maybe is the colours, red and white,
that appeal, the patterns, or the
retro items in the cupboard. he

gasped, and proclaimed the beauty
as the door was opened. so
yesterday, all was tidied, categorised,
more paper laid, for his, and my
delight.

he is home from holday.

men will sing with three voices,
and dance in their suits,
and i will be headlost, and dizzy.

leaving the coat
to bathe in pools
of light, under green,
dripping back into
the coat , red coat.

** notes from the red coat, a prediction.

some of the people
have double numbers,
speak in two tongues,
sing with three voices.

all being equal, the song
is sung in whatever
language, or creed.

indeed, we often say
the name of those, so
seeming to become
boring,

we carry on, we carry on.

plan visits to new places,
the sky is dark this morning.

i may like to have an exhibition,

of my small and useless things,

i make, which utterley

have no importance whatsoever.



probably a complete

waste of time,

in some minds, however

i should like to

arrange them

in some small room,

with dust

and motes that fly

in the sun’s beams.



you could scratchit there.

they say that manners maketh man,

yet boys in pyjamas

use them to be polite , asking for quality

behaviour. smiling slightly

converse in lowered tones.



nijinski.

she goes up early these days,

as if she is involved.

jumping the stairs

and laying head down,

eyes swimming,

brown.


does she know,

does she miss him too,

is that why.

she goes up early,

before me,

and i visit.


until thinking of her there,

i join her

my head down,

eyes

brown

too,

brown eyes too

and glory here, though
not a good way to start
a sentence. they say there
is a frost today, though i
cannot see it yet.

i could not see the signs
until standing back, the
pattern formed. it is

the first movement
of winter, though
not officially, yet.

i saw the wooden boulder again
yesterday. it has not moved,

yet.

all are talking of numbers
constantly. three years that, 5 tears this,
no music plays on this computer now.

it plays in rooms, where darkness lingers,
where cloths are folded neatly, ready
to store, to air , mend, abide until required.

each day has a number, each a task.
i have drawn seven chairs, need to
do thirty three more,. this is a project.

thirteen, fourteen, fifteen

while taking coffee
in a particular place
******* on chocolate torte
slightly melted,
the lord of the manor,
reading.

grew a headache
from the stuff, too much
sweet , too much
information, all too true
to pattern.

so we drove home, and
got on with it.

nissan huts.

when the first line is the title,
when the content is unknown
morning in darkness as if the
sun can’t rise again.

the bulb popped and now we
have a lower light. we have an
understanding, we asked for
explaination. it came via another
route.

i live by the A470.

with reason, the thing was googled
yesterday,
now there is an understanding.
the code, the season of it all.

it fits, the picture is made, the
pieces may be in place.
left on the tray,
photographed for all to see,
labelled, quarrelled intensely.

maybe, quietly, put back,
in the box.

the hill is a mountain, this time.

crimea pass,the road to llanrwst.

as we drove, i thought, i would
be happy if i lived in such a place.

i do, and so i am.

knew he was coming near. said hello.

we stood together quiet, he turned.

i went to the bridge as always,
down along the river
bank
and back.

he had waited at the gate.
i looked at his legs so long,
held her up to see.

they seemed to like each other too.

we all stood quietly together.

up the road the bus burned black.

a leaf fell, i thought of you.

i did not phone.



requiem.

do you remember
the pause
between words?

do they remember
the place on spine
where water dropped.

bone.

being early, we can write a while,
unstressed by the ticking of the
clock, keeping words in order
in lines, of no principle. all the

photos were hazy, must have
been the walking, smartly
before the opening time,
the lay line, arthur’s stone.

is at the mill.

they forecast it,
we do not listen any more,
just check the window.

the radio is old, retro,
gift for a birthday,
arrived late we did not say,
not
wishing to upset.

headlights flash, sheep
on the road,
the pheasant run, a pleasant
run, minding squirrels, other odd
furry things on the road.

hurt no living thing.

it rained all day, new
dress on the line, still wet.

google brings strange memories.

my friends talk of the coat hanger
effect. hanging our wares on each others’
shoulders, bearing us all down with the weight.

share it out they say, with friends and family,
loose and flowing, mind your engine does
not pink, we must have finer fuel. not feeling

our true self can be an infliction, the grave digger
reminds us of our years, our sense of humour.

we stare at icons, hope for a better price,
i went to the market yesterday.



notes ** maybe place in cupboards,
boxes, close the door, the lid,
carry on, carry.

are suggested quickly, no time taken to

utter the words. yet. it will take a while

to order, to plant, it will all be lovely,

unless bitter words entice despondency,

low spirits from a loss of hope, of courage.



we shall carry on until the paint runs out,

then we shall clean the old rugs., order two hundred

bluebells.



he often has good ideas.

cut deep,   while others are sleeping.

we tread the way, from here to there,

leaving a trail.             you may follow.

cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.

step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,

cookers. step that way

plum blossom.

nothing is straight, nothing planned.

later we watched chelsea .

the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with

premium  acrylic.

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

your birthday at the zoo.
while
we were at the national
library of wales, aberystwyth.

high ceilings, automatic doors.
trod carefully the red carpet,
saw the landscapes quiety.

film maker in residence.

webmakers in conference.

tape tied book, reminds
me, silent face a memory.

i will return to the
national library of wales,
aberystwyth.

no photos allowed.

met a friend for lunch and tea?

done the wrapping, sticking
and packing, most work has gone,
some has been hung, so i am left
with paper and bits below, new work
coming in.

the bottles are up for sale, and
am drawing an erasure with all
my might.

have you seen my writing site?

yes, we had kippers on toast, tasty.

autumn apples, gone from
the tree, a few this year.

coxes then , singly in the florist,
basketed among the flowers.

lunch at 20p, rattle the pips
to make sure. slice neatly white,while
watching the wind strip the leaves.

this is an autumn apple. break time
in the staff room. only the pips are left.
to grow again.

there have been and are more,
waiting. we wish for less, yet
they will come all our lives.

so many together, not such
a good idea. asked and recieved.

the festival continued, we miss
the procession, kept on time.

the circle turns.



caladrius

through blaenau, orange now,
bracken competing with slate,
winning a while, as leaves
fall.

to conwy, the road
rising above the flow,
one tree remembered.

two calves run down
to the others. on arrival

admire the quality of
bunting hung here, cotton,
with spots. there is a festival.

we had a meeting.
nine circles.

300.

he says vehicle
where others say car,
he avoids the
paparazzi, he
likes the same
twigs.

titanic.

used to be in wales, now all shropshire,
borders. a small town with plenty to do.

qubed gallery quoted poetry, refinely
drawn. one man left standing, my face
collected.

salt in abundance, ready for the pigs
head, he really was making brawn,
ear stuck from the saucepan, with
plans for brains on toast for tea.

i lost earth and heaven,
read greengage summer instead.

rummer godden.

it is a simple thing,
to think sideways,
practice makes a hindrance
when others think straight.

we gets in all sorts of
troubles,
strange situations.

should we explain,
to make it right?
can just makes it worse,
so we measure things,
and carry on.

right sided?

in some houses no one,
presses, steams and irons,
clothes, the inevitable linen,
no more.

busy days we are pressing words,
hanging out for all to see,
to disagree.

a private place, a box, there
are some you will never see.

secrets.

they have gone now, we rise, heavy.
air comes clean and you accompany me.
it is a pretty place, with rain we become wet…

reluctantly he handed over the key,
sensibly you  took it.


shrapnel, forged from memory.

so face me, hands in pockets,,

say it is not so,
when you know that it is.

when was I anything,
when was I brave.

we are all mostly frightened,

all much the same.

tells me how many,

not that i care. i just



chats on regardless.



i just likes doing the work,

and writing the things

i think.



the visitor thought

my house must be like my brain.



i wonders what she means.

so i did what he says,

whilst running up

and down the stairs.



source to av,

only there aint no av,

not

on that one anyhow.



press my scart lead,

that is probably it.



press the sky button,

the sky does not respond.



we still has televison snow.



he will come out on friday.

we sit quietly here, fretting

over nothing in particular.



some bemoan their lot,

others get on with it willingly.



stop and have a cup of tea.



while others walk in #ice and mud,

while others #drown,

while others #starve.



without a #cup of tea.

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.

so we placed the work on censorship.



little boats,  welsh not, #bandaged

books and what nots.



they had been there

some time, yet were not noticed

i guess.



it may have been nose bleed that done

it. she censored it all, shoved in

a drawer, even the refugees

crossing.



i go to the ship now, and

i hear she threw the jazz band out



too.

partially due to the weather,

state of the roads.



these are not just closed

due to snow, some

as cars slide, cause a commotion.



it is a steep hill, the crimea,

some call it a mountain



steeped in history.



plans change, while

the bus windows remain *****.

shelter here under this door?



no i do not mind the rain,

though it is all mud over there,

and may slide.





where do you walk?



to the end, and back again.



thank you.

there is nothing quite like changing stuff,

you see he always came on tuesday, but then

we started writing that day, so he will come

on thursday each month.

to help me.

it was a mucky day, cold with driving rain, he did

what he could until we both hid in the kitchen,

eating cake, and mending plates.

there are unusual things here.



not really, it is just how you

see them, i think you have

nice things. antiquities, yet



you are used to seeing those

daily.



i like the way you finger them,

play, they will turn up another

day.



you see.



the lead soldiers are still standing,

lined up on the back of the

monopoly board.



the front small bedroom.

the importance of a partner/no partner.



answer me ?



when all around is singing,

why silence this?



the importance of anything

is relative, do not place

a value on something

that is not important.



ðɛːˈbʌɪ/ unimportant.



broaden the world.

a need to wipe it away.



a tear, a memory pinned,



until we repeat the instruction

to erase, replace, white wash.





the window smeared, is clean

again. with soap and sanctity



washed, aired, ready



for another day.

we lerned how to play,
one letter at a time or
they gets stuck.

badly.

he said the flames

came over the trees.



behind the buildings.

bombed the buildings.



so do not wonder why

i don’t play soldiers,

lay them down to die.



he says that i will not battle,

i am no good at it.

too peaceful. i can play

hospitals.

winding we hurry

to reach the top

climbing to a



safe place with hope



often the stars  are reflected below

we are artists without borders, we give and share,

not expecting anything.



in return we are part of it all, and pleasantly

accepted without judgement.



the journey is endless to join as desired.



i am a curator, a book about death in wales,

loosely bound, conceived by another



in memory.



ray johnson.



fluxus.

wish i wrote like you guys, wish it were more direct.



it has been noted as abstract, yet i cannot see that.



he wanted a garden, this one. we  looked

at other houses, he wanted this one.



with

a garden as seed for the future.



when he died i let it grow and hid here. now

i tidy , grow seeds for the future.

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