so tired that you could

fall gently onto soft grass

and sleep?

that nothing seems sensible any more,

no space exists around you?

will your legs still carry you along?

sometimes is best to stop a while,

think on the situations of others.

listen to the words of history, the stories

of others, then up from the lawn, to wonder.

sbm.

note –
wherewithal
ˈwɛːwɪðɔːl/

no need to talk, there is no one here.



no need to shout, we have no anger.



those were the early days, younger,

filled with grit and useless sentiments.



now we mindlessly watch, envy old  fabrics,

hear the sounds of another time, know

this is entertainment, a soothing way

to live now.



she said i looked sad,

perhaps i am.

i have a sense of wellbeing.

sbm.

how can they make such rigid stuff
from soft wools, take the thing then
harden it.

they say it will last a lifetime, hold its own.
tradition.

looks as if it would hold
the rain out, repell the scattered
words of cold,

and evil. a coat so heavy
it dragged us down.

there was crocheting yesterday,
with blue and softer yarn, a small ply.

a gentle thing, a memory.

sbm.

i dread the cold,

and as i write the words

the fear deepens



fear the ground

will slip

and the bones

will

ache as i walk

the frozen.



fear of falling,

breaking,

and losing

the soft words

of my life

sorry to hear your news
so it goes

travelling the land
walking the roads
helps pattern settle
into shape

words come and days are calmer
tarmac spattered with orange
gold leaves the branches

fall lightly until the frost

then a sudden drop

your friend is missing
we survive another day

we have put our clocks
back where they were

no one seems to know
the truth of it no more

we all see differing things
i learned yet again yesterday

the bandage is pointless, will not help him nor no one else who is

dead.



shall i make some more, label them and roll  tight ready.          we

use the rubber stamp on paper         trace through onto rags. it is

a fine pen.



still connected our thread is black.



knotted

quite dead.



you came late, scattering all you saw.



left quickly.



mistakes occur.



soldjer bombed dead.



sbm.

get a cold, lose your appetite for cream. live on marmalade

with toast. the cat gets the cream till full, resplendent on the

radiator. the cream goes solid, the need to recycle comes clear.



yet



all we can do for the best is throw it down the toilet.



sbm.

solitude is usual ,              even welcomed.

trips out reveal another state. the mind
and all travelling            excites, , i await
silence.

again.



he asked me a question, then i replied.

endlessly.                      it may be a gift?

ash escapes the brain

into    air.

days left,

three voices

rise, until just

one

is heard.


sbm.

make complications, rebuke.

electronic mailings
back, forth, fourth
again. it is their responsibility,
arrangment, role, assigned post.

it is so very important, so difficult.

phoned the other one, he just
said yes.

job done.

sbm.

struggle with the words,

tear wrappers back to reveal

the chewy pink, or bitter.  bitter

enought to split your head, the

packing says.



all gets too sickly, too sad,

when small boy agrees

it is good to hear  birds sing.



sweetly he tells me there are other capybaras

in the capybara house.

this is quite relaxing.



sbm.

seem more gentle than others,
despite the storm.

despite the words that are lost
to sound of  winds
battering. windows rattling.

we spoke,  all comes clear
in time, with waiting, baiting
breath, fortitude, cups of tea.

they will light lanterns, burn fires
for the darkness, while some
mornings rise gently.

the third of november.

sbm.

struggle with the words,

tear wrappers back to reveal

the chewy pink, or bitter.  bitter

enought to split your head, the

packing says.



all gets too sickly, too sad,

when small boy agrees

it is good to hear  birds sing.



sweetly he tells me there are other capybaras

in the capybara house.

this is quite relaxing.



sbm.

ah did you say tapir?  the word  reminds me of the capybara at the water

park.



not sure why. if you said taper, i will think of the coloured spills by the fire

in the brass holder.



he cleaned the copper pipes for me, as it was raining. he is the gardener.

then he moved on to the coal scuttle and talked about his mum, as did i.

they both placed items on newspaper, while they rolled into tapers after.



to light the fire.



i really like the capybara. i think someone wrote about trousers today.



sbm.

i need to tell you something



i needed to tell you sometime ago

now



i hesitate again

look down



regret my first sentence

now



maybe will say it some other time

now

some of the plates   are broken
some of the friends are gone

some words will not line up

some things

just don’t work

no more



there is no punctuation

someone

i should not have gone

we had to call her auntie
no blood relation

we sat with her for tea
cross legged.

i shared a room with Catherine, (it may have been K I forget) so long ago

we were at the top of the house off the landing before the staff quarters – the
uncles,the aunties

Cath was older, brave and treacherous

i liked her yet felt the others didn’t

a bad influence

we went out on the chain ferry across to the beach
all sun sea gulls and possibilities

day of freedom

on return that auntie shouted i should not have gone, screamed and shouted from the stairs shouted

spoiled our lovely day

Cath left the home soon after, they found her a flat

i missed her
i visited her

it continued with escapes in the bathroom
the door locked

wished i went with Catherine

i think of you often

milton road

do you hear someone sleeping?

do you hear them breathing?

i did not for many years.

last week I did.

the hotel

had thin walls.

sbm.

sometimes, we wish we wrote different.

there is new home work, think we will

try a new venture, the travel writer.



not in verse, perhaps longer sentences,

with an air of mystery and danger. we

could have started here, with new ideas

today.



it is a small journey, most days

when it is fine, when there is time



from here to the #backlane



and back.



sbm.

i ate crackers with butter
sometimes cheese. i prefer
the latter warm

i have not eaten peanut
butter, nor tasted it i think

i feel it is something
emotional
the thought of disliking
it without really knowing

i am much the same with
hot chocolate yet know
the reasons why

with that

it is mild here with sun
shining on the lake and
hills beyond. we both
looked from the top deck
on the bus yesterday

at the terminus we changed
onto an older colder bus with
cleaner windows

i walked from the stop down
the lane and looked in the
graveyard

the landing has an unpleasant smell,
started the day before yesterday, warm weather.

air freshener spent, we use cheap perfume
from aldi. is my house not clean ? remember
this smell of old. some wee creatured done died
in the loft, floor boards, some which place.

i have spent hours looking for the body, to take to
the church yard gently, spent time spraying
madame glamour, my daughter.

know with time, it will fade, pass as all
things.

I found last years birds nest yesterday,
twined with horse hair.

the field is empty now.

one swallow.

sbm.

trace the sadness. underlying



through



thin paper.



draw the line.



know that all things are happening

to other peoples.



live the theme.



a project which deems that all the work

has a sadness.



here.



some moths stay quiet

googling I read that  a perfect              sonnet

rules.  if according to terms ,           conditions.

you think so;   if you have gone     and done it

properly. I understand this                 situation.

yet some  like free form  verse .on      listening .

found words  have their own  stories. written in

any way seems  ok ,                 rather interesting.

finding rhyme difficult  will carry on,           grin

and bear it.  pause.               an unusual exercise

that may end in disaster.                 do not wish

to win.   am not good at being             precise

nor sticking to rules and break some……………

so here we are, there it is.                 a sonnet

in  its rights, wrongs and imperfections, init?



“While all the sonnets in this competition are in a sense an exploration of what a sonnet is, this was the only one that actually treated the topic in its subject-matter.”

i told you it was a level of buttercups

still is where the council have not cut.



now higher & here & there comes the



sorrel



russet

in colour with stature.



as i child i made tea with the seeds

& unable to drink for fear  changed

the idea to perfume.

there are no set ideas in this house upon the repetition of words.        we are sorry that you cried.

it has been a good morning so far.   with fried eggs on toast and the air. sorry that i was hopeless, even with clues.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging, while i have seen so much. i forgot to ask about your trip.   i had driven the mountain to see you, parked nicely,              kissed your cheek, talked about the issues.

it all showed pride and i know

you have seen it too. raddled

face in mirrors, knowing that we

are all much the same. we move



on. on.

together.



sbm.

i heard on the radio.

they decided to walk.

he asked her what she had..

nothing she said, nothing.

money? nothing, nothing,
nothing. nothing.nothing.

nothing left except my girls.

i have not lost them, we hold hands,
hold hands, hold hands.

we have nothing.nothing. nothing left.

they decided to walk.holding hands,

sbm.

1.



sound one

sound two

i stand near a figure by  water; in water

leaded grey seamed as soldered. we stand together, there is no gender, no one mentions it no more



here



they did in the tate

modern

gigantic genitalia



liking autumn, our fall  & liking travelling

i visit winchester today  near an old home no longer home. i fear to return there nightmares reccuring

the flat, the trap

the madness

those days i escaped  to the sea,  gently floating for hours becoming spongy avoiding the need to return until dark, when turning the key opening the door found chaos screaming



dreaming

in this crypt i find



all is quiet par the dripping in a quickening rhythm ; a storm outside .

water seeps in drips from my clothes pools the floor

feel the rain pour through me scouring  pain and it is better this way



i look across; it is taller than me by a foot with head bowed

stands before me silent

i stand before it silent

two of us

just two of us



some may say one of us



dripping settles



i do not know you

i do not know anyone really

only think i do



you cannot know me

secrets never told not to be told

here

now

ever



enough to be here in this place of quiet





water rises to its knees while i move higher

wait

a while to think remember you and you and you

all those that left



everyday some one dies.                                          we do not know them all



i have found solitude   and like it;  have achieved my solo flight a quiet life



hear a noise in the distance turn and walk away



it looks down into its hands



gormley

sound two

sound eleven

three hundred and more

an iconic building, unexpected.

long day, folding linen,
no pressing involved,
honest work.

long for silence, not with this sound,
yet the pause was part of it.

breaththty, breathing,  clarion call,
whilst the while,  keys, sounds  of mathematics, and that fiddling with the
wires inside, like the turkish man does.

sometimes he wore glasses.

some came with words, standing ready,
proclaiming themselves, their identity,
staged and be yond.

iconic evening, unexpected.

then, i longed for that silence
only found alone.

some things are too special to be discussed.
here.

sbm.

note

one hour               moves

my body             remains

the same



one thought       removed

the mind                 alters





some words          deleted

spaces

added





some questions       never

asked



sounds of the earth

write the words, she says
that helps.

it is a drop in the ocean, and cannot
help those already lost in the ocean.

it was said in depth we drown, and so
it is so.

we cannot rescue the drowning, record the names.

here.

so we draw dresses.

black dresses do not sell so well.

sbm.

how there is no explaination there.

i will print one and place it wednesday.



reminded of basildon bond, now there is

an emblem, and quality paper. buy

blotting paper, to remember those times

of ink spreading.  the clues wrote backwards

if we choose to hear them.



so we talked of death, i find i know nothing

very much. except this is the softest

music.



sbm.

that mark denotes a question,
a line in a simple verse.

why do i write of him, does
it strike a chord. you know

i started to think of all
the past things at once.

history can be too much to bear,
in one sitting.

maybe his heart broke.

too.

sbm.

space paced in air.

space quiets each noisy soul
into silent submission.

air humbled the cup, the face
the noise of the days.

the drawing waits
for time, as do all things.

a quiet space.

i took no photograph.

sbm

space paced in air.
space quiets each noisy soul
into silent submission.

air humbled the cup, the face
the noise of the days.

the drawing waits
for time, as do all things.

a quiet space.

i took no photograph.

sbm.

. spaces .
connect with spaces,
you may move differently.
sound different.

a specific style of dancing?

which reveals the environment as a character,

animation through animated intent

or something.

Johann Botha said this.
he is in Pretoria, he is
part  of our audience

another sat quietly.
it can be dark.

the date is set.

24 this month
of autumn.

sbm.

gets to the point, beats in the heart,
creates the dance.

starts the day nicely, still in pyjamas,
twirl down the stairs, spanish tea
in the kitchen, flamenco shoes
in the front spare bedroom.

these are the days, now it is
november.

i have danced alone.

sbm.

is there some thing in your eye,

did you see it properly or maybe

it is in the mind.  yesterday

came suddenly.



some of us weren’t talking, then

we did, yet some still don’t.



is this boring?  this is

the stuff of life today, random,

when life is soft, nothing precious

to worry of.



and now the snowdrops are out in the garden.



sbm.

the bear remains very quiet

listening

researching





you may remember in the past

how he spoke to me of his

sadness and disappointment

his fear about the future

his fear about all things



political and general



he spoke to me of how he

will like the kindness

his nationality

the climate gently



now he just looks at me

sadly

it is a new store,the chapel architecture

restored. i remember the day they cleaned

the stone, noisy. i was opposite with cofffee,

trying to chat. he did not seem to notice

the interruption.



they have candles, subtle shades, non drip,

yet have sold out of ragged ribbon,

a big disappointment.



i commented on the perfume downstairs, told

it was new furniture and cleaning, that is all.



checking ebay later found reams of the distressed cotton

tape i had wanted, had a minor spending spree

at seven pounds fifty.



sbm.

a spidering across my face,  that mooned mirrored moment.



raising from sleep dreamed , dashed my hand to move it,



sadly this morning  find the remains stain, detritus with remorse.





radio news says the evacuation from aleppo is delayed.



history repeats itself.



spider.



sbm.

it is an ancient place,
oswald’s tree, the floor
bends, polished wood.

there was a wedding yesterday,
all kilted, the groom ate pie,
wore proper shoes with segs.

she showed me a cabinet, a spoon,
hand forged, old, beaten for sale.

i was travelling,  a pretty
place, not good enough for some.

the bottle is crooked,

we left it
so.

find them in the dark,

feel the weight, know

that this is quality.



test the balance, know

it is a good design.



switch on the light,

enjoy the look of them,

even the blue plastic sample.



holiday in oban,

scour the chartity, find

some good ones, buy,

to bring home as souvenirs.



inverary, visit their

castle of spoon.



it is a gift.

sbm.

yes, we have been indoors a while now





it has happened before, do you remember

that year the snow came & i had to have a

taxi to get there





how all the guttering & aerials went with

the weight of it

suspension springs snapped





then after everything was repaired





some words we google then change

the letters about to confirm with

that which is deemed correct



granny had special knives too, fish

and butter and some others. on a

rainy day she would let us play with them



i still enjoy cutlery



i am not called that, mine is more

the usual without the d, however

now he texts me i am abbreviated

into gma



which is cool



i am enjoying being in so much

yesterday i was already and coated

then saw the snow warnings on the

pass



so made coffee and ate malt loaf



the only  other issue being some virus

out there



another reason, should i say excuse

for staying home

with my google assistant

i do not wish to win the race

nor

even

take part in it

having come to a halt

decided

to reside

a while

at the sports man.



portmadog



posh for now

unlike you folk who swim and visit gardens



i wore my garbardine to be sure of keeping dry.



portmadog.



sbm.

there were four of us

and mum



dad went away early



we played in cuckoo woods

sometimes



people dumped stuff

not often



once



there was a mattress with springs

so we tied some to our feet with string

and bounced



later i hid in trees



i know some of you like to hear more

i feel we were quite a jolly bunch



at first



until i realised

we were not





#springintoaction

birds sing

fly by windows



whilst warmth wraps our souls

as wool and  rugs



music plays my room with sunlight

wind lifts dust into charcoal clouds



birds sing



( the challenge? no ‘e’)

spring is on its way,

the ants are in the kitchen.



they will leave by easter

whenever that is. he said

it should be on the same day



each year; he is learned,

pronounced as two bits.



it is nice to see them back

this year. see the snowdrops

too.



sbm.

the cobwebs away, yet not all of them.

impossible, an old house. there would be

time, if it was national trust where all is

care and cleaning, though i have heard

they leave some now for authenticity.

I imagined it would cost forty five, yet it was sixty,

until the speciall offer.

here we have washed and dusted,

spring cleaned, had time for the garden.

again.

it is a nice place

here.

sbm.

the sun shone

it was warm



i could not move the rock so

with the fire brick we made



a step thereof



sun stroked skin so

we decided to stay out



up the graveyard to clear the gullies

& gutters



terry called round at three

yet could not find me he

texted  later that evening



the sun shone

slow down when squirrels cross.

nut shells rattle the mower blades, so we
look up at the acorns growing. all is well
at oswalds tree.

she carried the cake, to and fro, it diminished
at each turn, a victoria sponge. while all the while,
the bodice remains private, linen buttons tidy.

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.

best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

this is not cross foxes. we will go to new places
again. i will show you things.

sbm.