fortunate to live in this place where no bombs will take us.

"Is art a box that you climb into?”

“Well, yes, I guess it is. I never thought of it like that”

“Are you compartmentalizing?”

like in a circus those days
now there are no animals
mainly clever folk being smart
or funny

find pieces of jigsaw
everywhere here,
and they
don’t fit
together.

if i try
they make
the wrong picture

quiet slow and uneventful
it left lasting impressions
a simple drawing out

some doubt climate change
despite the science
she says we shall have sunny spells

that crayon is broke
beyond all hope
….

looking up
see rainbows

the small plane still flies over
most days

who knows what lies underneath
here the land goes up and down
water drains
into rivers

yes i am inclined to agree; it will be an uphill journey
for us both.
to learn, to grow

we shall have more drawings
i can see the marks & lines
pushing through
despite the weather

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

minimal
on the same paper
as before
i understand

do not know everything
only my version

a fraction of the whole
blue sky thinking
here

now i remember that you saw the night
properly
while here we wondered, got lost in our
head
looked up and found the morning had
come pink again
scattered light in particular places
the other in shade

the clouds hang heavy

the mass, the clouds lay heavy, rain that came, that blinded again. blinded those that could not see the love and idle artefacts, each one a statement of nothing in particular.

some make mistakes
i do and avoid the capitals

main thing is to weather the storms
and visit daily
i too lean slightly

tell you it is a full and complicated story
that may upset.
i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,
metaphor and symbol.

the pattern remains the same,
the sentences longer. this is not an issue, and is
accepted gratefully.

they say that the latter will bring immense relief,
to try it consciously.

darkness descends
with out the need for words. pray for
forgiveness if you are so inclined.

island monkeys could not
go abroad
no boat
no plane no nothing
sadly they read books on other countries
with adventures, himalayas & ranuph fiennes

no words to describe the mass,
the danger of it all, the hate  that
rises.
the parallel,

power house.
bone house.

high, mountain track,
scattered trees, country
road.
spend the day , waterlogged
moor, black rooted, bring it home.

tides are higher now, flooding the paths. he walked the mud, bringing the footsteps back to us

the wood louse died and feel it was natural not ****** or an accident

a lot of this event here

an old house

feeling sad about it we remembered reading that the energy does not disappear

that it changes form

we smiled when we knew that and placed the tiny body in the compost

later that day we saw art from materials placed in compost

and smiled

we watched it come down over the mountain spreading
slowly
as the cloud passed by the sun
after cooling indoors we went to see
the maker in the lower field

feeling my way
through the history of this place

we should look after things
better. i wrote a thing a while
back. it filled my head with
pictures.

will watch the film on perception tomorrow alongside
another. red & white.  they say it will change my life.

meanwhile i **** boxes.

said old people fold notes
&
i felt insulted.

she said it bothered her a lot
when she counted them.

we should keep them flat
&
others may agree

who defines the different
level of thought
is there a manual
with charts and graphs
a litmus test to testify
that the thought got tangled

some things fade with time,
with sun and washings.
this one remained bright,
even glaring

is a pretty thing especially today with the backdrop being darker

seems there may be some connection
some call it a trigger
some things leave us cold and wondering

hope to revert to an earlier
idea of smudge and carbonate
james
you see
there is no control
only that we think we have
which is probably all imagined

hesitate again
look down

regret my first sentence
now

maybe will say it some other time
now

pinky glow

she said that it was the coldest night for years

and I forget how many

were built where the chickens did live

where the old cottages were and some time back a photo occurred to remind.

bungalows

seemed modern to me, then the Shirley’s came, Mr and Mrs, with two boys in short trousers.

brian and the other one

they had wallpaper with galleons on while we had distemper  that was best not to lean on

my mum looked after those boys and once took them to grans

think it was Brian who slipped on the glass roof he climbed and split his leg open

next to them were a lady who had a baby born and showed me how to breastfeed with a rubber **** and me a child under 8

i think there were three bungalows in all

them days mother did not shop at coop,  nor did her mother  either, something regarding dividends

storm came yesterday dark and loud  the landscape veiled
awash a while
black things fade and all is grey

win or lose hedge your edge
write of parlay

there is not much more to add, it is lighter
now.                                       birds sing early.

once again we come back to ourselves.

metaphor.

which previously i called a small holding

provided us with murdered birds

heads bitten off

saved mum a job there

and when they sold it along with the old cottages set back

the bricklayers came and while  low down in their building

i ran round the back of our house despite her warning

fell

broke my head open

those brick layers took me to the hospital in their van

a towel wrapped round

two stitches

i bear the scar still

and they built bungalows

this is a little model.

it may be full of
metaphor.

it is warm and i worry
about the ice melting

spoke to others yesterday about
banning the word coping as a negative
thing, said with sympathy
head to one side.

it feels a frail word and does not apply

comes a differing hue
with duck egg blue
the ironmongers in town
at one seventy nine
we can walk there and back or there
and bus back you see
he said folk get used to anything

i find
the memories are not as you may think.
i have new ones.

time is limited these days.
those one admired in youth
devastate us now.

can we know all things .we
only went twice ?

keeping things entirely to oneself is usual yet conflicting with the need to identify happenings

taught as required for copying  so we all looked the same
though some added bits and embellishments, which caused remark
while the space between lines was so immense