we will not have blankets,

if there are none, take the old

rags, layer , stitch and stitch

by hand till fingers bleed.

work along the coast

with thread and diligence.

gather wools, layer carefully,

we shall have warmth this winter.

we will have quilts to share.

sbm

foundation for these days. hard work won.                 there

is another way with privacy and organisation.       industry .





leave things simple,

leave thing be a while.



oversight and overland

travel.                 the dead    depress.



overlook; i see the old horizon still.



planes flies over, one then two       we

can hear them from the window. over

there his story  repeats                 itself.



over sight me, over look you. there are

many of us.



legion.



sbm.

Posted on August 11, 2016

the bank cuts by,

the path next the
sea.

air is clean here,
sailors are honest
about the weather.



it is a good idea

to visit each year.



sbm.

so the bear has become a companion.



of sorts in times of sress

and needlessness.



i call him darling sometimes,

not often.



some days he stays in bed ,

not often.



some people are witnesses, study

the evidence.



i prefer the bear.



sbm.

52.57.

something happened, something
changed inside me, the moon slipped sideways.

while all remains the same, something is different.

did you speak to me, was that you I heard in the
garden calling.

is it really such a little thing.

the connection.

sbm.

nettle rash and ants
sting. love letters.

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.

while taking coffee
in a particular place
******* on chocolate torte
slightly melted,
the lord of the manor,
reading.

grew a headache
from the stuff, too much
sweet , too much
information, all too true
to pattern.

so we dtrove home, and
got on with it.

nissan huts.

sbm

they moved the mirror,

when blankly looking

found nothing there,

ex cept

vertigo and framed

birds nesting.

the moon jars, have melted stone.

there are tiny, tiny plants
in conwy high street, for sale.

alpines.

folding the washing, out
came a tiny tiny beetle,
placed on the dining table,
the way to its freedom.

gaze at tiny tiny things,
the world becomes another
space.

this is precious.

sbm.

from where comes the love,
comes the pool of fear,
the fright of interrogation,
guilt,
i hear.

from where comes the mourning,
late afternoon,
and evening,
comes the spirit,
and singing,
dancing, ringing.

i hear the bells,
the crows,
the chaffinch,
and it shows,
my hearing.

from where comes the whistling,
comes the pool of tears,
the laughter we hear.
here

©sbm

sound sounds like this in english. sounds familiar.

in the morning,             heartening                 lorries,

mansel davis, north to south and back again reverse

turn.



garden, sounds fresh so early,                           outdoor

noise.      indoors,

the radio plays.                                             brittle.      news

mumbo jumbo of politics.



birds sing.



tinnitus continues,                                                 softer now





sbm.

thread your way through,

place the ends for the birds.

they ask nothing.

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.

i often wonder if i              should recognise you

in passing,                            or are you gone now?



should i remember your name & your brothers.



would i laugh at the experience,      as happened

yesterday.



he walked straight past me without       blinking.



i guess i am plain now, without no fancy hair style.



blinking.



sweet heart.



sbm.



daily post



sbm.

it is always there

in the bathroom,

ignored, as was the photo.

yesterday it came to light again,

every woman’s toilet,

book.

edited by mrs robert noble,

not dated, yet dated.

are artificial aids justifiable,

how to have a dimpled wrist

with excercise,

means, and massage,

a moderate diet essential.

we do not wish a muddy complexion?

no. nor to wear the years

away in sad ness and regret.

we just need an excellent lotion,

for tired eyes,

and carry on, rejoicing.

all that there is.

plus the photograph.

sbm.

sunday morning is often quiet here early .the radio playing.



did you know they play music alongside bird  song. a special

moment.



we sit quiet and listen.  you see i think the swallows have gone.

i did not see them leaving.



in syria they drop bombs   to gas the children.



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.

. light bulbs, cotton hankies .
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.

shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.

wipe your nose clean.

sbm.

today we have added notes for your interest.

A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.

The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.

Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.

wednesday, the shops shut early.

here.there are still tourists around.

or new people. i bought some sweets,
a thimble,a packet of screws, one
light bulb.

chatted about face book in the mongers.

i moved here in 1993. I am an immigrant.

sbm.

your birthday at the zoo.
while
we were at the national
library of wales, aberystwyth.

high ceilings, automatic doors.
trod carefully the red carpet,
saw the landscapes quiety.

film maker in residence.

webmakers in conference.

tape tied book, reminds
me, silent face a memory.

i will return to the
national library of wales,
aberystwyth.

no photos allowed.

sbm.

did the breeze come
late last night, or did
some one slip into the room.

you were sleeping.

was there some one in the house
creeping
down the stairs. looking,
another time for thinking.

you were sleeping. now waking
wonder at the blessed company
of mindful thinking.

tidy the curtain.

sbm.

aesthetic, showing the words for anaesthetic, little creatures placed

to sleep a while. on waking find that spelling is not so awkward now.



checked without books.           cover the title with rages and     kisses.



i see they use different gases all with difficult arrangements of letters;

there are crumbs under the keyboard. he did warn me. the w crunches,

it may be toast. while all around is                          aesthetically pleasing

clouds gather, we await the friday.



nothing matched #asemic

sbm.

we walked the stone,

he kept the path tidy, closed a while,

is open now . as the sky opens

through willow arches, white calves

and butterflies.



he cuts the shrubs, hedges, and rakes the path tidy.



it is arthur’s stone.



sbm.

the jaws hold the teeth,
tells the story.

there are bits under nails, no
matter how hard the scrub, how
hot the water, strong the soap.

varnish over, yet the truth
comes out.

sbm.

she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at,

nothing to buy, like in a museum with pins and labels. i am

pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a    new

riboon, black and red stripes horizontally.

ˌhɒrɪˈzɒnt(ə)li/
adverb.

no, nothing is for sale now and who will want it these days?

she had moved the cabinets, so we paced the upper rooms.

sbm.

a small thing, ragged.



who knows all of it,                   pieces

torn away.                                 framed.



an exhibition again.                 Christine.



only you know most of it.       Christine.



sbm.

come six twenty four, much
is done already. words are
discussed, will be till evening.

one was discarded, as not being used
these days, while some misspelt
took on other meanings. the work load

creates tension, while skin crawls
back to back.

at six twenty seven, the music
ends.

sbm.

they did not know she had millions, neither did she. just collected one item at a time, cared fully for         each one of them.                                                                                                         catalogued in eternally.



words affect us deeply.   voices  come and go.                                           while the worlds spins with  people’s chaos and confusion.       yet.           above the noise of the day     they show me birds and insects          did you know they cross their fragile legs?





did you find a pin there, did you pick it up and stick it?   did you stay safe, wrap the shawl around and hold    it   close?        did you see my life breaking, bring me pins for mending? …



stick in be safe , despite the pain and raddled cotton threads.   to hold my life, hold the rusty hinges, prepare the coats of varnish again     .                    remember your mother’s pins, my friend.

be well in your mending.



she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like in a museum with strings and labels.

sbm.

i liked it. bought it.

slight regrets in that i
felt sadly, it made me
look elderly.

wore it anyway, having
paid charity, and was
complimented all day.

i either have
demented vision,
or my shape will do.

empire line
is more flattering,
so now are we
back to discussing
jane austen, period drama
or escape from the past.

sbm.

closing in, the lane

comes narrower.

slowly walk, waiting,

she is usually behind now, eventually catches up.



otters footprints scattered, the

fishermen are here, on the bridge

in the pool. **** gathers  the tide.



heavy sky humbles us

to home.



where they wait.



sbm.

why will i want to or think of it

at all.                      in lower case.



aren’t we all    complementary,

designed with different features

and ramblings, not pausing for

breath.



we live in the country ; know that

all are different, enjoy a good time

overall.



pause.



aren’t we all in this together,     a

question with gritted              teeth

eventualities and commas.



do not worry over things. said this

before.



all together.



the difference could make no difference.



classified.

declared love, declared shame
for brymbo man living in suburbia.

declared love for mindless blobs
of gold, medieval collections. here.

ah, we discussed the tonsure,
denoting all humility,moved

quickly to primark, all things
underworn. yet there was no

brawn, yesterday. half day

closing.

sbm.

slow down when squirrels cross.

nut shells rattle the mower blades, so we
look up at the acorns growing. all is well
at oswalds tree.

she carried the cake, to and fro, it diminished
at each turn, a victoria sponge. while all the while,
the bodice remains private, linen buttons tidy.

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.

best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

this is not cross foxes. we will go to new places
again. i will show you things.

sbm.

i thought he wore a red wind cheater,
it was a boiler suit.memory kicked in
already,

my brothers’ faded jackets,
waterproofed, cracked with age,
rubber lined, elastic cuff.

to cheat the wind i suppose.

i inherited.

not the corduroy shorts ,
which were
dyed dark brown each season,
passed from brother to brother,
not to me.

my mother supplying snake belts
for slippage, and parafin oil
on slicky hair.

those days things faded.

sbm.

**notes, we have no photograph.

it is a ritual, it is the music,
the loom, the gestures, the

night before christmas,
hand over mouth, awe

and wonder. some sounded
fire works, dogs cowered.

some sounded bells, calling
the village to come.

some stayed at home, wondered
at the small things surrounding.

the weaver of raveloe.

linen thread.

sbm.

looking for numerals?        while there before

you stands solomon, cracked regarding his son.



absolom, oh absolom.            looking for god?



while all the while they are wanting your money.



looking for  wool gloves? all a plenty  at the cathedral.



this is where they display their wares, while the

architecture outside looks vaguely roman.



sbm.

cake and photographs
being processed.

memories form,
liking the patterns,
move on
preparing
for the fall.

apples, blackberries lure,
we walk the lane, the
two of us, precious

comes, regardless
of traffic and opportunities.

we changed the rug later.

sbm.

it has been a while since we spoke.

even now, you will not receive this letter,
along with others not sent.

some went away to exhibition, while others remain in my head.

it is the rule, no contact. today is cooler, we change the clocks soon.

i suppose you are nearly retired, yet i have lost track.

even so, i reflect on what i have done, i ask, what have i done?

it lingers in the past with no judgement here, they are good friends.
we may ask what have you done, yet it does not matter now.

all things pass.

i shall occasionally write, and never send.

no contact.

narcissus.

sbm.

some things need not be kept,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.

others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.

some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.

the photograph.

this does not mean
i love you.

sbm.

may be i am soft like
gentle ways.

we went to the mountain
sat at the base chatting,
looking up.

walking the path, the sun
caught our shoulders,

at the salmon leap, we paused
at the lack of fish.

grass grew greener,
we are older now,

happy.

enough.

sbm.

leave your ideas at home.
on the hatstand. forget all
that you have learned, things
may not be so.

all people have ideas, so
yours is not so precious now,
elder.

she told me that even things
at home have changed.

looking round we see they have.

reimagine the world, forget
the learning, start again,
then we may understand, or not.

king david.

sbm.

to most everyone.

so we quote desiderata,
get on with the
deal with it some way.

on a good day
the bikers come,
a certain age,
in accents, brown leathers,
buying cheap pens,
and kittens.

there is no harm is looking,
some say.

it was a strange moon
last night, and now it is the day.

sbm.

it is a dusty lane, as requested.

new flight taken, wildly singing, in all directions,

while we mowed,            while the ants invaded.

as i knelt,            the grave digger came down

again. it is about time,                          he said,

laughing.

tethered the horses at the gate,

then the farrier came.

it is my brother’s birthday

today.

sbm.

don't you see, he said,
nothing will feel right again.

these things you have done,
may erase any sympathy you gleaned
from the past,
as awe full as it was.

sbm.

was planned.


did the domestics,

packed the bottles,

bell jars, drew

thirty three drawings,

of vikings, an afternoon

writing, waiting

on the visitor.


yet, it seemed

like a lovely day off.

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

i am a detective a bit

like

harry lime

looking for a beetle

blackened ; crusty with a smart serge suit from

foster brothers



went missing a week or so ago

the full moon following



reported by a family in the

cellar concerned



by its legs waving wildly ; sock dangling

backed on flagged floor



missing person



crisp printed poster

denoting

reading the line, moved the line
into a place of hedges, rural
contemplation.

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

sbm.

talk about chucking it down,

we wondered what the noise

was.

heard gwil running in , no time

to stop for logs. the cat came

streaming.

rushed to the window, to take

photographs.

talk about chucking it down.

sbm.