‘isn’t the sun warm?’  said the bear, ‘and look i speak in italics’



yes, it makes me feel better.



‘which the warmth or the format?’



sbm

just one day left to write on  purple

for no particular reason except it is

suggested.



one day left to remember the    lilac

he wished was white, and then it was

so.



one day today to change the colour

of blood.



purple is family, the colour of walls ,

time of remembrance.



lavender will not grow here, the soil is

not appropriate.



sbm.

untidy, never used as such.

have a bread oven         too,

redundant

now we have the            new

world.



a mix of excitement and haste

we tied the books, and hid them

there.



with the dusty            cruciform



and one candle.



one rag left hanging…



sbm

play early, after the weather
forecast, heavy rain,
with heavy stomach
this morning.

tell tale of the nougat
renowned as chocolate
treat.

the book discarded
we twitter and tweet
the early morning,
the two of us.

he showed himself
his own photo.

said,’look this is me’
look.
sbm.

ceilings, automatic doors. tread carefully the red carpet.
watch.                                                the landscapes quietly.



the



building where I lost myself, found one    worn stair,

walled words                                                  on bravery.



we laughed at his phone         vibrating the glass table,

automatically.                           there are no  heros here.



just quiet and responsibility.



books bound in leather.



©sbm.

words came as i walked the lane with you,
watched the swallows. thinking i will write
them down back home. leaned on the bridge a while
boatmen dancing.

where have the years gone?

words lost.

radio news .

gaza.

sbm.

busy day,
the customer
spoke.

rough tweed,
manicured hands,
words ring true.

beautiful welsh.

man.

sbm.

it was ivy, dead, that flapped,
strangled wire. this wind, this winter.

now these are labelled,
tidied, and wiped clean,
cloth. damped
in warm water. he came

from nantlle valley,
pretty place, gritty place
on the way to snowdon.

he talked, we watched dust,mote
imagined words, saw
the butterfly, it was the
thirteenth of this month

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.

at home, november,
trailing rain, floods
the field,
damp horse droops,
dark, shiny, mud
splattered.

we walk, talk to the roofer,
jen on her bike, slimmer.

we draw, as film negative,
to replace the drawings
lost in post.

resite.

sbm

she said her father was jewish and proud of it.



they visited the synagogue, i know where it

is. i stood outside.



he was a green grocer, broke his back, her mother

looked after him.



she a seventh day adventist, i went with  her sometimes,

on saturdays.



i never met her father, he died early.



she said.



sbm.

frozen, the code will not work, nor will the counting with interruptions, all things moved about. there is a discount, on top the discount, so a discussion ensued on buttons.

now there is an understanding.  the season of it all fits, the picture is made the pieces are in place. left on the tray, photographed for all to see.



talked in numbers and rhythms. a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze. on return, no one spoke.



i have written of them before, now in sign and symbol, i regard, that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence, that familiarity does not always mean contempt , yet continuity.



spring comes round, and we keep the litte things, again.



sbm.

it could have been simple, days of sewing crosses.  red.   eight thirty  till five.



it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind   meaning

wasting time with wires and connections. some leads led to                 nothing.



some things are not as planned, so rather than be defeated, deal with gusto and

enthusiasm. clean the dust of ages.



then sew on regardless of what is to come. stitch into overtime.         complete



the task.





sbm.

may be beans or latrines,
who cares anyway. love them.

yes it is interesting to read,
to watch the animation. no need to judge.

this is the way to learn, to watch,
to think, take photographs.

google when back at home, read about
people, and know we may after all
be twins.

it is a big house, he spends his time
rendering the walls.

a dark bird has flown over.

sbm.

we talked yesterday of tidying
cupboards, placing soaps in tins,
prepare for winter.

polish the wooden horse
on wheels, sweep
the steps, feel the still
warm air of autumn.

down the lane they mend
the roof. i had a visitor.

she saw the logs ready,
lost her way on exit.

they say it is a hobbit house.

sbm

met a friend for lunch and tea?

done the wrapping, sticking
and packing, most work has gone,
some has been hung, so i am left
with paper and bits below, new work
coming in.

the bottles are up for sale, and
am drawing an erasure with all
my might.

have you seen my writing site?

yes, we had kippers on toast, tasty.

sbm.

maybe that is the right way up.

while all is quiet here with words
and drawing, single stones are multiplied.

we weave and play the stolen hours
into dawn, dusk, all the hours, birds sing.

people writhe and communicate,
some with silence and retribution.

there was a time, we went to wonderland.

sbm

we have been there while it is open.

we went there when it was closed. when
no one tidied, while the apples grew.

we sat the geat chairs in all weathers.

now it is open again, and all the flowers
grow.

cywain

sbm.

the continental way is tighter, grip

the thread, there will be no loopy

stitches, no more.

this is the way to speak, gentle, no

inuendos, benny hill or carry on films.



nothing wrong with none of that, yet

carrying on your own way is honest.



the knitting will be neater now, the

patterns more selective, we are



wool gatherers.



sbm.

making the best
of the battery,
typing fast
hurredly.

not worrying if it rhymes.

we thought it
was the searching
that drained our resources.

yet it was the cheap and shoddy
pink thing that caused
the uproar, stressfully.

no need to hide then,
we have become as public,
all things considered.

demolishing the nissen hut,
where thistles grow.

sbm.

in a fit of peak,
we decided, yes.

the soap in is the
bathroom, ann

as is the amputee
swimming doll
free.

my gifts are still unpacked,
i did, then packed them
back again, to enjoy
today.

the garden is in my mind,
as are al the other delights
we saw, ann.

me must go
back again.

thank you, ann.



sbm.

its a tidal river,
the sea water comes in to the bridge,
where they used to build boats.
the river full and still, mid flow,
i watched and looked early,
i noted the sheep tracks where we run,
parallel.

‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would,
the grave digger, grinning,
‘ happy new year’
and the same to you, angel.

years ago,
i may have jumped,
after you buried him.

its those like you,
that see the beauty of the river,
where the seal comes to play,
and the tide goes up to the bridge.

so we laugh and wave,
and go on our way
up to the bridge.

sbm.

http://tinyurl.com/o32x6fn

to some one else,

will they fall upon flesh,
rip it, rearrange,
leave to sleep?
maybe it were their rags.

handle with care,
small eggs hold with love,
rearrange tenderly, add cake.

we saw hedd wyn, yesterday.



sbm.

smoothing the wrinkles i think

of another time. how reasonably

priced they are, such a usefull item,

to protect the bed.



those that sleep there can

rest in the knowledge that

all is well covered, there will be

no shame, no hardship.

remember the days of rolling

an

old one down the stairs, tying

with ineffective string to await

the council collection.



reorder the thing, much better

now to protect your assets.

i tuck in the corners, and remember

that this is monday.

sbm.

i did not write yesterday.



i delivered the case, i made.

they made.



i saw a little pram for dolls.



it squeaked delightfully.



if it is not sold, when i

collect the case. i may

buy it.



sbm.

these seem to be the thing

just now, a slight amusement.



do you like family language,

private jokes, stuff that

no one else gets?



some people do, and have

ordered  12 pieces water animal

small figure toy, colourful

crocodile A12 from china,

via ebay.



as yet there is no photograph.



sbm.

have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independant air, profound words,
from those who care.

are we all naive?

i think i am.

sbm.

. give things .

to some one else,
will they fall upon flesh,
rip it, rearrange,
leave to sleep?
maybe it were their rags.

handle with care,
small eggs hold with love,
rearrange tenderly, add cake.

we saw hedd wyn, yesterday.

sbm.


Hedd Wyn
Poet
Hedd Wyn was a Welsh language poet who was killed during the Battle of Passchendaele in World War I. He was posthumously awarded the bard’s chair at the 1917 National Eisteddfod. Wikipedia
Born: January 13, 1887, Trawsfynydd
Died: July 31, 1917

nice message thank you.

yes I shall like to get to know your friends more, they are welcoming.

i like them. there is something special , the more I know her.

have a good time in oswestry, it is a pretty place.

hope your wrist improves.


sbm.

drive it one spring

morning early before the traffic

starts.

i have done it many

times before , know the road,

villages, the pretty bends.

taliesin, bow street, clarach.

yesterday a sea fret, misted trees,

added edge ; visual delight.

i like the road to aberystwyth.

sbm.

yesterday was sky and small dresses,

all work, some worry due to tiredness.

yesterday the green house came, different

than expected, yet a treat none the less.

sometimes we miss the hyphen, the proper

format, we are not as expected either. yet

we does our best, sits in the suns, and plan

to hang dresses in the trees.

the sky is pinc this morning.

not a typo, pinc is welsh for pink,

as i have said before.

sbm.

you have been away for ages

said the bear, with no speech marks.



yes, two weeks. remember you use

italics.



i spoke to you each day.



how come when you left me at home?



your voice is in my head,



see.



yes



sbm.

deep shadow in the valley,

gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.

summer now, they come with midges,

breathe fire on the bridge, do not see

us for imagining to live here.



as we did once. now settled in boxes,

we grin and grow.

longer days are

shorter days.





if you opened the lid, i think

you will love them too.



their faces.

sbm.

cross referencing, numbers,

related articles.

noted.

lists are added

pages  filed , named, ordered.

all things have a place, bottled,

pickled in stead for a hard

winter coming.

locked away in time,

discarded.

retained  specially in mind.

he is a librarian.

sbm.

sits prettily, the starched mat
is frayed a little now.

it was an evening of festivities over
poetry, regarding god, diana, the queen
of hearts. catch phrase, a moderate game,
played better standing close, somehow.

the books were cheap, stock  sale in the library,
he left his life to live

in alaska. chapter two

sbm.

as christ the king.

we came up the back way,
from the avenue.

she did not know of the place,
she asked her friend.

down in the lower room, we saw
the empty food bank, their cases
full of treasure.

read the names, the words in latin,
heard all the questions. wondered
at the glass in blue, honored in red.

later, she entered with her father,
processed, then got married.

outside it was raining gently.

sbm.


notes:-derived from Latin, processio, from procedere, to go forth, advance, proceed

warm, a sudden breeze.

as you like it.

from the valleys they came,
to act, entertain, travelling
troupe.

eye to eye, interaction, plenty
of action, and oh,
the costumes all pretty
in that green place,
with a hey
and a **.

birds sang, ants crept.

we laughed, sang, danced the lane
forgetting the path.

it was, as we
like it.

sbm.

lost in the ashmoleum, lost
in antiquity.

i may have paid the price.



the museum is free.

accordingly.

as i said,
i could not help
but cry.

we do not often speak of it.



bound.

sbm.

there is a dead sheep in the lane.



pushed to one side away from

the passing.



traffic may have hit it, or it went

natural?



we walked on up near the copper

mine , a darker place yet

the forest came light.



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.

its a tidal river,

the sea water comes in to the bridge,

where they used to build boats.

the river full and still, mid flow,

i watched and looked early,

i noted the sheep tracks where we run,

parallel.

‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would,

the grave digger, grinning,

‘ happy new year’

and the same to you, angel.

5 years ago,

i may have jumped,

after you buried him.

its those like you,

that see the beauty of the river,

where the seal comes to play,

and the tide goes up to the bridge.

so we laugh and wave,

and go on our way

up to the bridge.

sbm.

* featured in ‘Estuary’ a confluence of art and poetry.

Edited by Agnes Marton and Harriette Lawler.

Saboteur Award in the Best Mixed Anthology category

in some houses no one,
presses, steams and irons,
clothes, the inevitable linen,
no more.

busy days we are pressing words,
hanging out for all to see,
to disagree.

a private place, a box, there
are some you will never see.

secrets.

sbm.

seems i have reinvented

everything quieter than before.

wet autumn days or is it winter,

the change comes

gradually.

i dreamed a cloud of

falling leaves, awake to find it is so.

it is so very quiet here today.

sbm.

i have a book.



i thought the light was strange,

white glancing the grass,

cut now, buttercups gone.



he spent three days cutting,

the dog long side.    sleeping.



this morning, we have

frost in may.



the book is in the back room.



sbm.

creeps at the upper window
now, perfumed. cutting
gently round the windows,
letting in light and autumn days.

inside the cat watches while
carefully we trim, minding the
red rose. like he minded the pumpkin.

the light was different yesterday.

sbm.

visuals

this morning you came with snow

falling



we know the cars

with snow falling



it is not what we meant

yet



we swapped photographs



blaenau translated

it is my mother’s birthday.

we stood and watched
punch and judy yesterday,
while god was all behind us.

he bashed, we laughed,
he bashed, laughed more,
he bashed.

children were removed
from the vicinity,
others stayed.

incorrect musings
regrading life and buskers.

pastel buildings mask
the incorecctness of it all.

it is my mothers birthday.

sbm.

we write about numbers,

yet neither of us

remember 21.



we could use correspondence

cards, sold in packs of 6,

with a little logo at the top.



we email, she is norther now.

yesterday went quietly,

we walked to arthur’s stone, saw the wren,

then, came back again.

sbm

he explained galvanised metal,
made a bardic chair.

the eisteddfod is in llanelli
this year, while many go,
we cannot.

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

we carry on,
with regard and fortitude.

the weather warning is cancelled.

6.12 am.

sbm.

outside, the out building  

we talked of  the war, swallows overhead.  



avoided the cockerel neatly on the lawn,

admired the rhubard flowering,

a dunkirk conversation,while sun shone.



even small boys mourn  commentary

repeated, the small days of their lives.



they were brave men,

it is a good exhibition.



sbm.