mind your engine does
not pink, we must have finer fuel. not feeling

our true self can be an infliction, the grave digger
reminds us of our years, our sense of humour.

would have killed

the washing

in the old days.



only white cotton.



machine on boilies

by mistake,

i fretted over the

red blouse,

with lemon cardigan,

and softis underwear.



oh the miracle of modern fabric,

when the door eventually opened,

i found not red runny,

nor shrunken woolly,

but just  clean washing…..



the miracles of modernity.



sbm.

usually lasts three months

not breathing



released

emotion comes flooding

plus a tsunami of local issues



anaesthetic worked fine

yet the fear remains



it took just one other complication to release



so



we crept into the garden



again

tired

mrs ciano never had hair
we do not mention it to
her

she has a sensitive soul
multiple personalities

go google
mrs ciano



.mrs ciano’s blog.

it takes time and patience to be  brave;

to face the consequences, to be         so

bold.



the calculations are seven.

i cannot spell.   i can think.

i can imagine a nuclear

bom.

going off.

read the books, seen the footage.





think.

people.

think

of it.

before you speak.

sbm.

there is no photograph

bom.

history is not my subject



bombs/



sounds rather current



except this guy got caught

before the damage



i have just been advised/



he had hoped to be interred at

coventry cathedral



except

he was not sure if it existed yet



then



it was decided to cut him up to **** him

put his head on a spike

up his neck/



that was bombed too

coventry cathedral/



bombs are nasty things/

seriously

sbm.



(prompt.  guy fawkes & coventry cathedral)

no words to describe the mass, the danger of it all, the hate that rises. the parallel, the home, the black chair. power house. bone house.
5
the power house looms ahead. they pray for peace and family, their lovely homes and salary. pigs. work for the people supposedly.

6
power house

has no hold over me now

i talk to bones
old bones now
hard in earth
and the ground comes up to meeet me.

no leaves to cover
me


©sbm

there it is, underneath.

old black book,

word and image,

i made of you.



grandfather.



only realistically,

i suppose you are not, but

that is what we call you.



the black book is found,

will be shown around.

funny thing is, i talk like a sketch book now.

book binders’ apprentice

folding

feeding papers

filing

disliking that it was not my choice



he laughed at my shoes

at my shoes

i scoffed at his glue ***

rabbit fur



the boy

the girl

the social worker



touch the bone

learn to sew    /        promotion

came when the factory closed



cruise wear department

there are no records

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.

.bottle.

.next event.

today i write of glass and ashes, inspired before, then swept by other’s moments. witness the cleaning, month passed, in our surprise forgot the soot and dashes, to burnish wax. today, a small task.…

layered in air we dance with glass small souls with small lives rise to the challenges

glass housed and labelled ten years ago. this house is closed, yet will open at 10 am.
possibly.it varies.

if he only looked out at the world, forgot all this nonsense.
it is what we make it. he said ‘ ” the things we think are

worries now”, as discussed with the boy.

not yet published.



the kindness that is. glass reflecting. slowly it starts. maybe we need to check our numbers?
No automatic alt text available.
now it is shattered. and cuts.

the fence is down, it has been a while.

i can watch you. walking. watch you working.

you told me it will rain later, that my work

will stop.

yet the sun stayed all day.

the repair will come sometime, it
is down to the farmer.

harvest home.

we all have
boundaries.

i am no different.

sbm.

come gently with birth

come gently with life

grow with the place

until we grew beyond how it was



beyond the culture and crowding

thinking

becoming unsettled

moving

retaining memory



1.



cycling the promenade hoping

some one will love us some day



baking down dunes

walking down tracks

barefoot hoping for less paving in town



2. humbling for a home

walking looking in windows

will some one want us

house us?



3. finding the two above

settling for the place where folk

come to holiday beautiful

while we work the bones of it

the grit beneath



bournemouth beautiful



the reason beneath the move away

is beyond any words i have just

now

where folk

come to holiday beautiful

.. boxed sets ..
the idea left us dancing.
use what is already there,
make do and mend, linen

threads hang heavy, needles
preserved. small holes ready.

shall we mend the rags, or
pin them onto wool pads
ready for discovery.

these are the planning days,
the filming ways, of
lifts and wild imaginings.

the idea left us dancing.

use what is already there,
make do and mend, linen

threads hang heavy, needles
preserved. small holes ready.

shall we mend the rags, or
pin them onto wool pads
ready for discovery.

these are the planning days,
the filming ways, of
lifts and wild imagininings.

the tabernacle wales.
the tannery.

sbm.

wander into town while your back hurts

edging into breaking. meet the one who

instigates recycling for its sake and others.



suggested the items, collects and delivers.



meanwhile he eats the offered sweet and

confesses there are more boxes outside.



mostly cherry ones, quite small,made to

stack easily.



help yourself, i have organised them in two

piles, wood and plastic



yes, have four, there will be more here

everyday.



i remember how we ate  cherries every summer.



those days.



( pause)



these days.



the back feels slightly better now.







sbm.

I feel care and gentleness. Some people do not ask us of our early years in my experience, and though in the past, never so far away.
I wish I can tell it in a more orderly manner, each episode boxed in date order…..ha.
It is just facts yet I worry over false memories. Seems this week the past is become a theme. So we move forward sometimes looking back.
The tree man is here, and I have also started cutting back
in reality and metaphor.
sbm.

it was quite a shock, that there are no boxes left.

only those of a different size, quite a shock your anger
that leapt from nowhere. of course it does not
matter.yet with that and the moon,how can one sleep.

how can one pack and tidy when things are the wrong
shape, and emotions rise.

do me a favour, and know it was a favour, looking
for boxes.

the sheds are now tidy.

sbm.

the idea left us dancing

use what is already there            make do and mend

linen threads hang heavy            needles preserved

small holes ready

shall we mend the rags or pin them onto wool?





i  read Glyn Hughes                                       some times

sometimes

i look at the photograph                      and wonder how it was that last year

think of how you wrote to me         sent me your book with your signature



i  feel care and gentleness

some people do not ask us of our early years in my experience though the past

is never

so far away



yes

i wish I can tell it in a more orderly manner each episode in a box to lock away



we move forward sometimes looking back



did i write of them yesterday                boxes?

things are different today



these are the old ones shabby                                          kept a while for usefulness

now used for slight installation

an ongoing gift



one holds a book of time

one has many things

he said that we 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 laid a cold
flannel on
his head.

sbm.

twisted into an explosion,
grandad’s wire from the shed.

it can be anything, with
imagination, just twist it
into shapes,
he said.

i told him about the sculptor
margaret mellis,
so then he made
a wooden thing.

sbm.

he said that we 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.

( in respect for david alexander mcalden. my friend )

“carry your words on every day”

( initial words by wilfred. my friend. )

sbm.

it happens every year

excited we run down to the damson tree

in gwylim’s garden



run on to the apple tree

with a clothes prop

to bash the fruit down



stand back when the boy shouts

he is chucking rocks in desperation

as boys inevitably do……..



may be that is where they learned it; those fishermen?



i think of all this when i see the last apple hanging

when i mend the clothes prop



(note- conkers next)

so i asks the bear

if the second bird got any.



he says no, the first

bird, ate it



all.



sbm.

made lovely, left ot on the cooling

tray. all  night.



the wildcat came, left a faint smell,

yet did not eat it.



#breakfast.



sbm.

so i wore a dress

&



my legs turning brown.



i drove to meet you

&

the car broke down.



you will never know

crow bird,
pecks package.

hoping for a sandwich.

b.l.t.

oh i got it wrong, in truth the theory is right.

barbaric: the concept on kindness.

yet we learned about broken bones, bodies
that seep blood with water. we studied the mosaics,
good legs, good legs here.

the voices rather quiet. we have had a life time
of listening, yet not understanding really.

so let us go forth and compare alice to your god,
as we have done in the past..

yet know there is possibly nothing to fathom here.

oh really.

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.

bricks are selected, organised, moved into store.



into the  yard.



with slate

tiles & edging

ready for a shortage.



rocks are left

for paid work.



he will come this thursday, another opinion.



i would say if questioned that neither of us

are athletic.



dogged

is a word.



sbm.

i was asked a couple of weeks,
ago if i looked out for the lorries,
would i describe.

no, not any more.

yet, the bridge is small and narrow,
seems room for two to pass.

looked up, saw everyone watching
the big blue lorry stuck. still.

time passed, onlookers lost interest,
while gradually the lorry moved.

left the bridge. a coach came next.

a narrow bridge. there is another
in machynlleth.

sbm.

.place became of importance
after not having nothing a while

back then

so moving on

i tell you about my situation back then

she called me in gave me a talking to

a difficult situation
i balanced the books
kept them neatly
sat at the desk obediently 

listened to her & her manager 
though I did not understand 
the chatter 

liked the restaurant staff
counted in & out like they

said

the next morning I went in
to find another girl at my desk
in the talking to me


she had sacked me & I did

not understand 

I had nowhere to go

now I value my place

yet often do not understand 

ask for things in writing

to read over.

and over

i was delighted with the wild flower palnting on the new
newtown by pass

and the diversion to avoid the ancient oak

the brimmon oak

brock.



the badger was dead by the side

of the road.





walking,

i passed the other side.





returning on that side i stopped to look.



it did not smell.



it was just dead.



brock.

they  do not know the darkness

how the light can fade into latin

& all things unreasonable



today i write of glass and ashes inspired before

then swept by other’s moments witnessed  the cleaning

a month passed & in our surprise forgot the soot and dashes to burnish wax

today a small task.…



careful what you dream on a cusp of night

know that all stars are not the same



while standing the realisation have got it wrong

pale words a clue in the breathing

the stone set left in barns

caught the words hopefully in burning hands thinking that the sky was clear



though in the past

never so far away



i wish I can tell it in a more orderly manner….



did i sit quietly thinking

then place a few

things together?



yes



exhausting the star

should i spend the day looking for the labyrinth, learning how to spell it. should i spend my life searching for the pattern when all around is waiting. should i fail, or should i take up the challenge.


sbm.

seems yesterday I forgot to press
the reply tab

seems yesterday started with mist
again that turned to heavy rain all day

an indoors day

dried out the clothes
we settled until at tea

time it stopped a while
to allow a walk round

the garden
to wonder at
the wet

water dropping from

the oak

from above

most of the day it felt
like sunday

we had fresh fruit delivered
and delightful bread

the best taste of the last 5 months

here

pirate gun, a toy from woolworths probably.



they said to put my eye to the sight and pull

the trigger.



no caps, yet the hammer caught my lip. swelling.



badly. water to my eyes.



nearly forgotten yet i find that something still

triggers

what is assumed          a long forgotten memory,

bruising

“A bruise, or “confusion,” appears on the skin due to trauma”



aggravated note.
aggravated
ˈaɡrəveɪtɪd/
adjective

Law
adjective: aggravated

    (of an offence) made more serious by attendant circumstances.
    sbm.

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.

In the dead of night; a strange noise.    Is it though?



tic tic



It seems so in sleep, while on awakening feel around to find the room is home.

Remember the water pipes bang next door and he is a farmer who leaves early; he notes I have a lamp lit always; the last eleven years or so.



Works on the hill behind; would have lived there if he finished the house. The foundations stand still.

He came once looking orderly for the village funeral, and i said no one would notice the mismatch. He had not far to go.



Look to the window and recognise the light that slants across the graveyard, the neat

beech hedge, the company.



Lifting the pillows behind me  listen and wonder if the wild ones are at the door again.

All was  locked well last night, they are too small to intrude.



I guess it is the plumbing again, the thought of experience. We feel safe here in this precarious life.



Listening, another note, the beams moving, the house settling back. Rhythms of time remind us of the fragility of all things.

Moving forward always there come other notations that bring  feelings, the Agnes Dei opens wounds and fears flood with salt.

Cantata Memoria

tick tick tick tick

Night here is filled with fairy lights, the garden comes differing with otherworldy

beings

The night is not dead ever. All small things are moving creeping; even me now. Awake

I find to think, remember and write. The noise is so many words.



tack tack tack tack







clicking

sounds distant

if the window is open.

The hissing is continuous

&

I dreamed  it all in metaphors.



During the day comes the noise of industry from the old toilet block sold

now, owned privately. Making a place with a little garden, the sound of fence posts

being erected. There will be much discussion in the village, while we stay quiet here

and  listen to the noises.



Daytime, night time, tic tic









A strange noise? I don’t think so.



All is natural, easy unless our brains say otherwise with chemicals, peptides and fear. We are fortunate to live in this place where no bombs will take us.

I like to think about hot water to make everything clean. The wild ones smell better this time of year without bathing.



The  strange noise could be these four hundred words?

old school hat.

panama.

no cigars, no canal.

velour in winter.

sbm.

from the simple words read

different
than i wrote

or did i wrote wrong?

day six

all things have changed here

the birds sing, i move about
different chores through the
day

while music plays

i walk

there is no one else much

when there is we smile move around
each other like a distanced dance

arms wave from cars to message me
later to say ‘it was me’ smiley face

i smiley face in return

i watch the milk deplete, think of
rationing it

as i have done with the tissue

without thought

reverted back to childhood ways as
mother taught me

to save paper and her money

for she had little of the latter

i plan my meals each day
carefully

today it will be the sprouts frozen
after christmas to make a

bubble & squeak

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.

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.

did you not know my name

when you called me.



stupid.



did you not know my name

when you left.



i know your name, how to spell it,

and will remember it

always.



it is a welsh dresser, sir.



sbm.

it is a profound thing,

the paper the string.



the wind blows, all is safe inside,

somewhat dry mainly. so we

place the bunting well.



she  had rushed home, she

left the fish in the oven.



this  is not a metaphor.



sbm.

surprising what you learn at work, from

carrying a heavy load. the day was slow and dark,

all day, never cheered.  he told that his ancestors

were buried in wool.

his banter had been ignored till this remark.

work stopped , heard  that all             were

buried in wool except the plague sufferers

and the poor.

a five pound fine to those that did not comply,

the register marked affidavit, wool or naked.

it takes some reading, is in wiki, go see.

last night we slept on the

linen sheet, and overslept.

sbm.

my face

or is the sky burning

again



we have a quiet place

as does he/some live

with ****** bombs

falling