bought for my house, have reconsidered, it will be for you.

a gift, alongside other gifts.                              look after it.

found in a fishing shop.  gentle hue,                  alongside

floats, and fish lures, now that is a wonderful

word.

over the road, the water man said all looked                 well,

so we glanced out at the muddy building                    mess.

they knocked down houses and trees                     you know.

driving home was all autumn and bluster.

i shall buy a pink ball for the house,

another time.

sbm.

note. there is no photograph.

the cure is not fat bacon, it is
the genes. gently move forward,
prompting all good behaviour, accepting
reality. it happens to most of us some
way.

three to ten days or more, with light
medication will help. as would new bedding,
deleting beige and floral lampshades.

how we laughed, bought unecessary items,
beat the plague.

without fat bacon.

sbm.

a cunning plan, i hope
you pull it off

i wish i could come too

in my black and faded things
to disappear into the gloom

most folk are kindly and
will feed a small and needy thing

i did when four came to me,
only two remain, darling
and sweetheart

darling being the boldest
here
now

it is light so much later
i woke so much later

the journey the week having
taken my energy
up we went in the funicular

to the wool sock shop
and bought three
for christmas

presently we do not
celebrate that only
the facts

that we are family
that is is midwinter then

and we require cheering

what do you do?

the plate is lovely, slightly fade

into other places, where bears ride

bicycles, where no one eats brown food,

no more.



it is a gift to know what the other

likes, and to like it yourself. the wind

blew through our house, while the sky

turned dark.



the plate is larger than usual.



sbm.

the photographer,
the writer, and gatherer.

there you are,

i have been looking for you.

telling me of auschwitz.

a  story of love,

until the bird hit the window,

and died.

lay there, the journey,

till we three,

the writer, the poet and me,

laid it gently,

covered its face.

and we moved on.

sbm.

notes

memory is thought to be gone,
remnants remain, hiding.
working faster with out all

those words,
those images

ideals

bare bones of the fact  replaced,
restarted, corrupted items place gently
in the box, tied.
turn with dust.

crosses.

the prize came as unexpected

a big building enough to house

the poor, the homeless the dis

possessed. it was tea and

i felt sick



i will rather give the money away

the added value of the food. ritz.



crackers. that bread can cost so much

spread with regular stuff cut thin



the waiter smiled ; i noted his shoes

an honest worker like me



alongside they enjoyed the moment

without the anxiety of my chest where

reparation fails. this is the promise

the outcome of a difficult day

assumimg you are safe
i tell you about the villages
close by yet still over the
mountain

where the good grub is
for midwinter while men
buzz about hunting

while i disapprove
and eat the vegatables

where the man talks about
his toe endlessly as the other
word is rather complex & all
this with only one paid for cup
of tea

where the child lays low playing
and unscrewing the chair legs

where the night comes earlier
each day and pheasants walk

the lanes in procession. this
was a gathering
this was a confession

yesterday
was not quite
midwinter
solstice
yet

they are asking in the village if the pub is open yet.

i question  have  they called by to ask?



they are asking in the village if the pub serves food.

have they popped in to ask &  to see the menu?



they are saying in the village that the front needs tidying

as does the car park.



i ask the folk in the village if they will tidy their own place

and  to be glad the pub is open again.



i called in to a lovely guided tour and a warm welcome.



let us not be so critical. tyn y groes.

winding wool is mindless

she said, well maybe madam,

yet look at the lovely machine,

all red and cream plastic, that

winds in a way we cannot do

by hand.

look at my work which evolves

while working this and thinking.

i folded her goods tidily, packed in a

nice paper bag, said nothing

except mere politeness and niceties.

then got on with winding.

mindfully.

sbm.

can be a difficulty

to say that we do not know



the answer.



that we have to count

check

count again.



that we get distracted

disturbed by other matters

then

come back.                     miscount

again.



it is not some thing we can google

so we have lists lines and rulers.



when all is done we sign and date

admit we do not know the answer



maybe start again.

sbm.

is this a mill, or is it a shop,
is it both, when did the looms stop?

twenty years now sir, yet you can see some
working elsewhere.

shall i write it down, all the pattern,
and most of the history? it has different fibres,
yet mainly wool in it.

these are made in yorkshire, the bags are italian,
yet i am from wales, an immigrant they say, yet we
are all from another place originally.

we came from the sea.

so let us move things about.

cloth by cloth.

sbm.

gently steams.                                   he

works the issue over.



takes a card and hides it.



solitary man, solitary man.

kettles, cups of tea                immersion.

he

takes a card and looks at it.



daily walks to watch a train.





* takes a photograph and keeps it.



sbm.

some dogs run fast.



some run slower.



some dogs don’t run

anymore.



sbm.

talk about the weather, talk
about the rain. cosy. we cleaned
arranged the house, until it stopped.

walked out, bare feet, looked down
felt the wet slate, watched the snails.

damped our hair, to rearrange on entry
into the cleaner rooms. yet no matter
how hard we work, there are still

cobwebs.

sbm.

it came as a badge on a card so pretty.

the rainbow







do you believe those stories like some

invented to keep us calm, in our place



there is a lot of stuff in genesis that i

could have copied and pasted here



yet i will rather say that all things are

on a spectrum

of colours & ideas



nothing is one colour only,      as decided

in invented rules.  for we are all different



& use the rainbow as a symbol to remind

folk and to bring us together in time



hopefully.



he liked the badge

sun, was done and dusted.

by the slate they talked, shining.
faces older now, friendship retained.

learned a little more on life, the small
things, the wisdom rings
the generations.

i did not need all the mange tout.

sbm.

at sea, it is a squall. i watched

a programme all about dream fish.

we need none.

we have dreamed a while, made a little

garden house, while mrs ciano is safe indooors.

cosy, she is by the old books

of course.

where else would she be,

still the rain pours, a draught

at the window.

sbm.

spelled refipe in old books,
expect difafter spelled the same.

manner.

check the symptoms daily.

it is that time of year, with whether,
fear for those at sea, the radio
plays for me.

these are the darker days,
petrified forests, all too
many effs. spelling can be
a pleasant pastime, when all else
fails.

to activate the brain, and pleasant hormones.

sbm.

people also ask. what is a buff in a game? how does a polisher work?
what is the color of buff? what is a buff and debuff?  how can one
divide these queries?
some are thinking of naked beings, being all in their skin with nothing
over.



some have more impending questions, and will find it may all pan out

in time.



those that think literal, the place becomes confusion. it is  a daily challenge.



words escape like dust.



we sat in the bus shelter,

a while.



sbm.

. the  red dress .
description in words,
draped, silk in lime light.talk endlessly of pin
tucks, and pleatings.
yet she said,             things
are too profound.   a standing
ovation.

moths in light,
all things due sound.

this was a charity gala, all befrocked,
with polished shoes.        have you
heard the welsh sung?         he sung
lovely,     my lovely.

we liked her red dress.

sbm.

the reed bunting
says tshee, says
tschee again.

there is a boat in a bottle,
art in a jar. there was a need to collect,
keep working.

there never was a gun, no trigger, no need
to mainipulate, learn to spell.

he gave us gifts, i felt guilty taking them.

his face lit up.

sbm.

when i listen to cowboy films

on the radio, carve the pumpkin,

breath held in case they scalp him.



every year the same, festival stress

reduced  by wanton knowledge

that none of it matters, that I can acheive,

that maybe even, I could be worthy, the same

as you.



a surprise  party after,

no one came,

no surprise, no one invited,

only you.



sbm.

when i listen to cowboy films

on the radio, carve the pumpkin,

breath held in case they scalp him.



every year the same, festival stress

reduced  by wanton knowledge

that none of it matters, that I can achieve,

that maybe even I could be worthy, the same

as you.



a surprise  party after,

no one came,

no surprise, no one invited,

only you.



sbm.

of something in the air, can you feel it?

the cat has drank the milk again, while

we were busy yesterday.



much to be done, much to be read

and quantified.



and

while all this is going on we

see the news and



still find nougat wrappers

on the floor.



sbm.

order.



    crosses came, so we made



2. order in the writing, then

3. the folding, tying carefully.



there is an order in putting

things down, without a

plan.



she criticised the dots.



4. there is order in sending out

into the world

without an

explaination.



sbm.

yet maybe it is not necessary.

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.

maybe it is not necessary, yet we
have. year in year out.

there is small hope, for folk
to do something different, that
is not their nature. maybe

they just wish to return
home.

sbm.

we visit, revisit. flowers

still grow.



we leave. return.



we live.we miss you.

seeds.

we visit the garden again.

there is no final time.



sbm.

(adding yet.)



there is no number on my gate, the house has a name. the lane

does not.



liking labels, i also like numbers on things, denoting nothing

in particuar.



she once said that though the name sounds romantic in it’s

language,

translated

it does not. she is correct.



the box is emptied, found numbers hid to please us, come



public.



a worry is will the colour run, & if it does will we mind ?



the larger road here is also numbered, and lettered.   a470.



sbm.

sad in private, folk  will  think that no one cares.

here.

should we write on social media a lot. is this the same writing

here?

a quiet face, simple place.

the air is damp and humid, teeth

grip skin.

in the garden.

we are private here,

as before.

sbm.

you may already have the things you need.

just look.

it may be that there could be a piano,
small
neat and shiny. the front may be gone, so that
the bits inside are beautifully visible.

moth.

it may be that all music was learned carefully.

or it may not be so. there may be no piano.

moth.

sbm.

there may be positive thinking,
the day after the cleaning.

after all, one’s problems
aint so bad when we hear of others.

it was hoped the electricity
was off, seems they still
use it in bangor.

this is shocking.

is it really all about shopping?

i think it is more about friendship,
and carings.

it may be said now, that
they do supply prawns.

sbm.

( written by friends who know and shared here with their permission)

don't dwell on ****,
the past has passed.
and throw the drugs
down the toilet.

do the things that make
you feel better,
and avoid the things
that make you feel crap.

whatever they are.

eat and drink
things
that make you feel nice,
and be in such places.

know who your friends are
and know how much to load
on them.

force your self
out of bed in
the morning,
go for a walk
enjoy nature.

get a dog.

avoid the news,
and depressing tv.

know
your own routine,
and don't let other people
tell you it is wrong
or feel guilty about it

but also know the line
between what is your own
paranoia and anxieties,
and what is just normal
emotion
and reaction.

be aware of reality,
and how you are
deviating from it.

get over yourself,
and lighten up.

some of it is
indeed physical and psycological,
but much of it
is just ******.

Take as much advice
as can be ,
but it is up
to the individual
to make the decision to change.

as you know.

you keep things going

in others absence

this is a talent

a task that gains recognition

when those around are failing

some times we needs loosening

to start

when blocked

blocking comes with tiredness

we need an empy head

the things it holds at present

(the head that is) are important

never the less

those little things we feel are not

are those which inspire

it may be that major issues

are beautiful challenges

yet are dire reading

not for the early morning

thus rambling i say all is well

here

we do not have locusts

there is no escape

glad for your days off

and domestic tasks

we are ordinary

i like that

i like your description of flowers

while i say nothing



6.52

have hurt the end of my toe

it is nothing at all

this is the first quick reply

for time is short at present

there is much to be done



then later when there is a space

will reply again

a double thing

today



for i am home again

like one day out

then one day here

and is working well

so far





though yesterday

changed tempo

slowly with a slide

downwards



so going with the flow

i went with the flow

that benefited





ann has a mouse

she leaves out crumbs

some things are slower,
smaller. a delight.

short while sat
in the sun, a pile
of bricks for comfort.

she gave me string.

sbm.

early morning



as if last week is forgotten

it is not

somerset is pretty

and while i enjoy

i feel that some do not

it was nice you kept in touch again

thank you

it is good to have friends

to reconnect on returning

much to think about

to keep to myself

to not mess with other

peoples’ perceptions

finding it easy to stay offline

yet feel the need to get back to working

i ate free fruit and saw a one horned cow

hope the laundry is neat

that you are well

returning to autumn

gradually

there are no pins,
no easy way to fix
some things.

this time, we wait
to see the outcome.

mended plates aren’t funny,
scaffold a life.

don’t laugh, it may
happen to you.

listen, repeat the
random insects.

stitch another way.

sbm.

is history.     isn’t history fascinating ?

now with google, wikipedia  it is all there

for the taking. books from the library

can be heavy, yet

free and cosy to read in bed.



this is a rabbit gift, given on an anniversary,

reading.  the book is wuthering heights, one version.



on dvd, there are several versions.



a classic story, yet not history.



sbm.

time is limited these days. those one admired in youth devastate us now.   can we know all things, we only went twice ?   the back road was littered, rather blustery.   today   clouds blow in, leaves crake.

i took the shorter route this morning.



sbm

drive it one spring

morning early before the traffic

starts.

i have done it many

times before , know the road,

villages, the pretty bends.

taliesin, bow street, clarach.

yesterday a sea fret, misted trees,

added edge ; visual delight.

i like the road to aberystwyth.

sbm.

warmer now with rain.there is a nasty bend.

eric and phillip named it so.                we slow.

see

the snowdrops drift.



turn to meifod, feeling the way, note the

camp, the little hideout just up the lane

past the coach park.



some places  so unremakable we shine.



a pleasant day with pickles.



sbm.

kept in a box, precious.

lifted down for those to see,
that care.

did the understanding come,
the idea that all old things
are wanted, needed for their story.

not discarded on higher round,
where dust and moth abound.

the lesser garment became prefered,
as the last shall become the first.

we shall look at the photographs.

sbm.

your piece regarding Rosemary was particularly apt.

it spoke to me of the way the writing group welcomes, accepts and cares for the members. thank you for that.

i shall ask the group if i may publish the Rosemary chronicles on line. they may say no, I will not mind.



**

..the visit..

life comes in many stages



we are more than what happened





some people stay home a lot nothing wrong with that & curtains drawn

had been home some time perhaps twenty six years when she persuaded me to go with the promise of a clean dress and ragged towel to hide in

the journey was fine in the bag with the elo wishing they were a wild west hero



unveiling was painful a challenge to follow such a handsome wholesome chap

before me



the comments came with nothing nasty yet my discomfort & embarassment rose as always

my body lagged sagged

my spirit broke





even so i may have inspired as i did those years ago



an old coat refigured with buttons and gatherings until i am become

to be



put on sale without the podium

teeth unchecked as i had none

sad

i thought it was abolished



she bought me

the child herself



yet no one owns no one



returned home

covered

curtains drawn





later i heard that karl lagerfeld had died

curtains drawn

no one owns no one



sbm.

you did not see the room,

in passing,

do not remember the objects

there.



they are not significant,

important

or for human consumption.



it is an idle thing,

the cotton, the string

for comfort.



eating scrambled eggs

makes it all

the same.

©sbm

the year gone by,  books

left tied

with rag.



she said hello, smiled.

i smiled back with no

regret.



coated in butter of

contentment



that



the books are left tied

tightly.



sbm.

if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?

life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.

whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.

these things do happen,
to most people.

except some  seem immune to
harm.

who are the chosen ones?

the radio playes the same tune,
faintly upstairs.

sbm.

there is agreement here
on the placing of words
where they fall

i too worry over spelling which came
contagious this week

it rains and the christmas lights
were turned on in leeds the radio
says

one place i have not visited

it rains here and i am all a fiddle with
new devices
that set my brain in motion

to think of logic
when it feels like nothing
is at all
logical

when inclusion
excludes

when you sit here
when you may as well sit there

yet i make no fuss
remain the quiet one

not many flowers here now
yet i stood transfixed under the oak
as the leaves dropped down

my personal *******

noticed the apples are gone
all of them from the smaller
tree
i ate them
pippins

there is a severe rain warning
while the gardener is sheduled

what to do?

it is that time of year,

it comes and goes

in waves they say.

unannounced, this is the memory,

physical and mental,

if that wordis is politically allowed

these days. in disorder,  subconcious,

tide rising , lifting **** .

once realised, that it is time

again, settle back in to the season.

be known that i cannot keep things alive,

i have no power, no means of identification.

i cannot save you.

we are the living ones,

guilt and trouble feel,

this a work ongoing.

sbm.