needing refreshment in oswestry,

later rather than sooner,

crept up the chalk painted

staircase, seems to work

well, in this case.

i note the dstressed nature

of the furniture.

this place.

having regular coffee,

a fruit scone will

certainly do,

i listen to the server, who

clasping the china teapot,

tells us revelations

of those who live, who divorce

and warm the ***.

i have to say that

the scone was lovely.

later i bought a potting bench.

sbm.

132.

the words surprised me,
the sound, the buzz of meaning,
when i know only the gleaning
of double letters, no rhyme
here for me.

it may be.

sbm

bridge stone warms,   lean thoroughly,
watch carefully,    see all small things
swimming.

concentrate, all comes into focus,
floating.

these are the warmer days, days of independance.

days to charm , negotiate the old woods,.

there are  trees down.

sbm.

the bear
the tiny hat
came as separate
now together
as gifts

it is another lanuage,
pinc, is welsh for pink.

small boys submit
digital, unlike the gate,
that glows rightly.

the touch of colour
is genius. some of us
are not, yet forge forward
with obsession, madness,
variety of colours.

there is another language.

sbm.

the old blanket is new,
a find from brynkir mill,

the new blanket is old,
have had it a while.

"I watch the blanket breathe,
hope it will never stop.

pinc, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love.

scares me, this intensity of feeling,
that never stops,

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

pinc is welsh for pink"

sbm.

research is kind, we have tried many colours.

we ate the cake, yet not wishing to appear
greedy left a crumb.

for a bird.

we wander through where the fence should be,
not minding the delay.

you see, we are lucky here, safe and dry,
yet
we do really miss that little dog.

gone now.

sbm.

pink lights possibly work

like the rose tinted spectacles.



everything looks warm and safe,

needing large curtains in sombre fabrics

to hide us. is this the first step, two red

bulbs from poundland, at two for a pound.



fold the empy box flat,

and made keep it for future

ideas on rosiness.



sbm.

it is a yearly trip to mold

there and back two times.

he mentioned it was a long way,

does not know the meaning of

it for me.



twice.



the work looked pale

against the others.



pinned twice.



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

they did not know she had
millions,
neither did she.

just collected one item
at a time, cared
fully

for each one of them.
catalogued
in eternally.

immer a immer
ever and ever.


they did not know.

she did not realise.

sbm.

a shortened version of blackberry pips, and phillip. she made

me bread, a reject of her former days. with banana and flour.



cake is good for you it has eggs ,               not sure how many .



he seems to write different now, i wish that i did, i do try and

sometimes it works.



the pips do their job, sticking round teeth, helping us go natural.



i found one in my ear.



yesterday.



sbm.

seems that I was mistaken

never mind

it comes a darker green

with mists

rowan berries reminding

of those other ways

days of hope

hope there still is

find we enjoy the one thing
then the next as much

my mind travels to meifod
to lampeter as you know

while writing this think that
many journeys are not applicable

this year

and is fine
we are much occupied here
with this and that

today I continue with plumbing

simply

putty

she says they are nice pyjamas

comforting while

although she prefers air to circulate her lower parts

the winter nights require warmer wear



i agreed that pjs are the thing

and avoided talking about any

parts

at all



bought a few things at 40p

and left

for the hairdressers

it is often the way, that we drift,



part company . return again

to our root.



not always where we think

it is, want it to be.



yet it is home.



sbm.

wrap the house around you,

then                            leave it.



out into the only world you

know.



anxiety comes with           the

unfamiliar.



they call down the chimney.



reminding us that some things



stay the same.



sbm.

I do not mind

yet when

she said my friend looked pretty

&

that I smelled nice

I sagged a little

later that day

i found a message

request

from a soldier in the usa

holding a puppy & a rose

calling me a beauty

set for deletion

(note)

no capital for the country that cages children

tiny tiny things
made
to plan bigger
things.

architects model.

sbm.

partially due to the weather,

state of the roads.



these are not just closed

due to snow, some

as cars slide, cause a commotion.



it is a steep hill, the crimea,

some call it a mountain



steeped in history.



plans change, while

the bus windows remain *****.



sbm.



nails



#notes and jottings

Esgidiau Meirw Boot Dump, Moel Bowydd Primary Reference Number (PRN) : 14626 Trust : Gwynedd Community : Ffestiniog NGR : SH69924845 Site Type (preferred type first) : Modern REFUSE DISPOSAL SITE Legal Protection : Description : A mound of slate waste covered to an unknown depth with the (?burnt) remains of thousands of hobnail boots, heel plates, nails, eyelets etc. Dimensions 40 x 30 x 2.5m. <1> A low mound about 35m in diameter lies to the east of the A470 (Plate 66). Its earliest phase consists of slate waste from a shallow linear working shown on the 1889 OS 25 map. This is almost entirely covered by a dump of waste boots. The upper layer consists entirely of heel plates, eyelets, nails, screws, sole shanks and occasional sole plates (Plate 67). Beneath this is a thick layer of ash, also containing metal fittings. Until quite recently there was a grave slab with a pair of boots incised on it along with the inscription Esgidiau Meirw (dead shoes). The stone now lies on the wall of PRN 14777 (Plate 68). It was probably moved by the land-owner for safe keeping after being daubed with paint. The dump is known locally as Tomen Sgidiau (boot dump) and dates from World Wall II. The boots are rejects from a factory that was set up in Blaenau Market Hall to recycle old boots and shoes for the army. (Hopewell, 2005) A low heap of slate waste lying to the east of the present main road. The tip is covered with the rusted metal fittings of a large number of hob nailed boots, and other small metal waste, including nuts and bolts. There is also a significant quantity of a fine silty material – possibly the residue of burnt and decayed leather. On top of the mound is a slate grave slab with a pair of boots incised upon it and the inscription “Esgidiau Meirw” (dead shoes). The feature is thought to be a World War II army boot dump. (Riley & Roberts, 1995) Sources : Riley, H. & Roberts, R. , 1995 , A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2005 , A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement Pt I & II ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2000 , Upland Survey 2000 , <1> Events : 40503 : Gwynedd Upland Survey 1999-2000 Moel Bowydd (year : 2000) 43801 : A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement: Archaeological Recording PtI&II; (year : 2005) 40295 : A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement (year : 1995)



see also

boot dump incomplete blog

https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/boot-dump-2/

i was away a while, since last summer‘s referendum. i have an

exhibition.

it was all leading up, then it was suggested that i wrote about

daffodils.

remember the repair shop?   where they fixed the old phone.

she said it needed two hands, so she could not write a    note
simultaneously
ˌsɪmlˈteɪnɪəsli/
adverb.
at the same time it resembled the flower.                            a bit.
it was a difficult day yesterday, the cat died, the boy threw up,
we had the article.                                       yet i decided to come
back
now the exhibition is up.                                  these things.
i have seen some people on facebook dressed as daffodils  maybe
with relation to rugby and/or saint’s days.
she was a midwife.
these things.
sbm.

is welsh for child



english

machine



crossing



fired pain of

hidden lies



nothing happened



beyond words embittered silk



fabric trails



hiding memory

false beginning





found words

:: plas mawr ::

quietly through the rooms,

feel the history

there.



touch the clothes, the linen.

read about the death plague,

rusty nails cure teeth,

communal bathing frowned

upon,  you guess

what happened there?



touch the peg beams,

teeter the stairs.



i try very hard every day,

cheese helps.



i am on the committee.



waved to bob mending his old car,

coming home..



sbm

106.

we talked of hedges, again,
for these are not
vertical.

we walked the dazzled mirror,

crept.

small and slightly curious ,
is an artist in residence, here?

glass housed and labelled
ten years ago.

this house is closed, yet
will open at 10 am.

sbm

last time i wrote of comics



that day we noticed plastic whales

while shopping. my daughter smiled



they were as i said. we gathered  goods

wrapped mainly in plastic



the invention must have seemed a good idea at the time



news came a whale was dying off norway

with sympathy they shot it

ending quickly

the suffering





its stomach lined with

thirty bags of plastic



you see



oh the irony

box hedged, so neat you can lean.

most days the doors are open,
on monday the doors are open.

wardrobe, cupboards, willingly,
if not just ask. see all the things
with love, to work with . linen fabric
hand sewn, pleated, contrast panels,
hung with tissue. brown paper
tied with notes. remember
their polished shoes, the smell of
home, your childhood.

books are tied in black, quilts
stitched with feathers, while friends
drift into mind, move, softly leave.

concentrate on another way.

watch the birds.

sbm.

interupt the day, checking.

it is all there to find, old favourites,

new, they pray for those in

peril each morning, later



from the other room streams

the sound of glass.



one battery is spent, the other

depleting rapidly. during

the run up to christmas i shall

replace and back up.



meanwhile. plugged in the

piano plays.  classic fm.



i shall nip to currys after

lunch at maenan abbey.



sbm.

tucked in, nice curtains
frame the photograph

while i google syntax
and superlative,

conjunctions, filling.

forgot the dentist appointment,
another dark mark on the horizon.

lead soldiers may cause lead poisoning,
the line come longers, the family taller.

yes, it was a lovely day, pat.

sbm.

i am tired, said the bear, everwhere hurts so dreadfully.



like the plague they copied, talked about me when

they do not even know me,

understand.



they do not know therefore what they

say…….



sbm.

note –
plagiarism
ˈpleɪdʒərɪz(ə)m/
noun
noun: plagiarism; plural noun: plagiarisms

    the practice of taking someone else’s work or ideas and passing them off as one’s own.
    “there were accusations of plagiarism”

it is just that some dislike

love poems, those the rhyme

all romantic. pretty though

they are.



some write of other

things, in a more

random fashion.



i like things private.



sbm.

:: it has left me tired ::

adrift, will the sky at last explode, or will this hate

continue pointlessly, for thousand thousands years.

numbers that cannot describe each particle of pain.

each ****** bomb that kills yet again.

it may have left us tired, we are alive to witness.

yet again.

#poetsforpeace

can you see
the little arrow
there ?

can you see your past
before you?

i have felt the air breathe,
waiting for another chapter.

while all the while
the time moves on
regardless.

sbm.

plus common sense, means you
cannot place it there. go down
to the beach to wait.

place it in a cabinet, nearly locked
until dismissed, then
go down to the beach
and wait.

do not label it, number it, read
the words and try to understand,
then on the beach.

to wait.

what does all this mean?

some say, politics, when on the beach
they wait.

sbm.

‘ this clothes thing is getting on my nerves’



said the bear.



‘i am exactly similar in that i wears what i like, no nonsense,

a satin dress with pearls’



yes.

‘all this fuss and dress code is so out of date, get real’,



he said.



sbm.

they have an extra garden

as well as their own.



up the hill by the red house.



they



walk up with tools and summer hats

when hot.



it is a gift as they leave the lane alone

now.



where all grows wild.

from where comes the love,
comes the pool of fear,
the fright of interrogation,
guilt,
i hear.

from where comes the mourning,
late afternoon,
and evening,
comes the spirit,
and singing,
dancing, ringing.

i hear the bells,
the crows,
the chaffinch,
and it shows,
my hearing.

from where comes the whistling,
comes the pool of tears,
the laughter we hear.
here

©sbm

no mash, laid on stuffing. i tasted it,          reflected

on the day. natural history musem            taxidermy.

two floors of victorian cabinets. dust & formaldehyde  .



fish in bottles.i went to see some beetles you know

all pinned and tiny labelled.   all gone for cleaning.



that evening at dinner he pulled my leg over labelling

& asked me where i shopped. did mash really depress?



i left the stuffing.



sbm.

port glasgow.





there is an

old man’s club.



official.



ship building.



&



jesus changes lives for good.

you don’t remember the war do you?



no, my mother told me.



she said that they visited port sunlight,

soap works, not the lady

lever gallery.



she  remembered vividly being presented with a

small trifle dessert fitted into a paper case with

pleatings round the edge.



i would have prefered soap.



someone else remarked that her friend had a bad

left leg, which is not required whilst playing golf.



an extra ordinary morning.



i dislike trifle, i always have.



sbm.

corruption

again





it

blinded those that could not see

the love and idle artefacts, each one

a statement of nothing in particular.

phased those that drove the power

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

thank you. well really

oh really



7

the cat and the installation.



i have spent much time

thinking how it will be, how it may affect

those viewing, carefully sewed

the finger, placed the eggs, the paper parcel.



photographed the thing. that morning, all

was in disarray, the cat sleeping within.....



take care of the small box..



sbm.

do not emblame your heart nor fear

that this is spelled. do not be afraid

that this will hurt you, for it will pass.



it is a romant

ic thing, a memory in a

vase.



hampreston.



sbm.

hope the car goes along ok, mine
goes in monday. offered a lift back

from the garage, yet after so many

years sorting things alone am happy
to walk home

only a couple of miles and i think
of the things i may see if i look
slow

i feel i talked too much yesterday
and know from experience it will
be understood differently than how

it was meant

there was a severe overdose of chandeliers
at the imperial hotel and i felt quite light
headed with all the glittering

do you know in 1926 the year of the general
strike the hotel gave visitors a gift
a travel clock, spendid

today quite breathless with the cat sleeping
in on the bed

an unusual mistake not to be repeated

precious.



each morning early, i feed the cat.



a sachet with jelly.



packaging straight to the dustbin, outside.



dressed



in pyjamas i step the slate, feel the air, watch the sky



change.

swallow the bats whole.



later, when dressed, and booted, i smiles

at the bare foot print on the step.



during the day the others come foraging,

through the flap, what can I do?



first one is flimsy, timid

trespass. a shadow.



the other bruiser ; black bully.



bold, hissing wildly.







each evening, I feed the cat again.

take the package to the bin again.







one hundred words.



precious.



sbm.

not around or about here this morning

often gone for days



look

i never find



she comes  as she likes



she comes in 11.15 when due at 11.00



placed



in the basket

steps out again





to be chased

&

captured



they do not mind the lateness of her arrival



hengwrt

they have gone to south wales

down

in south wales

my phones says

africa

check the task, ready the mind.

let thoughts mellow and compute

nicely.  we will be all ready on the day.

we have a plan, whilst gratitude guides

us. nothing is necessary, except

collars and socks.

some will understand,

while others will not.

it was a hay loft, converted

now, the upper room.

listen.

sbm.

there is a house in the middle of the hill.



while those folk run up and down the road early

others in town wear black.

there is a laybye , the field so pretty
to park by, the gate to lean.

will you report the fire?
no i stopped to admire.

i had seen the stack before, the logs
laid neatly, all was ready then,

now your flames attract me, to
talk of lambs and springtimes.

it is from the storm , tinder dry,
too hot to stand by,
i can feel it from here.

on my return all was ash and steaming,

we waved.



sbm.

there is a laybye , the field so pretty
to park by, the gate to lean.

will you report the fire?
no i stopped to admire.

i had seen the stack before, the logs
laid neatly, all was ready then,

now your flames attract me, to
talk of lambs and springtimes.

it is from the storm , tinder dry,
too hot to stand by,
i can feel it from here.

on my return all was ash and steaming,

we waved.



sbm.

to sweeten life. the kiss,
use sugar.

we wrote the words,
print in blood, yet we only had
sepia.

a ruler to tear, fold
carefully, mix with shards
that worked from window
panes.

cotton lengths, blend with oil.
soothing balm.

we have a new bottle here.

the kiss
is up for sale.

sbm.