different season, extenuating

circumstance. hunger

nor poverty a reason.



look for kindness.



i saw them sweeping

the golden, leaving the

vehicle parked badly.



saw the wind change,

sky come clear.



it is mid november,

i drive the same road,

end lessly.



sbm.

it is different now. i find

that standing there all day

working.



is fine.



is fine

that i fly solo, that

no one here is looking.



for someone.



who is not here?



bats come early, stay late.



is fine



is samhain



sbm.

Lovely. I nearly rented a run down bungalow at Sandbanks before the boom. It was nice then.

I bet your bus went past St . Anns hospital where Mum was for a long and many times. She had electric shock treatment. It was all nuts

My boyfriend was in there too. He put his head in the oven. He came out as gay later. He was a croupier at the Royal Bath.

Oh my days. You have kicked off memories .

Enjoy the day x

there is lavender
in the fire, someone
is tapping
on the window, patterned
with cracked kings and
predecessors.

sarah’s bible, hand held,
open via perspex
and blue velvet
at ecclesiastes
chapter three.

to everything
there is a
feafon, etc,
in italics.

sbm.

i need to write that you wiped your washed hands first on the dishcloth, so as not to ***** the

towel.

I do it too, and think of you.



sbm.

i remember her name,

she said it is salter.



i sent her the mothballs.



borders.



sbm.

requires a scanner,
patience,
strength of spirit
for so many works.

i like repetition,
i have proved it.

balancing
skills come into play,

tableaux.

it was my job
in the office,
now my pleasure.

sbm.

pyjamas from the line, rain rinsed. complimented. not mine really.

left by his estate, three quarters of an acre, where the washing dries.



on a good day or tumbled in bad weather. often it is milder here when

it rains. you can smell that too. most things have a scent, not always

nice. though.



particularly like early grey and burned toast, although there are now

warnings on the latter.                                                             with butter.



ashes of roses.



©sbm

the memory starts clearly aged ten. kept in the fitted cabinet, second drawer down, mother’s scissors. i guess they were around before in a more muzzy state in  mind.

she may have kept my fringe tidy  when i was not taken off to the barber in the village. he used a plank across the arms of the chair to seat me. i was small then.



she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did. once i saw her cutting greaseproof; different rules apply.



we  had only one pair. just one pair that i remember. i felt that mum gave them great importance, transfered this feeling.

i wish i had kept them, even with the damage.  the incident was one afternoon .



a lamp needed moving,  plug removing and my brother put it off for various reasons. we heard the noise, the bang , we saw the feathers.

those days many people had budgies, ours was blue usually. i think green was a different price?

so mum cut the electric wire with her special scissors to remove the plug, still plugged in. a hole then  in the blade. mother put to bed, we probably took her tea. the budgerigar tidied and settled we all moved forward with experience.



i wonder still if this is why i collect scissors here.



sbm.

biggest leaves in the lane, no one swept, bothered. we hurried by seamlessly,      or did we? some of us looked, a few of us bothered.    some of us helped each other. it is always a nice day.



your birthday.



you are younger than i ; stride out  quickly. walk down the estuary. it is good to hit the sunny patch and hear the bird call. a cold day today.



enjoy your

birthday.



sbm.

it was
the dream

the cloud
the quarry



water flows down this valley

wind blows round our houses

i have said it before yet seems that those who should know better

talk of gods

may judge the people

live in remote places

between mountain sea the land becomes

dry

this arid land



are you sleeping
while i watch the burial
the pain
the madness
the snowdrops

are you sleeping,
while they hold her up



still the dog goes on each day
slower now
still the morning comes



forge forward
with obsession

a
variety of colours

there is another language



came with madness

romanticism

there is no broken glass

no face  at the window no god no more



sea birds

he looks like how
we may imagine
an old pirate looks

yet

i cannot see his leg
nor his parrot

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.



words affect us deeply.   voices  come and go.                                           while the worlds spins with  people’s chaos and confusion.       yet.           above the noise of the day     they show me birds and insects          did you know they cross their fragile legs?





did you find a pin there, did you pick it up and stick it?   did you stay safe, wrap the shawl around and hold    it   close?        did you see my life breaking, bring me pins for mending? …



stick in be safe , despite the pain and raddled cotton threads.   to hold my life, hold the rusty hinges, prepare the coats of varnish again     .                    remember your mother’s pins, my friend.

be well in your mending.



she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like in a museum with strings and labels.

sbm.

yet most were in april, searched for winter

find one will have to insert it. most days are busy,

i am the only one to do it, unless i pay.



searching for meaning, it may be there is none.



loving our homes, rituals and bad spellling

we carry on, carry one.



sbm.

yet most were in april, searched for winter

find one will have to insert it. most days are busy,

i am the only one to do it, unless i pay.



searching for meaning, it may be there is none.



loving our homes, rituals and bad spellling

we carry on, carry one.



sbm.

yet most were in april, searched for winter

find one will have to insert it. most days are busy,

i am the only one to do it, unless i pay.



searching for meaning, it may be there is none.



loving our homes, rituals and bad spellling

we carry on, carry one.



sbm.

irregular, you came, your best clothes shining.    humming               . the first tune hit the mind, patterns and mathematics.         the kindness that is.                                             glass reflecting.



slowly it starts.



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

onward.



while all around is broken, shall we mend and tidy this little bit.   shall we change the linen, white and clean.            lean toward a better place round us, start again?



he said. machine you see.



searching i find nothing.                                                huge in front of me, that machine is stuck.



sbm.







ab

it is a new little ribbon, for you. i will tie here, yet not too tight.   it has been a long time now.   yes.

. a long, long time.



thread bare.    nap worn                           the                 warp       shows through.   sounds sweet, none of this plush and sensuous stuff.



the dream, the shroud parted a while. visitors came,                         the day proceeded gently with          stops     and dictation, who is this?            we worried over news, trembled a while, gathered back the warp, the weft.                                      today we continue.



much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely. linen  hangs  heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready.



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.



sbm.

found the secetuers

in the bag with the

clippings

noted the weight was

not right

the room is lighter

now

the memory is settling

my mind is quieter

will write of it all in

stages

6.19 am

battery three quarters

light    gentle   sweet



you touched my spine

your face no picture



slow    ɡradʒʊəl     inevitable



you killed me

one shot to the chest

now

careful

healing





with silver

Yes I will miss the group this summer and will look forward to September.

Meanwhile I have bought a tub of icecream.


Thank you for your kind words. I like your work also.

have a new strimmer

green and profound

my broken one is orange and ******* in a trash bag

i hope it gets collected on ******* day

on thursday

it has an extra handle

plus a flower guard

how apt for me

so then yesterday we had a garden fire
sat round on the grass

waved the clothes prop at the apples

knocked a few and ****** our teeth at the

sour ness yet

laughed and minced them with carrots and bread

in the machinator

I calls it that

put our heads in boxes for the experience

swapped ideas and plants

it was a lovely day despite the increase in traffic

despite the ease

others have mentioned it james

it comes damp, darker this morning james
the further window open

the ribbons move

bless thee and paste the words.

literally.

oxblood does not offend me,                   unlike

your rantings, protestations.;  words continue.



sweat

beads.



bless thee, pray your maggots

leave.



while we pick out the remains.



days continue with                       blessings

while the thoughts that this is not personal

are failing.



so i will continue to raise tickets on your befalf



&



bless thee.



sbm.

have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independant air, profound words,
from those who care.

are we all naive?

i think i am.

sbm.

have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independent air, profound words,
from those who care.



sbm.

[ re written]

have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independent air, profound words,
from those who care.

sbm.

a new day
goldfinches on seeding knapweed
simple things

have you collected seeds of many years   packed  labelled   dated

do you have them now in boxes

a gift from those who love



they will bring  work  joy   an independent air

profound gifts

for those who care



have you
leaned by the window cold

thought that if snow falls it may land

if trees grow it may be up

if we all plant seeds they may be food



kindness



deserves  praise yet should come as natural



there may be too many additives these day

not enough honesty grown



she said i should have something new in the greenhouse.



i have

i said, and thought of you



who



planted the seeds



sbm.

we named it best eleven.        dark the day, the equinox .          we are survived.



light came, we saw the green ness of it all.                          we live in the country.



sbm.

have missed it this year, plans never came together,

we meant to go together. i have stayed hotel, while

this is nice, have missed the freedom of the

self catering stay.



so absent from work a while, at home, i pretend

it is a self catering cottage, which of course

it is.

i play, and rest, eat little good things, watch

films till late, and have unsucessful laying  in.

if i was overly concerned with cost, of course

is cheaper.



we lit the fire the first time this  year.



burned your correspondence.



sbm.

hello



will you like to buy this garment?



no



why?



it is too plain.i like colour and a certain pattern



explain it?



no. i will have to draw it in italics



ok. if you draw it on the garment

i will colour in. then will you buy



it?



yes. in italics

it is another floral day,
with spring skies
and sunshine.

cotton fabrics,
bloom.

sbm.

you stand like sentinels above

straight lined and backed

up

there early



what shall i tell those below?



that i saw you there

as biblical prophets?



what shall i tell them?



that i saw you

all waiting early.



earlier than my arrival

here.

grass. is not growing so much.

set off early, blades raised. birds watched.

even stopping at the tree, to taste apples,
was quicker, forty minutes.

now then, she is right, they are small.

i was told to take the little ones off,
yet could not bear to do it. my loss.

they are tiny, they are sweet.

we **** them to the core.

it is mid september.

life comes looser now.

sbm.

i did not want to get involved, nor be noticed.



particularly, nor impress.



yet you said you loved me, never mind the diagnosis,

mirror image.



so that was done.

dusted.



they came in differing aspects, by now I did not

want to get involved, nor did i.



remember  I told you that I do not fall

in love?



we were in the garden.



this is not a mystery, just reality.



sbm.

pressure goes, is gone with the news that

my legs are ever brown

that

the trees have changed by the maentwrog

bend



that my voice no longer is

streaming through my head

between my ears sounding

like lead



and while all this has settled

tuck in and sleep a while



the pressure diminishes

september rises



all was well yesterday

we arrived together, me late,
she was early.

regarding faces, we both
have a poor view of our own,
regard for each others.

it is to do with lines.

i am older, she is younger.

we work together.

sbm.

serious matter making tea, then dinner.

cake with fruit, later vegetables      with

home made gravy.                           i know

there are more serious things.      i have

done them.                                            a lot.



it is just that

i do not wish to talk about them at     this

time.



jack , a dull boy.



sbm.

can you find the book among the favourites,

the one about survival in the cold, how to avoid

attacks from bears and other wildlife.



the book that makes you feel safe in bed,

because you are not there.



there are brown, black and a grizzled one you know,

each has a different response.



which will they think i am asked the bear?



ah, i says, they will never know, so will

have to hide.



the bear drank his tea, long and deep

and sighed.



sbm.

there is a skid mark in the mud,

where i moved the car early,

saw the mist rising on the river.



hear the black crow bird call .



home.



it is raining again today,

a worry when some work out doors.



i leave here early this

morning.



the academy.



sbm.

my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.



i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of death.



i tidy up,                        hang out washing.



demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is a small hope to always return    home.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas.   remember that you stand alone. are not alone from                                                  criticism and contradiction.

beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated.    empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer,                                                    who cry in dark corners.





yet i have mislaid  the black beetle too.

it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.



sbm.

oh little walk.  it rained under the trees,



the lorry was bigger than the lane, lights

shining.



oh little evening, the plane flew low



lights shining.



i am a fortunate, to live

without fear.



mostly.



with light shining.



there is a red flag flying.



sbm.

shall i write of sunday, or the

other days?



shall i write of the garden,

or the bear?



i have been reading, and know

that each thing is important,

each task in a day, all

those who hibernate.



creep in, he is snoring,

creep out make some tea.



trim the jasmine, make things

tidy.

ready, for when he wakes.



sbm.

thought nothing deep recently,

mostly tapped the new old typewriter,

the splendid machine,

wrote badly to friends, family.



walked the lane to see the flood

water,  sheep on higher ground now.



watched  films on those that flee,

suffer and drown.



just wept, pretty shallow

here really.



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.

5 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.

* featured in ‘Estuary’ a confluence of art and poetry.

Edited by Agnes Marton and Harriette Lawler.

Saboteur Award in the Best Mixed Anthology category

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.

http://tinyurl.com/o32x6fn

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.

mary and john
are dry inside
the box.

look closely
she has an umbrella
too.

double assurance.



sbm..

it must feel empty
even with those left
it is all on the last
page which i cannot

see without losing it
here

did/do they all have
names or numbers

here once it was numerals
which became an issue
when one left meaning
four was then three

then four went
and the naming
anomoly was gone

they are in the garden
neatly arranged

i hope yours settle well
find new homes by posing

looking pretty
or cute

i repeat
you done good

come sharper now,

with age & ingenuity.



letters lost, the brain

remains.



sbm.