a touch of red
suggested at dinner, to make
a photograph splendid, i noticed
the same in paintings at exhibition.

looking out, the grave yard, noticed
a touch of colour by the white.

cutting,
bleeding the lead
into showers,
and explosive marks.
the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.

when she heard that i had been drilling fitfully,
she asked why but i could not explain really. so
i added the stop.

it seems that some like sticks, while others do
not.

there are a few of us, one of us is      leaving.

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely. linen  hangs  heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready.

it don’t work if not connected, if not tuned in, you would think the experts would know that.  we need to signal to another.

think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch

light is wonderful
lifts the brain and limbs
beyond

sparkles rain the morning
once again we have the repetition

walk the rooms in horror,
see genius in corners,
there.

realise that he may cry
all the tears of life.

sometimes takes a thing of note to come dancing
yet yesterday there was none of that though highly praised for labelling

he seemed surprised yesterday that i had completed the task

to ensure the proportions looked right for me

it is part of the job and if it is diaried must be done

now your name may be redeemed
your wanderings freed into new

adventures

or maybe you will still stay inside a while

inside the boundary lines

four fields

corona

we shall never know
for there is no microscope
here
moving on i feel it was a flashback
to the girl who wished for quiet and
can remember  in detail

seems we gets busy here and there
yet cannot verbally explain why we write
and paint

black dog,
barks.
below the llan.

such is the change of time
i have been around for  an
hour
extra

so far we have read the rules
in black and white
in print
meanwhile others translate them in different colours
i read your poetry in the rain

liking the format, liking the days
that come natural now without
no planning
evolving gradually

my heart is in my chest

a particular siding

i feel it sometimes

when i am walking hard or eating chilli

so i avoid that last thing

mostly

pink i expect with tubes

mostly like in the pig’s hearts

mum used to buy from the butchers

for dinner

now i am vegetarian


i think that if i have a soul

it may be behind the heart

hiding

and maybe that is where my work

comes from

it seems odd that at times of rest and when all is quiet around

that i cannot hear it

nor the other workings

like lungs and veins and stomach

oh!


except the latter rumbles

early yet
I have to tell you
that
i went a different way
to avoid the usual

is it the coldest place?

no shelter, only the doorway.

she let her friend warm there while the lady opposite hid by the wall

for the 30

was travelling the other way and watched the birds

fly

over

the chapel adorned with those spikes to deter them sitting

except there

where

it perched

vocally celebrating.

corbett hotel stands empty still

deteriorating.

it came gradual some time back

no one memorised the date

at all

not at all

we felt it was not right especially

the day on the bus, remember?

over time with help from friends and durability

all came better again.

special thanks to those mentioned.

#doll
#starry

and maybe, and probably
i cannot fix it
so will look after it
admire it daily
unless it rains
james

comes a differing hue
with duck egg blue

the ironmongers in town
at one seventy nine

drawing the child with found fabrics
watching the marks come good, no dots
intended
yet they came
without warning

you feel like two people
that one is split in two

that the other one does
look a bit like you
only more so

now is small stuff on paper
as who cares anyhow
we just carries on
regardless

see exhibitions
quiet slow and uneventful
& lasting impressions

a simple drawing out
no fuss
and sometimes late in the evening
think of it
leave the house
and return to the simple line drawing

told you, no one will listen if we are quiet,
they have all lost interest’

yes.

‘do they only listen to loud folk , those that  shout
and remonstrate’

seems so.

added bits and embellishments which caused remark
while the space between lines was so immense my head came heavy with drowsy
fell off
&
i did not return

traces remain hidden for the most part
only to come out on particular
occasions
without  warning

she said it without  warning
& i was horrified

bought her tea set gently in parts
each week from woolworths and i still have
some of it

pink.

research is kind, we have tried many colours.

we ate the cake, yet not wishing to appear
greedy left a crumb.

for a bird.

darker.

especially the mornings,
i need not tell you really,
you must know.

ok if there is no rush to go,
easy, cosy up and write.

like flags that are decorative
or bunting that represents a

happy time

i dislike borders
representations of separation

don’t use a teapot

but evidently many do,

and cosy up together.

they don’t squish teabags, have leaves,

and stewing on the gas ring,

like mother, reducing it to

poison on my tongue.

i like the leaves to look at,

smell, like the small packet

we used to have, paper lined

in those days.

splits into fragments, pieces

that don’t fit

it is all a puzzle

stood steady in wonder

watched the dark bleed

across the sky

watch birds scatter

we thought about the things my brother

said about the tea plantations

in india

he does a big trip somewhere each each year

except last year and probably this year too

rain comes here in waves
reflecting feelings

sometimes i can smell the sea
though some miles from the shore

moving out into the landscape
differing thoughts with exercise

added

on hearing rain early
delay the start of it

.from the archive.

google when back at home, read about
people, and know we may after all
be twins.

..adding pink..

oh unsuitable paint you
covered lovely with no
comments as all are at
home

skimmed slates that bounced about
unlike the pebbles that grow on our banks here
unlike the landscape hereabouts yet only up the road
up the road where all comes beyond reality to help with reality

deep holes,
cut grass and wiping stones.
there is a place.

.raining.

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

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.
best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

dreamed of devastation,           flew miles        low
over concrete .   skeletons,      bones of the thing.
all is dust, as dust we have become.                 slow.
grey.

so in the mist of memory my 15 minutes passed  without concentration and went indoors after

one way,
and  another.

up poole hill
or down.

you kissed me.

i have the same,
usually, i felt like
a change today.

tidy beach
soft sand and honest stones
to be fortunate here