words on that

and laughed.


i pointed out the

unusual insect on his shirt,


smiled about those midges

stuck in skin so soft, which worked.


the horse watched, swayed

went down to roll.



i sewed the buttons  back on.

sbm.

.charleston farmhouse screen .


criticize , critique, where is the difference?  read  google. read wikipedia and you will

see that eventually it becomes too much.                                                     that fateful day.



some say you have lost your memory,                                            think of the wrong name.



there are others remain the same.                                                  it may only be one sentence

yet is still part of the story.



an unfortunate phrase.



his name was             duncan grant.

two panels. there is no photograph.



sbm.

is that your mother’s grave.
no she lived in bournemouth,
buried there.

why did you not bring her
here?

look a leaf fell, it
must be autumn now.

so we built the dens,
one with leaves overlooking,

one with sheets, pegs, ironing boards
as befits domesticity. it got hotter.

i lost touch, did not know
he is in hospital.

sbm.

with great love and care ( adverb) he made them. each one             by hand.

most were killed before breakfast. visitors asked to see the bodies,  having

none, he imported them from abroad.                                    more  killed than

the somme. thousands after dawn.                         he has models now of dead

soldiers, some with arrows in.

small scene          first world war,                            glow in the dark.    memorial.

having spent time among his battles,   i went and ate a donut.           lovingly.

sbm.

all things change,
except they say, one.
changes come

squirrels and disarray.

river ebbs, flows, tidal,
otter marks erased, the lane

quiet now. locals walk, leaves stir.

in passing we remember those.

birds fly up, we laugh again.

he gave red wine, will bring logs.


sbm.