to decline

to say no, or even to fail softly with a sloping line

with b lead pencil

tapering off into dots repeated



the fall is abrupt and possibly dramatic

related to weight & gravity



like a





thick black ink line ruled sharply down

ending with an abrupt grand splatter



unless we are talking of autumn the gold

time which comes gentler with occasional winds

and related sweeping



autumn comes softly so

we fall

unless we are talking of autumn the gold

time which comes gentler with occasional winds

and related sweeping



autumn comes softly so

we fall

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.

i am eight now nearly nine.  tall.



18.65   work the deep mine.  small.



6  to 6,  break for bread,

and poetry.



do not whistle, save your breath.







18.70 .

apprenticed, looking

for promotion. chains.



he is forty one i think,

lungs are stone.





forty five,  19.03

done.



slate breath.



sbm.

1856

I work the deep mine

Small

1858

Eight now nearly nine.

Tall

Break your bread and poetry

Save your breath or whistle?
Save your breath or sing?

1862

Apprenticed

for promotion

Chained

Look

He is forty one

Lungs of stone

Forty five

Done

Slate breath

should have gone deleted. you went and liked it, commented.



now is done,  we are  as exposed.

we are responding to the prompts.



reportage.  write again, tomorrow.



we are witness.

nothing is as it seems. there are enough disturbances in the world,

without another. stay under glass.



though it is a secret, we have none



sbm.

69.

is this jane austen
the same that deleted
suggestions
yesterday.

is this the book mark
hunted for
in the bed.

light dispersing.

is this the character
squashed
with bad
intent?

or the sickly child
looking for escape…..

it was world book day
friday

ot thursday……

more than we can write. erase
and unpick the seams. words tarry,
waver and leave this place, this room,

scuttle back into corners. sweep the house clean,
cross the words and know that when the time is right,
they will come again, dripping from fingers,
folded , torn, photographed in plenty.

wondered about misspelling, maybe
missed the point?

sbm.

the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with

premium acrylic.

it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,
only just a theory, yet used
independantly, alongside
honest work, for mending.

the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with

premium  acrylic.

it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,
only just a theory, yet used
independantly, alongside
honest work, for mending.

today is hallow e’en

sbm

slowly you moved along the edge

orange coat showing



are you alright?



yes



it is dry

the edge may crumble



he looked down



yes



are you sure you are alright?



yes, it is nice that you care

this is another place angel

small stone

embedded

near the heart



memorial

i am flattered that even in your tiredness
you write

to me i feel you are younger with your
words and bikes, the flowers

surely not as many years as i have
been here through good, some not

so

today is my easy one, just to go by bus
with friends added on the way to see
a film again

some chores are never done
ongoing and never a conclusion

you ask what i have been doing
varied things

you know i went to see my brother.
then the visit to chester? now you
know what i am doing today

while i know your project though
not sure what a pressure tank is
maybe to do with a furnace?

sounds powerful as i have no such
things only stoves and storage heaters

i was awake in the night while things
came backward

woke to make a clean bed for the laundry
man comes tomorrow
brings back friday

have a good day

the days get dark early, even just gone  three

yesterday.

the book looks boring ,the same entry

each day

descending.



all other mediocrities  cancelled,

including festivities.



the days are darker,

we gets thinner.



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

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.

yes i did.



each spring

before easter came

she bought me a new cotton dress in m&s.



st margaret.



a bigger size

taken up, tucked in with

room for growth.



the next year it was second best for school

taken down , let out

and fading in the summer holidays.



the jackets were my brothers.

yes. i like both the thought
& the actual being to bed

nesting in cotton & feathers
curling in dreams to awake

refresh

see the morning early

sometimes i miss a letter
look back & misunderstand

we pretend things here then
wonder which is which

so by the sounds on the roof
there is heavy rain
too dark to see

i must go to town
where the roads are
being resurfaced all
over

so i drive a while out
of the way to get in
without disruption

and go by the garage
so may as well get fuel

strokes, weathers and general attire,

shrink back into the room,

behind muffled glass.



windows washed, bottled

words as hard as

grandmas pears,



we ate those too.



it is quiet here today.



sbm.

there on the road ahead.

looking toward me with dead eyes.

mouth open.



i could not stop

nor swerve

for sunday traffic.



slowing i gently made sure the body

was not touched by wheels.



straddling.



as did the car behind

me.



after i stopped to post a letter

and stayed a while to look

at the fields around

me.

i cannot raise this arm.



properly.



i can still raise the other one,



and lay properly. to sleep. do not

look for the white,

tiredness comes its own way.



later that evening we watched tv.

they were young & pretty then. moved

their  hands about.



a type of dinosaur.



sbm.

it had to be ants.



the town turned out,

a pound a time,

to see the model railway

of dolgellau.



amazing as it was,

as you know i do like tiny things,

expecially trains.



more astonishing was the conversation,

face close, on ants that bit up his legs

at bingo, formic acid and calamine

explained in detail.



thre train went by, with tiny noise,

as he rolled up his trouser leg to show me.



the explaination as detailed

as the dioramal, on and on and on.



a nice man.   my daughter saved me.







twice.



it was a good turnout, an excellent,

award winning model railway.

sbm.

how can one write here

convey, the lovely day.

thoughts on this

are that we keep it still

inside, to preen and gloat,



quietly

mine to hold, review

at leisure.



yet, i tell this.

it was such a lovely day.



sbm.

one thing then another, as   all regular days     really.



graphs will show it, we can draw ,        we may discuss.

if we wish,                                                  walk the graden

play with spelling with                                   punctuation.



this is no disaster,                 word survival          deleted.



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

they say it begins at home,  that depends on                 belief.



we eat off broken plates.



titanic.



sbm.

numbers came suddenly, soon after one. nothing added any more, all began to subtract, divide, the result algebraic there are no rulers, lines to divide, the total is irrelevant now, the addition foremost. i have been to the counting.

initially, crossed the  sea to the land, from one to another, then, talking. crossed the narrow bridge spoke of the past, you know what i mean.                                                                       courage to walk

away.

a book about death. 14.

sbm.

it used to be quicker,
round the block, waving
to bob. he has a new car
now.

you should see it.

now we take photographs,
eat blackberries and wind
our mouths with damsons.

people bring chairs by the river,
we sit on logs, play fishing.

men come fishing,
ask, if we are from the village.

we say yes, think of the movies,
hitchcock, birds, & children.

we have the latter two,
we have the dog, we have
the days.

it will soon be january.

sbm.

it is quiet in the garden

today.



the dog barks, part

of the ambience.



it walks backwards on a lead,

forwards when free.



have not seen that before.



my dog does not bark now.



#ghost



sbm.

we used to sit the rise and think of this.

drive the evening hunting the blue           flax fields .

found and waded the poppies outside the ****, then

worked the red thread.

again.



danced  the lane,                 brown boots through dust.



look at me.

dr.martens.



i sometimes sit and think of this, sometimes   dream

in bad, often in yellow.



**** covers the land in places, my eyes           smarting.



so once again we speak in                                     crosses. i



think the hanky may be yours.



dr.martens.





sbm.

a luxury, to have time
to check, doubly,
font and image.
to twice the normal extent
or degree.

things happen, we deal,
cards are set, dice thrown.

life moves on.

no time to double check,
change things before

is set in time , in memory.

two times,
in two ways

we multiply.

sbm.

double negative that on translation is

double negative





we cannot win





the result is the same

for all of us unless

you believe





otherwise

. double note.
Posted on November 29, 2014



this is not the usual tune,

not butterflies or medieval

fields.



this is a collaboration dreamed

by a window, watching the scene

shift. we have watched it slowly

change here, we like the sound of bells

calling across meadows.



this is a new way, calling back and forth

across the moors, traws fynydd, singing

with all the days of our lives.



it is natural to sleep.



sbm.

two installations, the old garden,
blue bells, wild garlic fuelling the air.

rain soaked, watcing the rooks nest
high at rosemundy, falling backwards
woke to find just a dream.

the doves
were plaster.

rosemundy.

sbm.

when the horse when down, when you read glyn hughes?

the field is flowers now, grasses,one patch
of purple thistles

it is said most things have feelings, so

we walk the lane, wild now, watched the
water beetles, swallows dip.

memories crowding in, i talked too much.

there were several visitors, some picnicked
by my gate.

then, the kettle broke.
i will remember you.

sbm.

so we moved the water **** to cover

the drain to the soak away. we live



in the country.



now from the window i see

rain dropping, dripping, filling

rust rain bin,



draining to the soak away. we live



in the country.



sbm.

drawing the line, trying to make conversation



failed



drawing a line yet you expected me to stay

longer



spending my time

alone



you expected to know where, why



so i moved higher

drawing the line



.step back/ the first time.

meeting
in the chapel,
house to pray on
small birds, charcoal
drifts. in air, in words.

symbols of poetry,
cut and pasted.

literally.

naturally .

the talk
came back to electrics
and ironing, side effect of
the tabernacle machynlleth.



drawing.

sbm.

peppered with softer marks,
light washes, while we are
all dishevelled, worried
about nothing in particular.

did you find a clean hankie
leaving out the d, you felt
should be there.

did you read the history,
yesterday, or did you
just sketch and draw
the chorus.

the day dawns, who is weary. tell me.

sbm.

. dream .

dressed in nightly surrender
i dreamed the dress in white,
tho silked in red.
blood ran loose on crumpled paper,
hung.

there is an art cafe
on saturday.

i cannot
hang the clothes
for fear of disrupting
the act.

i dream of drawing
that which you will not
see.

sbm

some dream that.





we all dream while

some remember them

some do not





i pity the latter

if pity is the correct

word to use



like watching a film while we rest



i got stuck last night

since i watched the documentaries

did not have music after



now my neck is gone stiff

mine were plain, smart and tailored.

viyella



hers were fancy with frills,  handed

down to me. mother said they would

not suit me.

gave them away.



i liked the flock, the crystal buttons.

i remembered them.



sbm.

lift the cotton, look again.



cover the place with whiteness.



pink is pretty, white is clean.



they do not want to see it

today, a reminder of fragility.



they wish to spend freely

in this place, not care



for these things.



sbm.

hope all are well and cosy

camping

all are well and cosy in the house

6.21

black colour

bird

noise

sounds from next door

the same each december, advent .

the lead up. we have a memory or two.



the world goes dark, we teach and learn,

wait  for    light to appear,

with those albeit small birds,

singing.



we have comfort, medieval trees,

the coventry carol.

we drive in the dark.



sbm.

oh you are a beauty, showing your legs,                dress swinging.



in rhythm. in photos , little gifs,                                      to share.



how can we  look the same?                   i think i look different

now. now that i have grown,                          watched you grow.



now. now.



now that i helped  when you were sick.                   now.now.



now i am older and watched you die.                          all of you.



i say goodnight to some and remember                       all of you.



how can i look the same.                                                  now. now.



remember all that has been done.                                           how

can i look the same?



you are still a beauty.



dress swinging.



sbm.

the list.



next week, the oak revisited.



it had stopped raining an hour

or so.



a breeze stirred the branches.

water falls.



sbm.

so we discuss what people think of him,

and how now they will know he is as big

as a brown or grizzly bear, living here.



that his paws  big as plates flap and glide,

his mind is sharp and careful, yet i says that



i do not see him so, no

he says , i am in disguise.



sbm.

first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm

first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm

the sea air is here

miles from the shore

while i wonder what

nostalgia is.

. All is the same there.
I left the stone yet the storms may have moved it a little.
I said hello to your hotel.
Yes the Durley Dene is good with a spa and a wonderful cream some tea oh and chandeliers of course. The other Bournemouth hotel whose name I forget was all mirrored furniture and starchy tablecloths.
Saw two films in the little cinema with a fellow traveler while others sheltered from the storm in the hotel lounge with sandwiches and games.
I avoid private views so a day at home after a quick trip into Dolgellau for the post etc. Hope you have a real good time in Dunoon.
Oh there is a good photography exhibition at Burgh Hall and the cafe is open there too. The library is open in the Queens hall and has stunning views.
A friend showed me her photos of whales up the watter. ..teaching their offspring to hunt. The watter turned red. It is said they swam up to Glasgow where they turned and headed back.
The framers up the back road may be open so one can visit his pet lizard. Have fun.