what about this list,

to do it before you die,

well as she said, you probably

can’t do it after. some may disagree -

another belief. we try not to judge,

yet that  bucket was not worth

five pound, so i offered two.

old,  too enamoured to be

used for rhubarb.

i shall search for another.

there is an old galvanised bath

in the garden.

sbm.

soft stuff wool
unless is tapestry,
lasts a life time.

they say.

knitted, it needs
flattening, pinning
in squares.

choosing
carefully, pearl headed
fit for the task,
we pin
uncontrollably,
obsessively,
blotting out bullies
and other unecessary
items.

it is the wrong size.

some seek perfection.

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.

remembered those at sea, as they should.



meanwhile snail trailed silver

the mat in the hall.



calm here with tiny things,

light drizzle and remembrance.



some understand the loss,

while some forgot the

apostrophe.

sbm.

can be.



frightful, in snow or heavy rain,

dark the days are, the evenings darker.

forecasts bring gloom and panic, then are cancelled

minutes later, the phone kicks off.



ice is predicted,  mountains white



and jesus is reborn up the valley.



now there is a story, meanwhile

arriving home to candlelight, fire the same

and hopefully all will be well a while.



the word count is 62, the years are 8,

and i dreamed it was 2 months ; longer

than all the other numbers.



i have been a long time coming home.



sbm.

felt like a sauna
or confessional. piping sounds.

we start talking,
regarding lack of reading,
concluding this
stimulates
conversation.

covering hips, as was his
want, running which is
not mine. i did not
mention any affliction.

i liked his way, his teeth,
and accompanied him
to the chemist, which
closed at 5.30.

sbm

it was well said.

tired of all the rags and critisms?

listen to the artist, talk of
cumbria and cul de sacs.

listen to another, who follow stars,
cellular memory.

i have been a while here, now.
it may be time to leave, and find
the other way.

sbm.

that was satisfying.

did i sit quietly thinking,

then place a few

things together. yes.

that was exhausting.

the star.



sbm.

as none were made. no brawn
to be spoken of today.

along the coast to aeron,
aberaeron, to chase the ghost,
look out to sea.

gone now, ragged curtains hang.

***** windows.

more dice take us,
scissors hang in corners,
to cut and paste
the dogged words of life.

chant the twisted trees
of chancery, note the roots.

no comments found.

sbm.

watch, windows speck. days come lightly.



heavy hearts at leaving here. we remember

you. some times.



with  difficulty.

some times.



the sun shines,

some times it rains.



sometimes it looks calm when we can feel the wind.



lightly.



sbm.

once upon a time…



only once?

she asked



yes once was enough & there is hope it will not be repeated over

the evil of it all



which time?

i am sure you remember…



prayers are spoken each hour

the bell rings



once upon a time..



only once?

she asked



no, it happens all the time when folk are kind all the time



it comes in layers like a trifle pudding

yet more important than a mere dessert



prayers were spoken each hour

the bell rang



once upon a time

tea time. soaked
through.

hours, wandering the lanes,
finding the shore,
my independance.

watching the silversmith,
the birds sing, water

logged, lost, happy
in the knowing.

chocolate egg,
on return.

sbm.

except when we are not, except
when we forget. or we are not
notified.

there are lists and diaries, notes
and reminders, days set aside for certain
tasks. it has to be done, when
there is only one
to do it.

yet, oh the shame, the horror
if we miss a trick, or lose the
page.

eventually we will know,
that none of it matters.

even though it all does.

now.

sbm.

( prompted by 52.60. )

you know, he was at the

recycling depot out in

the rain, a sudden storm.



rescued, at no charge from

the bloke, who sheltered.



through the machine,

came clean. loved

and photographed.



he sits by the clock,

some times likes a sparkler.



sbm.

there is the mark,
in the grass where
your cat sleeps, we watched
her from the window.

precious.

these are the pears on
my tree, my grass
is so green, this is
my humour, i am company.

i am your neighbour.

sbm

old spelling, the old book,

pure poetry.



double negatives are very positve

they say, so why change it.



why look to the land to find

boredom, when everything

is so interesting, if you let it.



why criticise all the while, while all the while

your battery runs down.



i think of my mother. she was not  at all well.



sbm.

it is minus one outside today,

a big fire in dubai. i saw the

grave digger yesterday, i thimk

my friend is died.



they say to be happy, we are,

we stil see the pity of the world.



we cry.



she is right, we may not get what

we wish for, mainly we gets what we gets.



sbm.

more than that with promises

that faded into silence.


i woke this morning the same,

a taste of autumn,

mists and biblical sheep

resting.


a new grave here,

a new grave near,

while all is growing,

there.


a cloud  hangs in the valley

sbm.

balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite

fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.



have done this a while, got the rhythm,

the style of dressage and deportment

for one of our station.



i don’t have a badge, so

look with confidence, courage

so they know.               i quickly

fold tidily, imagine i am japanese

and check my hips in the showroom mirror.



i work on sundays, except

when i go on thursday.



so being monday, now

i change the bed.



carry on with the domestics.



sbm.

there is a skid mark in the mud,

where i moved the car early,

saw the mist rising on the river.



hear the black crow bird call .



home.



it is raining again today,

a worry when some work out doors.



i leave here early this

morning.



the academy.



sbm.

small path, a right of way,

for me, to go down the back lane.

it is all forget me nots,

i wrote of it before.

i had bought 1000 seeds, black

and tiny,

from ebay, wondered who counted

them.

he is a farmer, will strim

them soon, so i gently pulled

a plant. the ground gave easily,

moles had been tunneling.

i will forget thee not.

he is a farmer.

sbm.

dark o’ clock.

windows shut, interior sounds

fluff and meanderings.



inevitable clock ticking,

literal conciousness.



freedom spent a while,

another brief imprisonment,

hunger strike, maledictus.



it all descends back into bing translations.



sbm.

you know how you can hear me,

when i am thinking. ‘yes that is because

i came from the forest, it is quiet there,

we can hear everything’

yes.

‘where have you been all day?’



here and there and felt the air

on my cheeks.



‘ so i hope the blanket of sadness

is lifting?’



yes. thank you bear.



sbm.

he  sat on the step in the heat,

I, sickly dozed under

the damson tree.


lizards flicked.


while in the village

below this hill

music played.


a wedding.

sbm

Image

i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.



.

they are mending aberdovey

bridge again. i passed twice.



the service was beautiful, although

our hearts had sunk.  his music soared

as the kite flew the window.



the flies climbed the walls.



a buzzard flew to jazz.

the flies climbed the wall.



ended with the pasa doble,

while the flies continued.



i came home over dovey bridge



sbm.

a garden in regret yesterday before the mist cleared.



leeks in bundles while a lone robin sat her eggs, soft

in moss.



sun came, so we went up to see the churchyard cleared

ready.



a flower festival.



sea fret  in by six.      today the sky has lifted early.



sbm.

balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite

fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.



have done this a while, got the rhythm,

the style of dressage and deportment

for one of our station.



i don’t have a badge, so

look with confidence, courage

so they know.               i quickly

fold tidily, imagine i am japanese

and check my hips in the showroom mirror.



i work on sundays, except

when i go on thursday.



so being monday, now

i change the bed.



carry on with the domestics.



sbm.

requested for christmas,

it is the run up, you know.



passed  the idea by him,

verdict, boring, well it was

bound to be that or, wierd.



i told him it is beautiful, that

i love richard parker and

and a classic

animated character. I gave

him the message, i found

waiting.



his message to me is

cherry pie, so i stopped in

tesco, bought one for

tea.



it is a life of pie.



sbm.

the reluctant apprentice, trained
with brown paper and string.

the redundant book binder, left
to the world with care.   hoped

to eradicate a lack of training , gold
leaf tracing a memory. retuned eventually
through mappe mundi, national libraries
all ancient tape and frogskin.



chained.

the books are bound.

sbm.

winding wool.



together.



sbm.

talk of concrete in pretoria
thoughts on moths in wales.

there is only air between .

talk goes on all day, about the heat,
the rain and drizzle,
no thoughts on the shipping
forecast. words red, remembered.

the bird, the boy, the machine,
there is only air between.

sbm.

he said that i will die,
as all things will die,
go back to nature.

i agreed.

he will remember me.

the whole family,
returned in the evening
cooler, cleared the hay
from the graveyard.

it was hot, so
i layed a cold
flannel on
his head.

sbm

yesterday. did not read the stuff
. wrote about laundry.

you know sudsyy hot water smells,
ironing airing, mending . the usual.

if you read here regular, you may
expect to read domesticity,
of sorts.

there are cobwebs, memories, yet the linen
is clean, with dabs of cotton.

so aghast, i did the work again,
i hope it is properly.



sbm

the few know how to detonate, the many don’t.

apostrophe t.



the few add bits and bobs for devastation, muliple

injuries and death. life

changing.



a few help the others, while the others suffer.



there was a picture of a bomb  in blaenau, next

to a drawing of a ****, and a passage from the bible.

hash tag.

deuteronomy.



sbm.

second time the title .
we quote some numbers, unmentionable
for some will snigger. we need a double
throw to get out of jail, move forward,
one dice. the dayword was impossible.

on reflection, it is all  satisfactory, we
shall buy the board, aquire another throw.

it will be waiting in the games room.

the hydro hotel.

sbm.

envy the rural living.

make some.

walk the dunes
each day,
know the places,
to stop,
where berries grow.

where the photograph tree
knows,
what lays beneath.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

then in mine, in honour
walk the place in mind.

sbm.

lead us to think there is no planning,
no list of instructions, therefore no
notes on mending.

so we stick it, wipe it, cough
dificulties into craw, sliming over
the worst of it.

without the light on things look worse,
leaning over carefully, flick a switch,
listen to the news.

all things combined,
leads to variety in puddings.

sbm.

looking down saw grubby fingers,
smuts from the fire, cleared early.

spit and hanky  rub the mark away,
travel regardless. may be spring
that day.

cannot read your mind, sir, nor mind
the consequences of my stain.

i have sooty marks,the head is clear.

walk the canal path, eat cheese,
and softer figs.

oh my , these are the falling days,
the days of the life.

sbm.

the mass, the clouds  lay heavy,

rain that came, that blinded

again.



blinded those that could not see

the love and idle artefacts, each one

a statement of nothing in particular.



phased those that drove the cwm

in site of home, that stopped, saw

nothing.



water that seeps, insidiously into mind,

spoils all things.



things that can be mended.



he said that most people throw broken plates away.

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.

unexpected driving,
along the edge, the edge
of season. the coast with
slow limits.

the glass anomaly
swept the edges
golden, in proportion.

the bridge is being mended,
we crossed that bridge.

sbm.

softly the curtain drapes,

arranged carefully, revered in mirrors.



they do say it is an antique french lace

panel. pretty with a pattern,  bows

and flowers. scalloped edges.



sits in the lamp light perfectly,

like some thing in a magazine.



country living.



wood windows, the wind got through

last night. the fabric moved

softly.



sbm.

i like fishmongers, see the fish
laid in ice, little eyes, so i went
in to sea. a small shop, cod one side,
ice creams the other, dog outside.

with a cushion, and bone, meat bone.

may i help you?

i should just like to look, unless
you have herring.? no, they
did not catch any this week.

then i am not a very good customer.

no, you need more training.

sbm.

she said hello, smiled.                                                        i smiled back with no regret.



the books are left tied tightly.





woke up to see the shy pink. clouds.



we stood together working pushing rags through to make things neater. others searched the lines, the crossing, looking for reincarnations.                               we thought they were sheltering from the rain.



another day of vinegar soaked words. another play on keys, as we drift through           winter days.



curtains dragged across the gloom, early, yet while light lingers later,   we wander to the snowdrop drift, hear the last bird call.



give things to some one else, will they fall upon flesh, rip it, rearrange,    leave to sleep? maybe it were their rags.                                            or handle with care, small eggs hold with love, rearrange tenderly.



?

. it seems the work is cupboards. cabinet makers.



sbm.

the visitor came, silently,
while waiting patiently,
did not hear him.

did not hear him creep
nor hear him sleep.

yet he rose clean and early,
to work another day. patiently
i waited.

he is a working man.

sbm.

defines the mass, not the counting.

weight of notes, concerned her, no

looking up, she slightly apologised, nearly,

I went outside to the cash machine,

where she probably wanted me to be, really.

then buttons,  joy to spend the day working,

styles and colours.

i do like the feel , 50 grammes each time.

the comment on tedium, returned with memories

of grandmas box, phobias, trouser buttons,

linen with shanks.

I  have found the  buttonhole scissors.

sbm.

:: a book of pins ::              handwritten, copied in a day.



the drawing, the written page.

i am paint and cotton

i am pins and details

codes and reasons

calm and seasons.



i am boxes, charcoal,

fires and birds.



i am hand writing.



i am the old house,

all things considered.



i am the joker, the radio,

the music.





i am four dots.



i am the folded page,

the falling face.



i am the picture, the painting,



i am the mouse, the little bird,

a monstrous woman.



i  am a word document, a picture file.



i am the pin.



sbm.

comes round again, the radio

announcer says it is good, that

i am awake early.

well done.

we saw magnolia yesterday, blooming,

black grass and dogwood.

yet i shall like to the see

the orange trees, smell the fruit

descending. eat all that there is.

i had to go.  i missed the train.

sbm.

maybe it was the lack of empathy,

the first sign in yellow. the others

were hidden, yet confessed deeply.



in red, the diagnosis, no doctors here,

we have common sense in blue.



understand the fear, the

need to lay and weep over all things.



legion, there are many.



sbm.