did i write of them yesterday,
boxes, things are different today.

these are the old ones, shabby,
kept
a while for usefulness, now used
for slight installation, an ongoing
gift.

one holds a book of time, one has
many things, you know, the cotton,
and the string.

it is a gift.

tissue paper crumples, bone
pastes this life together, a

gift.

sbm.

did i write of them yesterday,
boxes, things are different today.

these are the old ones, shabby,
kept
a while for usefulness, now used
for slight installation, an ongoing
gift.

one holds a book of time, one has
many things, you know, the cotton,
and the string.

it is a gift.

tissue paper crumples, bone
pastes this life together, a

gift.

sbm.

It is an interesting thing, the paper the string.

may not be written

though they have taken notes



the truth can be too much

for them to share



long deep ditches

full to brimming



the man on the tv

told it how it #is



#was

are longer now, i feel younger now,

i am older.    we do so many things.

we are no longer afraid.

make the best of summer days,

winter follows.

he remarked that it was

good enough for the

chelsea flower show.

sbm.

i go, meant to be recreation.
are so, yet food
for learning, sometimes
  yearning ,third
attribute.

driving home, remember the attitude,
of body leaning.
we look at the mountain passing,
and weep a while

this is the memory, the memory.

sbm.

you talked about the meaning of things. i did not understand.



when we returned to the house, the phone was ringing.       we

regrouped.



sat with you.

until  you

left.



my  phone was ringing;

more news of family.       new people.



i sat with you.



when i got back home

the phone was ringing.



sbm.

feels like autumn now, cat is in, windows misted.

a challenge to show  three trees as suggested.



the gentle good,  dawel disgyn,  little time

left, nor funds for flying.



tiny things become intimate.



you may put them in cases, or hang on pins.



straight or safety, it becomes political.



the choice is yours.



bulldog clips.



you are the curator.



sbm.

harrogate in the rain.



cheap umbrella broke,

a delightful shade of pink,

abandoned.



abandoned the street

for the parlour, the crown.



mourned my shoes, wet



and ripping.



dripping

white nubuck.



watched the trees,

falling leaves.



good coffee

opposite

the pumproom.



harrogate.



sbm.

things are not ideal,they never have been.



someone is eating the covers.i think the

time is right.



slowly we clean and tidy.wait for the shop to open.

wait for the table to be moved.this will be the sewing



room.



use all spaces.



sbm.

the bikes are moved, down to the old
pigstye, by the toilet.

plenty of room, once
it was tidied.

shed was rummaged, everything
put in line, most things
remembered.

few things dumped, while others are washed
and ironed.

slowly, there may be room for the piano.

visitors came, talked of art and signatures.

they did not know the shed is tidy now.

sbm.

I will
quite like a wild rumpus here some time,
a make shift band,  straggled procession
down the lane, chanting, scaring the neighbours.

it is often quiet here, though Kenny’s voice
carries.

there will be four of us, costumes and laughing,
happy knowing who we are, comfort in skin.

we used to push you in the toy pram, your legs
spilling out, our selves the show.

it is often quiet here now, you have grown, this
is not your area.

we walk your district quietly.
wait in the shelter.

I will
quite like a wild rumpus here some time.

sbm.

the barn blew down

a wild wind; a long winter



she used to hang the washing

there to dry



now it is too hot

(before lockdown)

glad to hear you got out
yesterday in the air
as did i

a spring day here too
on the top deck all the
way back from aberystwyth

i felt odd after being home
so much this winter

seems most folk were
the same and came
all chatty and neighbourly

the scone was perfect and
the baker insisted i had
extra butter
and a chat about
local, seasonal foods
and i thought of you
as my teeth slid into
yellow saltiness

the gold shop done closed
guess folk haave less money
here
now

maybe you will find a better
job, more suited to your
sensiblities

with windows
to see outdoors

glad you out to ride
your bike

light already

quiet all night, then suddenly, the quiet
voice sings. it is time to speak, to make
a mark.

to dash the pencil ******* stone, break
the lead. erase inherited memory, genes
denied.

listened, it talks quietly, listen.

cut the paper, brace the ash, rub and smudge,
think again.

think if it had been you.

yours.

sbm.

time is upon us, as he writes,

yellow dust from the fire,

the old way.

he weaves, a dance of dream,

remembering the beginning

of it all,

museum artefacts.

muse trapped ,

ash escapes his brain

into solitude.

days left,

three voices

rise, until just one

is heard.

©sbm

i have been anxious for her,
add one small boy, out
on their own. big houses
make good companions,

yet, when all are gone,
only notes remain, who
will talk to mrs ciano.

understand the anxieties.

it has been said ,

” the mind of mrs. ciano cannot be packed away,”

truth in paralells runs this way.

she does not have a label.

sbm.

(quote, note* Andrew Bellon )

yesterday was sky and small dresses,

all work, some worry due to tiredness.

yesterday the green house came, different

than expected, yet a treat none the less.

sometimes we miss the hyphen, the proper

format, we are not as expected either. yet

we does our best, sits in the suns, and plan

to hang dresses in the trees.

the sky is pinc this morning.

not a typo, pinc is welsh for pink,

as i have said before.

sbm.

a garden in regret yesterday before the mist cleared.



leeks in bundles while a lone robin sat her eggs, soft

in moss.



sun came, so we went up to see the churchyard cleared

ready.



a flower festival.



sea fret  in by six.      today the sky has lifted early.



sbm.

learned sadly that the neighbour

the other side of the village hunts with

dogs. the hounds are handsome yet he

said they stink, i wondered why he did not

bathe them

and thought that hunting innocent things should be a crime .





#microprompt

it is a different sort of tired,

hard to expain.



did i walk miles, yes.



that was invigorating. did i

clean the house, yes.



that was satisfying.



did i sit quietly thinking,

then place a few

things together. yes.



that was exhausting.



the star.



sbm.

that was satisfying.

did i sit quietly thinking,

then place a few

things together. yes.

that was exhausting.

the star.



sbm.

did i sit quietly thinking,

then place a few

things together. yes.





that was exhausting.

the star.

the movie, the film
was visually very pleasing

enjoyed the fabrics and overtones

undertones sent my mind

why the heirarchy, the differences
the unfareness of it all

she said she liked to see the men
dancing as did i, yet not the kissing

i felt it good to see him happy

the raid is a disgrace to our history

she also said it is all romanticised
not like in reality and there i agree
entirely

things move on and of course
the film is just a story for our
enjoyment

and

gave me thoughts of the past
and how things are now

the reality

i hope to see the space film
i like things like that too

there was a police chase after the bus
i was on and a person arrested

i was awhile at the police station
making a statement
getting the words write

without my birth date, gender and ethnicity

i hope things change so that kissing
is fine and dandy
to everyone

it was said that god saved them, yet
what a cost. i heard the news quite early,
it is an old radio. reeling we had tea, not
being in a place even to imagine.

most of us are speechless.then one raised
his voice

in fury.

it is unimaginable.

sbm.

the bootlace came loose.

bending to tie, see the cow

standing.



the first lane to pentre.



then

the farmer , the calf.

all greet each other

then skip on the way.



some to the field, one down the back lane,

where water flows, where wild things grow.



it feels needed while sun shines, to see

all these things.



sbm

i could write the story of my life remembering all that was,

forgetting the things i forget. i couild start at the beginning,

work through to the end when it comes. it could be that way.



may be, i have already written much of it in bits and       scraps

here and there. such is the way of it. some things come random.



not as you expected.                     i was to tell my story, you said.



i cannot be

bothered. there is no interest.



if there is, it can be googled, gathered, stitched quilt like into some



image.



i cannot remember my granpa fondly, for he was dead a while before.



you told me your tale, silked tongue, the things you wished me to know.

not

impressed.



no need to impress. cat **** leaves on skin leave black marks. remember?



recall the smell.



i could write the story of my life.



sbm.

seen in aberystwyth
lately, an other world.

away.

layers of paint,
wider crossings.

the man saw his father
in mirrors, helped
with tiny shoon,
helped with self
esteem.

it only took one
hour,
to blow
those cobwebs
away.

i met the story teller,
in the museum,
the street,
the place between.

sbm.

yes the mass cloud of folk
their traditions and rules
invented and not mine either

and i may suspect
not yours

i said yesterday that if some folk
went quiet and listened like you
do

they may learn the understanding

like you have

she said very forthright and challenging
things that
she believed

and my drawing changed
then as i moved forward

reverted back to type

what a phenomena

hoping that all is well with
you with signs of spring
showing

like the table, want the table?



yet we can make do with the other one

without asking

if we  ask there may be no answer

or another answer than the one

we hoped for



so do not ask about the table

use the other one……



nicely

is crosses. we used to think xisses.

stab the needle .                  threaded.



stitch the cross, tie at the back three

times.                                                 cut.



start again.                 cover the surface.



it takes time and patience to be  brave;

to face the consequences, to be         so

bold.



the calculations are seven.   full days of

stitching.



xisses.                                                 crosses.



sbm.

i may understand
yet
it is family
making memory
especially
the tent idea

this weather

the air the feeling
of being outside

a taste of freedom
with slight discomfort

yesterday i lunched out
tempura
and thought of you

your painting

today i paint
in my bala studio
put the collage together
i left it stewing nearly
a week ago

it has been an odd
sturdy time

with repairs and humbling
citcumstances

the recovery engineer came grumpy
to change my wheel so i talked to the recycling
man instead

he deals with electrical goods waste

enjoy the family
i have three cats too
mostly outdoorsy

Sonja
6.26
quiet
no sounds next door
yet
his car is there
i can see it if i lean out the window
he is a farmer

that feeling, that . arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings, opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling. track four repeated. that comes on waking finding   peace and comfort bound.



it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work



reading how the body works, you will have a better understanding, yet they do not        teach of this

at school. they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts, i did not know microbes fancy food,          move our choices.



the play continues, some of the old cast, new actors oblige, ideas on lack of addictive ways. simple days without receptors. singing under breath, numbers.



have you been to the counting?





lines ruled to stop

vertigo setting in.

two

three

four

five

two

three

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work.



sbm.

are broken

one way & another

i have tried to mend them

it has proved difficult

on my own



needing help



some are lost

i cannot find them

on my own



can do with help



here

what is she sewing
downstairs while
you are watching the snow

i like the sound of a sewing machine
i miss it here and will miss it also

where she steadily works
i hear she has a new job
and is leaving the
workshop

as am i

we work together
those that sew
though
we do not always converge

it is a curious thread that
hold us together
while apart

refer to wiki, copy, paste and arrange, so the pattern becomes a shape

words change, become rearranged



contains a root and a suffix. that suffix has undergone numerous changes, for people try to identify it with some word that could make sense to them. what remains unclear is not this process but the semantic leap.

we are missing the moment at which the threshing floor, however primitive,

began to denote the entrance to the room.

or the beginning of another world, another

phase in life

while

board marks the holding place

stopping the grain spilling outside



floors came slightly sloped to stop

the water piling, to keep the seed

dry



for seed it is and healthy

unless dampened



note the firstborn here

who tasted before

and died



so we move forward

colder now the door is closed

a while



he said he was amused, and she

explained that he probably meant

bemused



to remember this so not to offend



words change; meanings lost until

we look again



research.



the doorway

seven minutes past six,
should it have passed,
the back bedroom?

sometimes it is earlier,
or later than this.

classic fm.

nine minutes past six,
their number is six,
eighteen twelve, for
those up early, need
a mention.

the piano plays.

sbm.

it is that time of year,

it comes and goes

in waves they say.


unannounced, this is the memory,

physical and mental,

if that word is 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.


sbm.

. the timetable .
Posted on February 19, 2015

is on the front bedroom wall,
a reminder of other days, and latin.

homework, was a separate issue.

seems we will return, see those places.

she says it is all changed, so have
i . seems like another life, as i
stand back.

we shall go to the museum.

sbm.

i am warm
i am fortunate

someone came last evening
rang the door bell

the battery is going & it
whined

the doors were shut as were
the curtains

i hid
it was after the cut off
time

this time is mine

so today we have the solstice
we look back, we look forward

we think of all the work they have done
all they have achieved this year and am
proud of them

really

i feel my life is a dawdle
no fingers to the bone
no more

she asked where it all came from.

i do not know
i replied

yet i saw the trees brought inside as natural
and i wondered

glass



is simply.



beautiful.



yet as all things,

some may not understand,

the underwear.



sbm.

the verdict was guilty
i came home feeling
so
that we fail folk

that we need to think deeper
other than we always have

she said it has always been done like that
even though that is not the way folk speak
now

even though it is just a book edited and words
deleted

we drank coffee and talked some and then
went home

we were thanked

we were not required

the bed is made, the linen clean.

bear sleeps.



yet it is not forgotten, that some

said because thier friends did.



that some lied and are deceitful.



the laundry man will come,

yet it is not forgotten.



this is history.



meanwhile

the #bear sleeps again.



sbm.

ancient place,  much posting,  signs

for care, letters of fortitude and sadness.



face to the wall.



chair to the wall, sit slightly unbalanced

read, the language,  sentences there.



this one wrote it. wilfred owen.



oswestry heritage.



sbm.

a slight noise, you look up as it leans toward you,

is the floor falling?



will it crash, leave you laying there surrounded?



the books are heavy.



push it back, yet it will not stay, comes out again.



calmy hold it with one hand, remove all the objects with another,

yes all of them , avoiding disaster.



you can place them around about without letting go.



it seems a similar thing happened further north.



sbm.

cold on the beach, sharp winds,
no ferry in yet.

to set the valley,
low between hills,
and blossom.

the sun shone
deep upon us,
drifting conversation,
and we warmed.

we warmed with rabbits,
new butterflies
drying wings,
softly unfolded.

this is the green valley,
where pain recedes
with the importance
of nothing at all.

sbm.

it seem there is a gardener in that village,

that will not prune, will cut every shrub

the same.



shape.



if a walk takes you slowly round.



the village.



you may see every place

he works.



someone said you need

a day out to find some

inspiration.



for verse.



sbm.

a quiet day, coffee in the square,

some light shopping, a nap.

the evening at the cinema.

it was a french film.

sbm.

there is no one about down the back road

just two squirrels.



i wander up the ***** to the studio

to see if she is in.



she had issued one invitation only.  a quaint
old fashioned idea,       that we may be friends

please come ,take a drink,              talk with me

maybe                                               walk with me

let us get to know each other                   gently

do not over stay the welcome   50 minutes will suffice

breaking cups    spilling tea will abuse the hospitality

please come. i have the kettle on.    this is not the time

for hostility



she knows this is a corpse road, an old             deathway

bridle path up to the church

where  the monks walked from the abbey where

dead were brought for burial, pagan before the now

where candles burned



an old place she thought





background noises interrupt the walking tread

she turns to look back at the outline of trees

the scene beyond



hengwrt. smoke rising

smells  of warm wax



by the door



she catches her reflection in the glass

wonders who it is.   lost in  mind

forgets that she exists

a sense of unreality





the door  slightly open

she pushes it and waits



does not call out or knock

it does not some as natural



enters



her host is not at home yet

she looks about

blinks noting all the objects

are hers



she is the visitor, she is the host

she is two

become one again





inside outside in





she thought

there was no one about down the back road

just two squirrels.



my sister

days off are delightful
yours make good reading

i went on a visit
which fed me with delight
and home made
soup

then sadness for he is ill

a particular being
as are most of us
here

the cracked mirror
the wooden box tied with string

full of wood shavings, beautiful
to view another day
if i return
if i return

the cloth by the fire
three radios
each tuned different

splendid cows in the front fields
all clean and brushed

the rusted hook gathered
from the garden still good enough
to use

i walked through town
wet on the way up
dry coming back
hours later

yes i fail in that i see/experience
many things that may be left

aside

he said that maybe there is something
after all, that we are not to know of it ever

obviously as we do not know
and cannot know everything

there is a house below dark
yet somehow welcoming

i tried not to stare in

i like the feel of the town
slate town, blaenau ffestiniog

i woke later today
and that is alright

i shall record the addresses
and make a clean bed and studio later

for now

7.29 am
with tea, coffee in an hour
head full of thoughts and ideas
with no pattern or rhyme
with that underlying
sadness