the boy plays on his own, in water                                                                  it can’t be helped.

machines work less in cold,                                                  sheds and lack of encouragement.

the dream, frost cancelled a while. visitors came,                 the day proceeded gently with

stops     and dictation,                                                                                                 who is this?

spring came.   each road a picture, slowly staring,                          visual overload resulting.

i could not breathe

for wondering.

the lime kilns are empty now.

sbm.

i found you stranded.



held you , hugged you.



felt the weight of your body.



felt your fin.



there.



i took you to the water

and lay there with you



hoping it would save your life.

it is a lighter shade
of a darker green,

a fern behind at
benmore gardens.
dunoon.

later we had tea,
an empire biscuit.

we always do.

sbm.

he says that germolene is white now

& smells

different

this is more like yellow stuff they

put on wounds

&

you know before an amputation

like back in the war



i sneezed splendidly

because of pollen

&



grass bits





iodine

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.

the last tab was mushroom



i looked. they had been



there a while.  food waste

not the milk, you see, is too sweet,
thick, which will rhyme if i write,
for me.

thick like the wool that filled
breaches in the wall, saved the lives.

save some with shelter, needing shelter,
while others lean to watch the birds fly,
talk of the bell tower, and all the implications.

the man parked his car, tidily went to poundland,
bought cards.

sbm.

*notes verb
verb: condense; 3rd person present: condenses; past tense: condensed; past participle: condensed; gerund or present participle: condensing

1.
make (something) denser or more concentrated.

maybe  this one day will do,

as in suffice.



maybe that is all we get.



picking up crumbs.



sbm.

it has to be said

that

these are my favorite

this year



mainly



collected, worked

at brondanw



#soldjer

it don’t work if not connected, if not tuned in, you would think

the experts would know that.



we need to signal to another.



days indoors sewing joins     one thread to        another

bring quiet contentment, though some       may wonder.



we are all making crosses, with patience one or      two



become kisses.  did you know?



they came to see and made the connection.



sbm.

you see it sometimes in passing

a glimpse of another life

another way of being



trees reflected



think beyond that horizon

to a home that awaits when we relocate



will our work be different?

will the souls arise?



you see it sometimes in passing

light & hope & if the heart is ready

the work comes different



water meadows

it is a pleasant place, along the valley.

the hill stands proud as always,

green, blessed with blue bells.

park by the castle, walk through the station,

early.

meeting, small kisses, food with

friends.

conwy is in conwy.

sbm.

orange.



it is a source of inspiration, and research. it is written,    yet having writ.            we use. imagination, add a dose of suggestion, slightly thinking this is fact we do not move on when perhaps we should. so moving on quickly……



cut them.



maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.   need to count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely, leads    us onward.



simmer them.



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



we paid two.



strain them.

ready for later.



sbm.

a little place. face the wall.

dream forward.



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.

ants in the kitchen will leave by easter. he said it should be on the same day each year; he is learned, pronounced as two bits.

dusting

cobwebs away, yet not all of them. an old house., national trust where all is care and cleaning. they leave some now for authenticity.

it has been a wet winter, look at the water stains in the fireplace.
do not fret, i know you worry, i will paint it over in the spring.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that.
sbm

had an odd woolly rat glove.

i bought at half the price of

a pair.



we named it ‘rat’.

then held a lengthy debate

regarding mice being smaller

with differing prospects.



we assumed that

they both like cheese.



sbm.

as a child i liked cottage pie
for dinner, we had at lunch time.

i had one best coat, and maybe
a raincoat, gabardine mac. in
summer white plastic mac from
woolworths.

i hear that many ladies have lots
of coats these days,indeed i know
that.

yesterday i ate cottage pie at
lunch time, then bought half
a coat.

sbm.

do you know that it is june,

and that it seemed to have come quickly,

while we weren’t looking.

they say it will be a very wet and windy

day for north wales.          i live there.

yet i have floral  cotton dresses ready

for the sun.         which will come.

we had a lovely roast dinner sunday,

the last day of may.

sbm

a lovely poetic format on my phone.

this morning on my laptop it comes different as prose



i feel that pants are such a good subject



as are other pieces of  sensible underwear



i know little of sponge bob, yet i like the small items

while superman has much to answer





i drew you with yours some years back

now





pants

with no snow here

there are no tracks

like you see

yet

i notice scratchings

around the sprouting

bulbs and smile

it does not matter which i prefer

flowers or creatures for the choice

is not mine

there are also little holes

here and there .the hope

is all are snug

i too have a break soon

to be quiet

with company

talking is ok yet we let

too much free. things

we felt were precious and particular

and are judged thereby

when i said i do not care

what they think, i think

that is true

after all we mostly do not know

what they think anyhows, only

what they say

then that can be lies

we do not have coyotes

here

watching moments
recalling then writing

sharing them across the world

i hope his finger survived

people eat them i hear
here i would not

not now

i write in places
where no one comments
yet i have found that friends
read it quietly
and smile

they tell me

and if no one came
it would remain the same

in time to the music
the pattern
the pulse

paces

which slow sometimes
when we give way

it was a pleasant day yesterday
there was drizzle and wild flowers

the garage fixed the wheel
and changed my seat configuration
as always

they are taller than me
most are

the gas man came as i was fiddling
with it
and helped

he always does
a kind man
who retires next april

looks young to me

6.46
crumbs in the keyboard
dust on the screen

dry day
to hang the washing
out

she leans slightly left,

lower edges softly creased now,

the damp set in.



it is her own fault

leaving the window wide,

rain comes in.

her own choice,



leaving the door open,

you came in.

now the invitation

is avoided.



printed paper.

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.

time stops in winter

here.



we find it manageably quiet.



today we drives to conwy busy

with people making holidays

is lovely.



yet i cannot find it easy.



i buys the trousers i have wanted for such a long time

from the pound rail.



look at cakes as is my hobby.



talk about angels and return home.



quiet.

apart from the men laying  tarmacadam opposite.



it smells nice as does the creosote from yesterday.



while the music plays softly.

sea shells
seasons greetings
and laundry marks.
oh & red bits

( there is usually red bits)

woke comfortable this morning
feeling maybe I have done my bit

paid the price once again

yet this is a fallacy
these things happen

in our lives

there is no magic
no one to stop it

you talk of the graveyard
while coincidentally I watched

him finish the work down there
trimming grass, washing the stones

he moved tired then stopped
turned back
maybe to look at all he had done

like I do

he chose his day for this morning
it rains

meanwhile the mind wanders into
corners forgotten

corners that need dusting
corners that need looking

at some more

sincerely I say that I hope
the pain recedes

that you can eat comfortably
again

they gave me crisps
on my last visit

i shall go again

nope

as is

my phones says

lots of s es

poetry

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.

some of us like to be neat in some ways.



some of us draw big and messy, and

i understand both.



we have made marks a long time, since

the dawn of.



probably.



when he could not write,

he crossed and smiled.



we continue marking

time, with smudges, scrapes

plus tidyness.



the brain interpretes.



so will you listen or go on

your way, regardless.



sbm.

i wanted to suggest that they do not argue

it is nothing that matters

not death or  life threats

not fire nor flood

just driving



no one is hurt



back home he made the gate

from branches



we are mostly quiet



here

she orders  a sonnet about modern           tech

nology , some         recent language            urban

slang.  wiki  & googling    helps while spellcheck

defeats nistakes .            publishing on blurb and







lulu. gifs  no issue.  focus                        on  taste.

.work.   memes are impossible to       pronounce.

denounce the pass it forward,            copy/ paste.

why write verse when   we can talk or   announce



loudly.. save in my cloud to edit                  share

. no rhyme no more.                         no elizabethan

manner.          we taps  it clear.        is with difficulty

keyboards sticky,                 some have no empathy



that I prefer old ways. yet                       computer

smart create in a more abstract                manner



©sbm

she said dead ends



i thought of split ends

i got with long hair



should be cut they said

some one like that



now it is cut regular, more short

like a boy. she would have liked

that



though i admire those with long and  stylish

yet i can’t be bothered no more, am honest

about my feelings



but



she said dead ends so i muse on cul de sacs

you know those with bungalows and trees about

i remember from the fifties

and people like that

those that had cars, dogs and telephones

while we did not



i guess the cul de sacs still abound

around



i would not discover

with them

being a dead end



which should be avoided

going nowhere

yet have been down quite a few on this life journey

to the

bottom of the bag

and risen out

again



a bit like that

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.

is little. painted bad,
so i bought it ,
£4.

it has become an installation
with eggs, which was at home,
in the outbuilding, where i
keep the idle atrefacts.

after bottling stuff with blood,
bones, i packed it nicely with
tissue, to send to the academy
for exhibition.

i must  take better
photographs.

sbm.

is therapeutic, some say. depends on the
size and bumps.

there was a gentle breeze going, then
the sun came through.

saw it shine, move into the hedge,
we stopped mowing to watch.

found the wheelbarrow bound
with weeds, cleaned and rescued.

the robin came. we thought of
how quickly you died.

there is rain today.

sbm.

is hard this weather,
sloping garden, heat
and headache.

robin comes, alarming,
the nest nearby, we push
and shove the thing, watch
the swallow.

drag bags of cuttings,
look at the graves. rest

a while.

strange how the mood lifts,
this must be good
therapy.

some how.

sbm.

with ann.

side table holds the milk,
sugar, napkins, all agreed.
it is cyan.

his portriat is cyan,
cut carefully, a little younger,
dylan.

little garden, summers day,
her plant is mullein.

sandwiches and prunes
after aberystwyth school of art.

a splendid day, a very splendid cabinet.

sbm.

cymer, a confluence of two rivers.



if  one ran different, if each thought  were deeper.



tide pools,   north and south,

the moon fills and the current

stops a while.



our  river runs east to west and as the tide pools,

stops a while.



mixing.



take a leaf, watch a swallow, we could be  different.



let the rush stop, stand a while, let us mingle,

north to south, east and west.



no barriers.



sbm.

well

your dad



inside something turns

when i see his mallet



still



with the blue tape



i had best



take a photograph

of dad’s mallet

now

so you can see the handle taped

yet a large loaf is too big for one.

each day we draw a dress, mainly charcoal.

it is disaster there, they sleep on streets,
there is no aid, the radio plays. for real.

each day we draw a dress, mainly charcoal.

pins cannot mend some things.those found
on beaches.
sbm.

yet we ran out, and no butter too.

it will be a daily thing, now the grass is cut,

now the leaves fall. have you seen the path,

a newer colour, gold. it is the lilac leaves

dying.

the plan is made this year, so each day,

a little while, we will rake and gather.

bag the leaves tidy, yet still hope

the wind will come and blow some

away.

it was a full day’s work yesterday.

sbm.

this is not a word i have used much recently, if i did it will be related to plants i expect.



adjective.



i may use plush in regard to velevet clothing, cloth, clothed. another adjective.



i shall not use it as british informal language, describing ****** attraction. no.



adjective.



i will prefer to write about fabrics or gardens. mostly.



this is a daily thing. here.



sbm.



daily post – lush

she looks like a monk yet

on second glance i see she is wearing

a brown wax coat with the hood up

over her pyjamas.



clematis flowers above her

up the front of the barn.



on the bus the other one reads the death

notifications twice,

while her companion calls her mam.



looking over i see an insert, a photo

a lady presumably died.



she looks a bit like me.



it is sunny and cold.

it can be a difficulty
with feelings, indications,
suchlike and endlessly.climbing the gate
was easy, the walk
slipped the slate
higher.

us in wellingtons
and ballet shoes,
decided against
ambition. war time
traps, climbed back
the gate again.

another day will
do for such meanderings.

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.

late june, it is a darker green,
jasmine climbs the window,
storms brew, we are older now.

we have watched the house,
is he leaving now?  is this that darker
place?

plans for the forest fell apart, with apathy,
lack of repellant. we will try again,
tonight.

it is a darker place.

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.

this is the place of reverence, the face

of age. black the robes stand empty,

the shroud for peace that never

came.



they are starving.



sbm.

they say he fell & cut his head

in the bathroom

when she arrived there was a number

written on the plaster

on his forehead



the date he fell