is it enough that we do not write each day, that we travel on the old train sometimes.



is it acceptable to think in phrases, believe the attrocities yet do not share them

with friends.



what would they think of our diet and strange sleeping habits, we shall not tell them,

anymore.



is it a crime that we have spelled it wrong, and not go to heaven, which is okay

as our heaven is here, on earth.



the phone at the hotel was busy, and they have not rung me back.



yet.



sbm.

work is steady, absorbsion
as if the outside world
is ended. looking up
find it has not.

stamped a hundred times
in rhythm,
war of the worlds.

a call, a message.

i was not excited.

it is forever autumn.

sbm.

a tragic happening when

history and the day collide

each taking care of their own

as we should

darker hours are comfy now

still

the mind wanders

the third tree in the lane is bare

now

leaves scattered

while at the gate the pheasants

flew up whirring

i stood steady in wonder

watched the dark bleed

across the sky

watch birds scatter from the yew

note the fallen fruits

chilly yet i found

three logs warm the room

nicely

and lasts long enough

i hope your sister is well

i planted seeds

of honesty

some of them grew

it is said i write abstract, in time to save

your feelings. you asked me to explain,

i did so lightly. the other said no one else

dare ask.



i tell you it is a full and complicated story

that may upset.





i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,

metaphor and symbol.



was loathe to read it for i may cry.

you wish a pretty picture yet i cannot

make it.



i thank you for asking, where others

do not read.



the writing circled

sbm.

is best to
be gentle
with those
and all
other things….

sbm.

try not to ignore.

you have been right

so many times before.



sbm.



{talking to the bear}



daily post – qualm



#itrhymes!

#pufferfish

#warhat

6.23
yes it was bournemouth

another place
another life

i loved julian st pierre
it was difficult those days

we thought

not knowing
the future

now the forests burn

i go early to montgomery
a free ride

home tomorrow
being bank holiday, i hide

notice the gorse growing,

the quarry redundant, is all

zip wires and bounce below.

i have a new photograph,

you look very sweet and handsome.

you were not at home,

so i chatted to your mother.

used to vist that quarry

you and I to watch the train.

tourists come.

45337

sbm.

your astonishing reply
thank you

the day started with the usual anxiety
research, planning for all events when
in the end none of that occurred.

usual.

the day came saddened with news
that folk are struggling one way and
another
worried about heating. we talked
as you and i do about fuel and the
benefits of brands and differing shapes

i had a late fire after work and sat right
in front watching the flames,eating grape
nuts in thin milk. i need to go shopping

tv came sadly with a documentary
people losing their homes so i took
my depleted anxiety to bed with

a talking book. the weaver of raveloe

i cannot ever get to the end for sleep
comes over me

each time it plays i only gets to the
casting of lots

there is tired for you
there is a bedtime
story syndrome.

your lovely reply
good that you broke the dread
or solitude could have placed
her
sadly

good that you have company
make company in linen piles

sheets

laundry full with
no respite
yet

though promised faithfully
by others, those that wish
you to work, to keep working
for them

enjoy your three days
i hope that off you go
bike riding

i am comfortable back home
interesting times

with a note that i shall
be unavailable a while
exploring
seeing
extinction rebellion
despite all claims
and opinions

i saw joker
i found the threads

it is still dark

one dot.

not two?



you say such nice things sir, while you are one in many,

many

disagree.



some struggle with the work each day, yet carry on, what

else can be done?



working in the field is good & honest.



quiet day with bread, purposeful baking, folding and pleating.

tomorrow is the run of the mill type daily.



as before, this is no metaphor.



where is the self worth sir, when we look full long in the mirror, see

darkly the things of youth, darkly those ideas & happenings not

written of here.



no guardian review.

it has not been the

experience we hoped for. we shall wear pyjamas. the book remains

tied.



sbm.

the garden smells of incense.



do you remember when i was young?

none of you knew me then, remember

that i never was.



young.



sbm.

you may think that when you search the words

you may find fruit, the type that drips on eating,

mostly down your tee shirt or other      garment.



here we gets hip hop and pop art which is cool,

yet not as refreshing as strawberries, raspberry

and lime. some time we needs a damp flannel.



randomly i see that the little      iron has been

replaced in monopoly. glad i already have one.



somewhere.

sbm.



daily post – juicy

itch                                                          a little word.           onward.



he said it itched for three years, so long                                 that

when it stopped he missed its presence.                    such a little

word.



cut your nails, do not scratch

do not tell anyone.      do not

post on facebbook, like       or

share.



try the remedies, research the dates and                      nourishment.



do not scratch

do not      tell

anyone.



when it stops                                                                 you may miss it.



itch





zzzt.



zzzt.



sbm.