time is limited these days.

those one admired in youth

devastate us now.

can we know all things, we

only went twice ?

normal.

is what you are told

it is

until

you realise

it is

not

...

find pieces of jigsaw

everywhere here,

and they

don’t fit

together.

 

if i try

they make

the wrong picture

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

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

as yet unfinished

as yet unwashed

four white dresses

well hello

you see I did write back to you

in

a different format

more like a letter now

intentions to change it all

then see what is already there and

carry on quietly
knowing the change will come

whether slowly or suddenly

james

i told him when he asked about dinner
with his sister

we laughed and the wind blew things
away

ideas ,
allelujas of creativity.

let the change come slowly,


join the group.

using the light spots,

neglecting the dark,

except the margins.

so we go

dear child moving

forward.

concentrate, all comes into focus,
floating.

these are the warmer days, days of independance.

days to charm

listen
to the divine air now
we are starting to breath
a little

no one

is looking, there is no one here. we are not afraid of

the night.

we spin.

do not dignify the challenges. tread sweetly,

move on.

it is simply.

not worth fretting.

what is it?

how will they know for thinking

comes silent inside our heads

unless we utter..

varying kinds

and ages

it dries and cracks if not stored with care.

biscuit tins are useful

becomes larger as time moves on.

it started early, with greek poetry,

the radio, which played all day.

maybe

is was dark blue with a little red added

lasted two weeks and still prominent.

much has happened since

the power house rears its head again,

pouring images down

like rain.

while gavin bryars plays

on and on

repeated.

the power house rears its head again,

pouring images down

like rain.

while gavin bryars plays

on and on

repeated.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.          count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely,        moves us

onward.

the voices rather quiet. we have had a life time
of listening, yet not understanding really.

so let us go forward and compare

an old story remembered
that warm afternoon while all were playing

relaxing.

the hunted tried not to sleep

there

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

flashing

nought nought

a sure sign that something
has occured

i will know more when i investigate

life goes on
the mark remains

it was remarked that there is no hurry
that we have the rest of the winter

becomes part of the
pattern
a mark on the horizon


could change it for another yet it has become
a mantra


a pause like in breathing

all became a thing yesterday
regarding these marks of ours

a bit of a collaboration
on twitter and we finished
on this

i hope you do not mind

differing light

shades and all that surrounds

i drew them later
my way

take note of the numbers,
especially those with 9, as
in 29.

the page is speckled,
left unread mostly these days,

should that dot be approved

and how about the predicted?

we came here early with many thoughts and remnants of the dream

liking rags
i move on
with differing
music

the trial by glass

along the edge, the edge
of season. the coast with
slow limits.

the glass anomaly
swept the edges
golden, in proportion.

the year the storm broke, breached

the shingle bank.

decisions were made

i hear

to not repair

we look for sand

there is a nice long beach and lovely views out to sea

the sea that is rising

like the greys and shadow.

i like when the cars go by,

the lights go across the walls’

yes

‘ i do not think i will like very black

stopped a while as the lightness started

round me they flew never touching
we laughed in delight
at this natural thing

write of parlay

we chatted over manners and harboured edges. these things … moved the line into a place of rural contemplation.

light the darker days

of gloom and melancholia

born from intrusion

and swede.

this is quality,

a fortunate piece.

light the darker days

of gloom and melancholia

born from intrusion

and swede.

this is quality,

a fortunate piece.

in blue writing

as if

it is important

you see

your time will come

i will wait politely here until the time
and hope predicted don’t change
nothing

no more

while all around is trembling , we weave together

with dreams and possibilies.

there is not much more to add, it is lighter

now.                                       birds sing early.

once again we come back to ourselves.

dave asked about the utility bell, and war time candles,



following the wax theme, yesterday. i got my household

ones, 5 hours burning time, yet to be proved. they offered

me dinner candles, but i had leftovers ready, so kept quiet

on that score.

anyway, dave, over here, we had rationing as you know,

which continued afterward. things had to be simple,

saving stuff and time, and had a mark like two hungry birds.

mum bought the utility bell in woolworths, from the flat counter,

simple cut out metal, good colour, much valued in those days,

alonside papery chains and lanterns.

our tree had candles, i do not know when lights began,

i still have her candle ends left, fancy twisted, faded now.

i keep them special, use the newer ones , red and plain, and

remember my mum,

i will scan these to show you dave, later.

it is still raining.

small thing  ragged who knows all of it

pieces torn away

or

is it a moth here in the dark?

triangles bring mystery

a new mathematics



the rooms were swept yesterday

bones hidden

teeth implied



yet the shape remains embedded

winter brings
blind mountain soaked,
peat bogged, sulking
in wet cyclists, heaven colour
of gold on grey again.

he clears the leaves each day
from formal lawn
looks up
as i look at him,
a glimpse
outside .

good is in the small things.
.
pat says.

sometimes dots

i looked out yesterday at the rain
on and off all day

we were friends

more than that with promises that faded into silence.

i woke this morning the same

tiny things become intimate

you may put them in cases, or hang on pins

straight or safety, it becomes political

the choice is yours

bulldog clips