having googled it says one may lose a pound,

not in old money, in lbs, you may have heard of them?

young folk.

was printed in the back of exercise books along

with furlongs , rods and perches.



i tell you this you will gain

an insight for natural things,

and sleep intensely well.



sbm.

down the back lane there are puddles,

huge amounts of water fell, flooded the abbey ruins.



branches blown , creaking twigs while rain

stays off a while. she is a new walking partner,

quite fast, no bother.



minds empty ,we look at each other,

at sheep a while, still moving forward.



there are some now, that do not come.



this is the back lane, still

much the same.



sbm.

to walk across the shingle bank

at low tide is possible



watch them



the current is strong

screaming at the cold



#soverycold.

near the private bits



the young go first breaking the air with hints

and sharper cracks  urging  brothers         on



elders have sticks, hold hands, help

each other



cross safely



their dogs leap over with only the sound of water



at low tide only

newport sands

4

seems there is now a new scenario
to ponder yet not

for the decision was made
doubted by the other brain
though not to be changed

we wonder how it will map
out

we have wondered before
when waking to a misted world

missed the view

knowing the mountains are there
no longer visible

at the water colour class he explained
the phenomena with colours and depth

while i felt sleepy

prefering the door open
less rules more action

interaction with intuition

i met him at the gallery
all very posh
he wanted to be friends so

i went to meet him elsewhere
and he walked straight past me

then texted to say he could not
find me

talk about chucking it down,

we wondered what the noise

was.

heard gwil running in , no time

to stop for logs. the cat came

streaming.

rushed to the window, to take

photographs.

talk about chucking it down.

sbm.

there are a few, those who should tidy,

those who pump and clear, those who

investigate.

water beetles float their legs, paddle

the river, dimpling surface. hang on

the bridge , warming back and watch.

water men wear high visibility, while

the beetle shines black.

lately we have cut the paths

and planted bluebells.

sbm.

skid the surface,  another beetle, lives in water,         floats the tides.

dimple miniscus and glide.        she leans the bridge, watches    you.

shine under sun,         play your tune.

he told me there are more beetles in the world than                anything.

how nice if this were true.

sbm.

on top there was snow here early

then the sun came

&

we have a golden day

erasing any white


therefore

elsewhere there were floods

boys rode through on bikes

and i think of you

the bravery


who knows what lies underneath

here the land goes up and down

water drains

into rivers

lakes

&

cellars


soon is gone

with the morning

so much recovered

we carry on

we have learned many ways

that may be the thing to do

& i too

may need to get over it

we are friends , we met in the lane.

the words sound like poetry, the quiet
voice sounds shouting in this silence.

it can make windows and opportunities,
space to accompany the music.

travel far and in between, play the right notes,
write notes, and then maybe, all will come

clear. or not.

i need that stop.

sbm.

seems there was a power cut
in the night
the microwave clock flashing

nought nought

a sure sign that something
has occured

i will know more when i investigate
the cat bowl left outdoors for darling

the feral

note the level of rain
water

before he comes for food

so i fixed it while the kettle
boiled guessing the exact time
so it will be wrong and shall

have to be adjusted later

knows the wind will change,

the birds will fly.

while i know nothing.

sbm.

no fabric left, well
just a tad, not as much as
expected, hoped.

no garments found,
weave named after
the area. in town

made flannel for shirt
underthrift for jacket.

oh how we love a long coat
all sunday best on monday.

with what we have we may
make place mats, or send them
to the other mill, still noisy.

dust in air.

dust in air.

sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

we had 3d each,old money
for sweets from the cafe.

it was not a cafe any
more, a corner shop,
not on the corner, which
makes me wonder why so many
were on said corner?

i liked ross’s
puff candy, left
by the fire to go
sticky. palm toffee
and crisps.

yet the latter were 3d
a bag, a waste of money mum said,
just potato, so they were banned.

my brother was older, working
bought them for me in secret.

these days i like liquorice,a lot.

sbm.

some things need not be saved,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.

others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.

some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.

the photograph.

this does not mean
i love you.

sbm.

some things need not be kept,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.

others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.

some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.

the photograph.

this does not mean
i love you.

sbm.

so she has suggested that  this god may be a girl, and / or  somewhat feminine.

last week I said that gender is over rated and that I do not believe such things.

we talked of the random nature of everything, and while in agreement there

are still issues between us.

I shall say that if there is a god, who is gender based, may she be kinder than

if there is one now,                                                                                                 is.

and learn better grammar than me, and forget the punctuation.

sbm.

drawing on experience.

with friends, with food.

drawing on paper.

we worked together, he drew,
i messed it up.

it is friendship.

sbm.

hobby?

it is not a hobby hobby hobby….





work & life

seamlessly

joins





spare time debated

devastated.



welded

riveted

metal bolts that hold the days together

iron lung to help breath to keep order

smelted

poured

molded





it goes deeper than he thinks

one word cannot erase that

neither can the clock



it is put into categories

it was well said.

tired of all the rags and critisms?

listen to the artist, talk of
cumbria and cul de sacs.

listen to another, who follow stars,
cellular memory.

i have been a while here, now.
it may be time to leave, and find
the other way.

sbm.

spoke to me in welsh,
i answered him in english,
gave him 10p change
eventually.

taught me to say,
four pound fifty, so
we shook hands.
i showed him my accent.

laughing, told me to
go to the devil, while
i blessed him in his
native tongue.

from Mostyn, been
to a funeral.

sbm.

. welsh blood.
:: not ::
Working with found images, the work has been investigating restrictions made on women now and in history. Language, behaviour, physical appearance is focussed.

Work entails museum visits, research, writing and producing imagery, refined into a personal statement on my findings.
Found objects, manipulated, covered, layered, the issues not hidden.

as i passed i saw the room,  coal on your table,

spread neatly. wondering i glanced around,

saw the snowy  underwear on hangers,

the chandeliers.



it all showed pride and i know

you have seen it too. raddled

face in mirrors, knowing that we

are all much the same, without

meetings and disagreements.



so,

must we write about it before we forget,

before  people come and disagree?



they have small waists and a  national costume.



sbm.

we talked of chickens, the coops, the wire,

he

brought me a specimen of lime mortar, held

with horse hair from the old wall.             we

placed it, discussed lime,             the burning,

and carried on.

made a pointy thing,                  will burn our

irons in the fire.

day of industry, company,                 winds

bent the rest of us, so we

followed the road to find

hedd wynn.

the light is coming through.

sbm.

more than that with promises

that faded into silence.


i woke this morning the same,

a taste of autumn,

mists and biblical sheep

resting.


a new grave here,

a new grave near,

while all is growing,

there.


a cloud  hangs in the valley

sbm.

again, and weaving.



we listen to the coventry carole,

the little tiny child, fingers tapping

in time, the medieval, the membrance

of cathedral . walking up hill chanting.

repeatedly. they moved the stairs.



we hold the cotton, the wool

for comfort.



sbm.

the title got me thinking



we had comics on tuesdays and thursdays

from the middle shop up the hill



sometimes there was a whale

in the story with a picture



round grey with a fountain in it’s head

it’s tail akimbo                                   later



i learned that they don’t look like that

really   .



he said



real stars do not have points  .



i guess i shall never see a whale

though some bones are over the door

in mallwyd church porch



up the road

i like your landscape
your scenery different
from here, yet we have
queen anne's lace too
yesterday we swept along the new bypass
yet the flowers were gone over though
else where is all rowan berries and rosebay
willow herb

such a day
freedom from driving
mapping the land
pausing in montgomery
go google

the next destination

your road is straight
as was ours
roman up to the castle

today is quiet work
again to see what comes

6.21
have you heard about the dam
at whaley bridge?

news on the radio
i have to be careful
how i spell things

wind blows round our houses,
here.
wide walls hold  back, draughts
fan the fire. clean welcome air.

wind blows the sea into town, blows
the bodies. it is a very sad

affair.

small town, wind blows round.

the birds sang earlier this morning.

sbm,

stand back to spite the craving,

look on as from afar.



people, some write hymns & mantra

others watch tv, not the news.



oh no not the news, the truth is too

depressing, a bit near the mark.



good to live gentle, bites of  reality

to flavour your safeness



with gratitude. the bakers has

closed as has the dress shop.



a side table will be convenient.



while children are in hell , Aleppo.





sbm.

while i was gardening this morning,

the voice in my head said ‘ten years

ago, you had just died’.



the other voice replied,

‘ and you are still alive..’



sbm.

i dream i dream of

white feathers dipped in blood





****** mess  wars

bodies rotting  there    /          there

are   thoughts

a quiet thing



the blood

comes small in useful            drops

drops down      meditative sound



white feathers fall



i think you find, madam it is #reality  / reports that they shouted coward.



jack o’lantern



there will be no

further surgery

too large, fit for the rabbit,

slipping silk, no hand to hold,

while waving slide off.





you think they will have thought of pins

just now.

all that tapping,

makes a soul happy.



benefits are few these days,

make the most of those

that live in huts.



believe  that the earth loves us.

©sbm

he felt uncomfortable in his tidy pink jacket

too hot for the day



he always felt uncomfortable

anxious about doing, wearing

the right thing



he pushed his glasses into a better

position; they had steamed

his shadow long in the lowering sun



though he had the beautiful invitation

had accepted, packed & travelled to his



friend’s place



he felt awkward



brown leather shoes  worn with socks

& regret; his slacks  high, neat at the



waist





he had always fretted over  appearance

what to pack, how to prepare



hours staring the mirror considering his

shape. sticky taping every hair, each dust

mote

from the fabrics

the obsession



he counted the trees, moved to the water

to hail his friend



stood dizzy poolside

his friend was only wearing white pants



he died inside

&



as ever felt uncomforable



( thank to d.hockney – the inspiration, the picture)

the phone rings

an empty room, back room



quarry tiled

dust settles on



stained

bakelite , cream, twisted wire



bell sound

bell sound



wind blows around the houses

leaves fly ; a mass extinction



red tiles, bell sound

dust settles

dust motes



phone rings ; bell sound



no one answers

no one is left



who rang?

simple. yet the question

still asked so many times.



seeps under the door, through

the curtains, metaphorically. here

comes the spelling challenge,

the life of days.



here comes the wondering,

the question asked, ‘ why me’.



the reply comes. ‘why not?’,

and why  all this

punctuation.?



sbm.

have searched the archives lately.

find he knows stuff, facts, and        figures while i am astounded .              the sun  comes out by the  drawers.        open they show me birds and insects          did you know they cross their fragile legs      and tie with cotton threads.

school parties, crocodile rows.       she said there was an accident waiting to happen on the stairs,   while others marched shouting, little roman soldiers.            i hid in the auditorium and checked the spelling.

the title, not of my writing.   the larger picture , detailed me into submission.       revisited.

music

blesses  without recording.                               we have the radio.                           this  museum here.

the name will be the title, length an object. all else is waxed and tied as usual,      making it   unusual. when i explained, she asked why will you do that?                 because of the chained library here.

i found perfumed , decked with statues and sympathetic leaflets to no avail.            i saw the people here.   studio, still, paintings.   i saw the artist there.                        the museum, past locked behind glass, and computerised screens, swimming

she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like your museum with pins and labels. i am pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a    new ribbon.

we work towards a new installation, whilst remembering all that there is

in the museum.

sbm.

you have been away for ages

said the bear, with no speech marks.



yes, two weeks. remember you use

italics.



i spoke to you each day.



how come when you left me at home?



your voice is in my head,



see.



yes



sbm.

it is not my village

i have lost that one



it grew

too big



that is carelessness



rooms full of plastic now

instead of hard wood



ocean wave



carelessness



i try to be anonymous

but am found out



how careless



they ask



‘did she lose her husband?’

8.07 am
using mobile phone
different rhythm
predicted makes
capitals

james

with all that has occurred
recently
the changes and challenges

perhaps we have a right
to feel tired

perhaps unknowingly
we are also holding fright

even the soldiers here

my quiet friends felt shaky

weary while getting back to

somethings

it is nice here in the garden
a haven for all things wild

wild things

today I have an appointment
with the bike shop in town

fearing the worst

it may be beyond repair

i too come older than I have
ever been

photograph           the trees.  notice   the wild     wood

early               while  walking,   imagine it               may

be mine.    to care for , to let be.                       it could.

it is for                 sale.   new   sign  on the gate,  today

the charcoal burner .                       he is a woods man

smoke rises grey.  price is mentioned .           plenty.

I think on his words, the idea, owning              land,

crashing back into the wild wood.                   empty

headed.  it is good to be quiet,                            alone

away from their thickening  throng ,          the dread .

soft voices.   smoke rises slow,   ashes.      old bone.

dust and dust , by dust  we bury the                      dead.

he will split the wood.           they may come and buy,

yet in my head the wild wood                    will be mine.

sbm.

i wonder if you are known as bill like he was.



you talked about your creator and bill was mine,

& my mum.



i have talked about them before.



i feel that nature was mainly mine, not love nor purpose

as far as i can tell.



you said i listened and so i did, about life and war , power and politics

and i was sad.



sad when you mentioned the first  and then the second war. cried inside

when you talked about the ****** bombs on japan.



you suggested our histories william, while i was listening  and  you shook my hand

on the width of the old stones walls.



where i live.



i understand your faith  by bike abroad, and when asked if i believe

in our ressurection and the life to come,

i said no.



i read the bible. past tense.





little folk you said you like, i ask if you mean faeries and find you spoke of the ordinary

as do i.





i knew things would work out while i waited for the bus.



later that day i studied the timetables.

will you watch the world             treading.



water floats my heart high, reflected red

below,                                              sky above.





will you hold me up when i am failing,  no

longer floating   .   will you play soft music

say



that we are in this together.meanwhile shall

we keep swimming



together?



sbm.

low

light darkens as the wind blows down our homes

here

power houses fail

decommissioned

light fails

wind blows……

men in the village,

are older now.

the moth returns.

sbm.

we have been to montgomery
again. it is a pretty place, bunting
across the square, so by the open
window, with fresh scones, we talked,
listened to the quiet. narrow walls,
bricked faces. there is a church
of course for leaving useless requests
and confirming friends. it may
be that i have no photograph.

yet will add a photograph.

sbm.