it is warm and i worry
about the ice melting

:: numbers ::

did you see the fairy folk fluttering

moth mouths and mismatch


the day came clear with numbers

written backwards


did you know that or did you google to find out


touch lightly in case wings

disintegrate to dust


tread lightly my dears

count them

steadily

some was in code.

the numbers were senseless.

whatever was wrong yesterday is gone today, yet there is still that buzzing in the ears.

:: nothing ::

dissecting the thing

into pieces

and chucking it into the canal

it is nothing

no more

:: uncle ::

tell him he needs to focus

best eye forward to stop complaining


it is for safety purposes

the rules are made


the family all seem to have

problems with vision

even the dog


things go fast and seep into distant

beings


fairies again


or is it simply the pressure?

where is the power house,
metal books he said.

concrete palaces for those
that prey.

he grew it plant like,
fought it,
numbered it
thirteen.

today there is no little chocolate

they came in different shapes

which i could not always identify

but enjoyed in *******

if that word is permitted?

the empty box will be laid

reverently

in the stove

ready for lighting this afternoon

on the yesterday we fiddled with lights
and curtain poles

deliveries of gooseberries, bath oils

and the delightful tiny light bulbs
pink

which pleased me most
bought in a quantity of five

and i bet i don’t have a photograph
so will have to go get one

shades defining.

now I have to say that I usually like

the colour as items, yet maybe not

as entity.

I face the slate

grey

and bleed red

:: hiding ::

hiding could be the ultimate solution

some of us have adopted as per the guidelines


remember how you turned your back as a child

thought no one could see you

as you could not see them?


either that or go in disguise

a devil of an issue

yellow
drawn by the name not just the colour

and oh that name come true
on opening jim

is fading now
yet remains as the description

one seventy nine

=

one pound seventy nine

or

one pound and seventy nine pence.

is how we says it
here

they  do not know the darkness

how the light can fade into latin

& all things unreasonable

numbers


they add some for emergency


dreaming nothing works

becomes seedy like rubber buttons


stitched on particular

wear


they come at us with knives


power houses

talking with tongues

with nowhere else to go


no one else to torment


i laugh at them talking in metaphors

yet I do the same


there are raindrops on the window


while I die

of laughing

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

he says people will carry on
the fight;

while
those on the streets suffered
even more this week

no bus arrived the timetable lady was contacted and she explained the bus was due at 2.30 pm that my internet were wrong and no one was bothered what it said at bus stops

it may be a habit writing
here
each day

hearing your news

or maybe an act of solidarity james

today i work with the imaginary

and bless all the foxes, their pointy ears upward.

you know i thought she come to see me all those years ago
i mean she was not meant to leave

although there was no section that time

i think

she had to go back
yet there  was no phone at grans

no one came for her

i have no memory
no recall

of

what happened after she arrived
except she looked small and clean

and was upset

and it was a warm day
dusty in the alley

bless all the foxes, their pointy ears upward

a differing light
shades and all that surrounds
i drew them later
my way

do you know the dark corner

behind damask

where music plays?


do you know why the tree died

why the paint smudged?


some know and remember the years

less for some than others


some paint tidy all realism while

others paint a different way


i know why the tree died . i do.

i know that the stove ticks when lit

framed

the things were in the chubby

where he climbed and chucked them

down

sat in the doorway smiling

new trainers

i took his photograph

which went to exhibition

somewhere



now we are in isolation

so where is the difference?



a younger rock formation isolated among older rocks       

someone who moves differently to others.            

an exercise in the way to  view the world.

we are all

individual.

as much as this is said

this performance can do with quite an improvement.

is a tangled affair
too many people talking at once

it is a messy affair
paint smudges and runs

eventually all comes clear
one having the final say

predictions come and go

sometimes heard
not seen

days of our life

james

days of our lives

**

i feel some times that

the word unreasonable

is mine


though i react through

my reason

which comes clear

with my muddled

thinking


dare i laugh here?


who said that

&

what is it?


how will they know for thinking

comes silent inside our heads

unless we utter

which in my case is not often


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


oh what is it like?

really

oh really!

solitude is usual ,              even welcomed.

trips out reveal another state. the mind
and all travelling            excites, , i await
silence.

again.

he asked me a question, then i replied.

endlessly.                      it may be a gift?

ash escapes the brain

into    air.

days left,

three voices

rise, until just

one

is heard

**

on reading of orchids

have been meaning to tell  what a lovely book

you gave me

so while the mopped floors dry i am marooned with

the internet a while

a good grasping size, embossing feels good to touch

while one chapter at a time opens new ideas  and

brings fond memories of dorset country side

solitude

another time in life

thank you

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

the page is speckled,
left unread mostly these days,

initially it was said

that secondly should be

second and initially

should be first

i was confused that

nobody said third

and comforted

by the sound of fourth

a

memory of moth

maybe connections are missed the link dismissed. metaphors faint as my flimsy whispers symbols do you deny me peace?

perhaps you utter the words constantly? look closely

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.

every year, here

the yellow flags find us.

nonchalantly driving,

wondering,

how to spell that word.



looking to the next road,

you know you love,

forgetting the time

of year they come.



flat lands, yellow

with the flags, the iris,

the medieval house.



he talked about the cow,



while i remembered the first field,

filled with them.



i did not take a photograph.

understanding

&

our bus broke down
in gellilydan

we sat
chatted
waited
laughed for 40 minutes

then another bus came

arrived home to notice
the car had a puncture

breakdown cover
covered  that

good here in that alone
is not lonely

these are the longer days, lighter days, wood pile growing, apple wood, colours of joy. believe in the world, that you can spell first time. be proud as you point out where you live, at all there is.

it was one of those books

you know the sort you read over

something about a house

i seem to remember

one of the favourites

have the set up until then

and i expect she has written more

since

there is a boat house up cregennan

another down bontddu

making good photographs

good dreams



drama change to night terrors

when you cannot shift

the weight bearing down from hell or somewhere

else

hell is a story for control

for controversy

they come here spouting the belief yet

never ask for mine



fairies.

we continue with new white paint
and orange too

bought on my first solo day out by bus
this year

remembering not to touch anything.

481.

no bus arrived the timetable lady was contacted and she explained the bus was due at 2.30 pm that my internet were wrong and no one was bothered what it said at bus stops

watching the marks come good, no dots
intended
yet they came
without warning

it is a headstone

in the graveyard

out back.

i think it is a wreath.



the circle turns.

day five brought two voices

one day

same segregation

a night of stars



sickly child and predetermined words

flicker from page to

flicking the power fails

while some follow the mass

others raise fist protest



nothing was ever promised

nothing ever came fair, an invented entitlement

where no one is entitled

we have one pause

a tadpole before the jumping frog

comes wet and creaking

we forget the punctuation

we look at the pictures

only

a whisper from you came

a good idea

to stop those dreams and headaches

the moon came bright with yet another name

a whisper from you came

a good idea

to stop those dreams and headaches

the moon came bright with yet another name

slower morning here today. the radio plays.

dove grey overcast sky. heavy they say.

maybe rain?

so i googled it,
and this is probably
as good as it
gets today.
i shall be sketchy
a few days.
slightly offline
maybe.

is round, and

round  the table,

the few.



spoke in tongues

of age and wisdom.



smiled the crease

of ages.



so while all is flung apart,

we watched, waited.



we were near the sea.

nothing felt right yesterday

not large stuff
nor small
and though like you to bed early

it rattled my brain until two
yet this morning awake as usual

surrounded in soft cotton
sheets

the duvet is white
and we huddle comfy

hope for a settled day

that is all

james

-6°
overcast

warning of snow and ice

eight thirty  till five.   it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind   meaning wasting time with wires and connections.

cover the surface.   it takes time.

looking up
see rainbows

the small plane still flies over
most days

or any day. do not wish to hide

do not wish to run

to take the boat and steer

to take the hiatus i fear


it crossed so many times

each time delivering

some time sinking

while we are shouting that

we do not wish to die


my son



wrote of it before

the last crossing

having paid the price we hope to be delivered

knowing that in depth we drown



the island blessed

sandy tracks to wander

in memory


like birds we flew


now it comes commercial

no crossing

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

the page is speckled,
left unread mostly these days,

:: you know ::


five men


those men who desire

who speak in three voices


is all i will say here, you know who you are

*

time is upon us as he writes

the old way


dust from the fire

he weaves

remembering the beginning

of it all


ash escapes his brain

into solitude


days left

three voices

rise until just one

is heard

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

the back road was
littered, rather blustery.

today
we have a darker day

so while out on a longer walk,
met him and he explained to me,
about walking there and back again