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.

is it all just memory,
even, subtly, so slight,
elusive, another life.

is it all a dream, or facts
in reality, made of mind,
all plastic residue haunting.
our life. will we very know
forever wandering?

walk the rooms in horror,
see genius in corners,
there.

realise that he may cry
all the tears of life.

sbm.

do you have a partner? a  special other?



maybe you have spaces.                   I do.

now.

i have made it all myself, little garden.



there is some help once a month with

an hourly rate.



then there is the robin.



sbm.

do you mind?

no not really,
have got used to it,
the pleasantries.

did not mind january,
despite others’ calamities.

bechod.

cosy here, the cat
sits at the computer, buzzing
steadily.

never mind, if we mind.
we gets on with it
readily.

the cursor jumps.

sbm

did you notice the different weaves,
the names, the celtic not. have you

heard the language, problems arising,
too long spent driving. two of them
work well, one is new paper
that will not ash the flame.

will you remember them, narcussus,
small people who suffer?

i will send their photograph.

sbm

we talked of god and the making.

the set was described, security lights
threw trees into shape and number, signs
that most things have a joy. there were
two hearts,

a space between.

it may be raining today.

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.

doubt they will ever

be written, certainly

not this day, the

thirteenth of anniversary.



there will be reams, and ink

satined fingers, hair assunder,

wild eyes for the work. it is hotter,

we stick to linen

sheets. remember the words



from first, to last,

to write.



it will be a soliary task,

where no one enters,

consumes our tea.



the memoires may be written,

in the garden.



sbm.

and all who help him
up.

yet he goes down again,
clambers up.
repeating.

we help him.

in this place, we all help
each other.

he is from blaenau.

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.

closing in, the lane

comes narrower.

slowly walk, waiting,

she is usually behind now, eventually catches up.



otters footprints scattered, the

fishermen are here, on the bridge

in the pool. **** gathers  the tide.



heavy sky humbles us

to home.



where they wait.



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.

dark, still, no birds sing.

slowly without ceremony,
sun will creep, small birds,
all that, happens, radio

plays into those moments.

the window is closed,
colder now. autumn is
here

last evening she read the letter from Joyce.

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

reactions, speak louder.

so when there are none
look for a meandering way.

the lane is long,
now there is no escaping,
only one way to the end.

a little conversation
never goes amiss.

there are times
during demolision
one gets bruised.

we used to go to the pub on pay day.

sbm.

scarf hysteria friday,
thirteenth, even the spectators
joined in. unpacking the delivery.

polyester kept quiet with electrical
revery, silk excited us in with gentility.

it was the deepset , pleated, spotty,
adjective filled woollen slightly
felted, even reversable at such
a reasonable price, that sent us
over the edge. all was lost after that.

there are two ll s in woollen.

sbm.

pouring ,  one drop failed,
slow motion dropped
on white linen, split,
fascinating
watching the stain spread,
red drops as blood.

salted.

it will be double washed,
boiled. hot ironed.


ready.


sbm.

was planned.


did the domestics,

packed the bottles,

bell jars, drew

thirty three drawings,

of vikings, an afternoon

writing, waiting

on the visitor.


yet, it seemed

like a lovely day off.

sbm.

picking words, guarding some.

removing the cat, sentence
on the garden. keeping the
gardener. checking

this spelling.

days
of our content,
these darker nights.

counting down

failing hours.

counting words.

sbm.

he chose the gardener, the myrrh
bearer, mother with child. it
was a lovely day, yesterday,           i heard
they were to go to the chapel,                  in
exhibition there.                             i am glad
i did them, that i swept over hills, watching
trees turn. topped gold now,       slate slants
in lowering light and wetness.

later i saw that you had taken photographs.

i was at the private viewing. sbm.

that late evening,

slip into dusk,

the last blackbird singing.


that idle if not in

gainful employment.


there are thoughts

that are randomly baleful,

or so mediocre

need reviving.


to get on with the day,

despite this deluge

is the answer?

sbm.

pins to stop the pain,

that did not come

but now & then,.



was constant. a knife,

a shard of complementary

feeling.



no charge, yet desiring

to be free. i chose needles.



so fifteen inserted, i lay a while,

turned, at intervals. talked

of meridians and new sandals.



now there is another story.

they are very comfortable.





the pain?

sbm.

the card is supposed
to be secret, yet
he saw it, imagined
what may be inside.

he was right,
i didn’t tell him.

presently he makes
a model car or
something exclusive,
under cover.

the lower field is flooded.

sbm.

i thought he wore a red wind cheater,
it was a boiler suit.memory kicked in
already,

my brothers’ faded jackets,
waterproofed, cracked with age,
rubber lined, elastic cuff.

to cheat the wind i suppose.

i inherited.

not the corduroy shorts ,
which were
dyed dark brown each season,
passed from brother to brother,
not to me.

my mother supplying snake belts
for slippage, and parafin oil
on slicky hair.

those days things faded.

sbm.

**notes, we have no photograph.

always been a plain one,
no frills, tidy packaging.

went to liverpool, slowly,
rather slowly to be safe.

on arrival found art to
be inspired, enquired
about restrictions there,
the mirrors square.

on arrival found bling.wore bling.

on returning home ate liver. #apt.

sbm.

finding the last call,
now know it will all
start up again.

the unbound book.

the pages,
the words.

from you they will
come, any of you.

you just need to do it.

a book about death.

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.

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.

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.

he fell as i walked by.



layed there recumbent.

legs spreadeagled

on the front spare bedroom

floor.



fell from the wardrobe.

or did he jump?



i will take a photograph.

sbm.

the word that came, as i left the room.

why.

the cards were right, i thought, knowing
all is underpinned, the past cut with knives.

emerging from the earth with power, with peace.

i recognised the shapes , the pieces, the
talk of crosses, circles and industry.

we searched out the tins,
on the library shelves, slightly rusty.

he read the tarot.

sbm.

the film continues, some of the old cast,
new actors oblige, ideas on lack
of addictive ways. simple days without
receptors.

singing under breath, counting,
unpacking boxes, this is the lead.

hints are posted, and may you
believe them graciously. for

many times will you be tested.

there were substitles, out of
focus, we could not read the
other language.

the film continues….

peptides.

sbm.

to something better, yet what can get

better than this, no jealousies, no

expectations, no anger, when none

is needed.

when all around us is raging, rain

against blind window, mid winter.

music plays, soft covers  sooth,

plain thoughts to guide the

next sentence, the composition.

now we ask.

this is the countryside. candle sticks.

sbm.

he last thing,            i saw

the plane fly over.     busy day.


they only fly when fine,

we had some words on that

and laughed.


i pointed out the

unusual insect on his shirt,


smiled about those midges

stuck in skin so soft, which worked.


the horse watched, swayed

went down to roll.



i sewed the buttons  back on.

sbm.

not of war, it is peaceful here.

I have heard such dreadful stories

of casualties, these days

and before.     senseless.



I would ***** my words

if it would help.


I can help this one,

a victim of the

hot and dandy night.


I will show you his photograph.


I took her into the woods, the grass was

too long, though cooler there,

she was too small.

sbm.

it is all here, if you look for it.


we all went to the castle

to say our piece, in pieces,

some of peace and blessed love,

other words, sheer beauty in light

projected.



i said my peace, hugged,

i walked to see the garden finches,

caged.



it is all here,

if you look.



sbm.

the line cut through, yet the photograph
cannot take or make a true image
of the situation. i repeat the question

no answer can ever come, now
brymbo man. some things we
shall never know, never show.

so we move on to find small treasures,
tiny birds frozen in time, dice to find a future,

to find a friend that has always been
constant.

maybe tomorrow

i shall write of brawn.

sbm

they break down that
hard exterior, steam and rolling,
find the soft and curative properties.

add almond, dark dried fruit, stand tall,
look down like alice.

this is the hard world
of discontent. you

may survive.       say nothing.

sbm.

road works have been there some time,
you came through before your diagnosis.

did you see the copper beech at gelligemlyn
where the house is for sale. i saw it yesterday,
as if it had never been. from the mist inside
it grew, leaves hanging a fragile thread. tudor
lace in air, few  fell. the light turned green.

we drove on our way, i have no photograph.

sbm.

road works have been there some time,
you came through before your diagnosis.

did you see the copper beech at gelligemlyn
where the house is for sale. i saw it yesterday,
as if it had never been. from the mist inside
it grew, leaves hanging a fragile thread. tudor
lace in air, few leaves fell. the light turned green.

we drove on our way, i have no photograph.

sbm.

7 years.
Posted on December 19, 2013

hence. it should have been darker,

the moon waning.  find the word

firmament, check the letters,

find the road visible, power lit.



find the window gone, water

seeping under doors, storm passed.



find an occupation, a boy for

quiet company, know it is better

than seven years ago.

2006.

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.

miss petherick

miss ******

miss dawson who forced the showers



spit & dribble

latin & greek

sisters



i remember all of them not with fondness

not with happy days



she wore a tie you know

het blouse were white & sternly sharp

terrified we went in after games to run

naked whether warm or cold



some had flat stomachs

better quality knickers



dawson had a diary to check when

we said excused it was our time

so we could keep them on

if we cheated she poked our skinny arms sharp



&



we were scared & ran through by the wall hoping

the water would miss



us



she disapproved of me

i feel

i disapproved of her



i remember cold days

divided skirts

ice on the field



the line between genders



dawson brought fear

she wore a tie you know

navy blue



i failed in games in greek & latin



was interested in art & liked bunsen burners & wooden stools

****** dawson wore a tie you know



miss jackson had a pony tail

i bet ****** dawson hated that

to most everyone.

so we quote desiderata,
get on with the
deal with it some way.

on a good day
the bikers come,
a certain age,
in accents, brown leathers,
buying cheap pens,
and kittens.

there is no harm is looking,
some say.

it was a strange moon
last night, and now it is the day.

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.

cake and photographs
being processed.

memories form,
liking the patterns,
move on
preparing
for the fall.

apples, blackberries lure,
we walk the lane, the
two of us, precious

comes, regardless
of traffic and opportunities.

we changed the rug later.

sbm.

if i call her the myrrh bearer,

will you know which garden?



if i talk of the gardener,

will you know the theory?



did you study the book,

like them, or

have you a degree?



i have nothing, yet

was treated so..



i keep them in boxes…..



sbm.

the message of the day,
via text, while taking coffee.

agreed. agreed that this is
a good place to write,
where every one meets,
works, falls in love.

boy staring into her soul,
pre-raphaelite, next table.

man who bought all things
good for him, then me retainig
my friends and dignity.

passed an hour there, later
ordered the red things.

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.

edited 2014.

slowly, he flew.

before us.


we watched him, prepare,

carefully, smiling.


then he rose and flew


before me.


sbm.