‘ this clothes thing is getting on my nerves’



said the bear.



‘i am exactly similar in that i wears what i like, no nonsense,

a satin dress with pearls’



yes.

‘all this fuss and dress code is so out of date, get real’,



he said.



sbm.

it seem there is a gardener in that village,

that will not prune, will cut every shrub

the same.



shape.



if a walk takes you slowly round.



the village.



you may see every place

he works.



someone said you need

a day out to find some

inspiration.



for verse.



sbm.

busy day,
the customer
spoke.

rough tweed,
manicured hands,
words ring true.

beautiful welsh.

man.

sbm.

tea time. soaked
through.

hours, wandering the lanes,
finding the shore,
my independance.

watching the silversmith,
the birds sing, water

logged, lost, happy
in the knowing.

chocolate egg,
on return.

sbm.

new numbers came
suddenly, soon
after one.

nothing added any more,
all began to subtract,
divide, the result
algebraic

there are no rulers,
lines to divide,
the total is irrelevant
now, the
addition foremost.

i have been to the counting.

sbm.

charcoal.

yes

a soft substance

easily crushed,

manipulated.

must ensure,

i am not

sbm.

the continental way is tighter, grip

the thread, there will be no loopy

stitches, no more.

this is the way to speak, gentle, no

inuendos, benny hill or carry on films.



nothing wrong with none of that, yet

carrying on your own way is honest.



the knitting will be neater now, the

patterns more selective, we are



wool gatherers.



sbm.

grey  day, rain.
squeaky bath taps.

this is the valley
of the widow.

this is the day.
writing  the wall,
trees stand tall.

yellow flags, the route,
to glyn y weddw.

know these things.
life will bring. words
in books, paper air.

a name that still remains.

write it.

sbm.

i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.

so we gets up early having dreamed of you,

and planned all the good work.



takes to the garden before the heat sets in hot.



done half when we hits a rock, bent our blade.



all things may come right in time, if you

loves the ones you think you don’t.



yet then, what do i know really, except the metal

twisted.



the washing is on nicely, while i takes the *******

out.



sbm.

hot fitful evening.
wine and itching skins.

enigmatic man. again continued
the interview. good teeth, skin aging well
despite the sun.

he answered questions
beautifully, mysteriously sayng,
that he could say nothing
about most things.

he may have been
a spy, for the cia.

it is the royal welsh
tomorrow.

sbm

the jaws hold the teeth,
tells the story.

there are bits under nails, no
matter how hard the scrub, how
hot the water, strong the soap.

varnish over, yet the truth
comes out.

sbm.

we talked yesterday of tidying
cupboards, placing soaps in tins,
prepare for winter.

polish the wooden horse
on wheels, sweep
the steps, feel the still
warm air of autumn.

down the lane they mend
the roof. i had a visitor.

she saw the logs ready,
lost her way on exit.

they say it is a hobbit house.

sbm

not knowing some answers, nor
understanding questions, battle on.

not knowing the rules of engagement,
on flooded roads, drive on, even

knowing the reasons why, does
not always change the equation,

or is it geometry. never got the
hang of logarithm tables, nor

slide rules. so we studied the use
of newspaper in cleaning windows,
in evading mothth a while, for
fuming dustbins,

before they came plastic.

she is younger than me, yet we
could write reams.

about linoleum.

sbm.

she said her father was jewish and proud of it.



they visited the synagogue, i know where it

is. i stood outside.



he was a green grocer, broke his back, her mother

looked after him.



she a seventh day adventist, i went with  her sometimes,

on saturdays.



i never met her father, he died early.



she said.



sbm.

deep shadow in the valley,

gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.

summer now, they come with midges,

breathe fire on the bridge, do not see

us for imagining to live here.



as we did once. now settled in boxes,

we grin and grow.

longer days are

shorter days.





if you opened the lid, i think

you will love them too.



their faces.

sbm.

they break down that
hard exterior, steam and rolling,
find the soft and curative properties.

add almond, dark dried fruit, stand tall,
look down like alice.

this is the hard world
of discontent. you

may survive.       say nothing.

sbm.

smoothing the wrinkles i think

of another time. how reasonably

priced they are, such a usefull item,

to protect the bed.



those that sleep there can

rest in the knowledge that

all is well covered, there will be

no shame, no hardship.

remember the days of rolling

an

old one down the stairs, tying

with ineffective string to await

the council collection.



reorder the thing, much better

now to protect your assets.

i tuck in the corners, and remember

that this is monday.

sbm.

while all around is breaking,
hold on to the inner core,
strong centre that helps us dance,
strictly.

remember unwritten rules of
etiquette renumbering the you,
after the queue. take your turn.

wait in line, it will turn up in
the lower drawer,
sleep on it like the cat.

today will draw the shoes
for erasure and carry on regardless.





the copper beech is leafless now.

sbm.

have come from london, to
stay a while. i remember you
brymbo man.

profanities in town caused
ears to bleed, and where it was
a market town, now it all all
charity and coffee shops. places

change, while the egyptian things
remain so fine.

we gasped at the empty space.

sbm.

may be i am soft like
gentle ways.

we went to the mountain
sat at the base chatting,
looking up.

walking the path, the sun
caught our shoulders,

at the salmon leap, we paused
at the lack of fish.

grass grew greener,
we are older now,

happy.

enough.

sbm.

come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.

now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.

we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.

she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.

a day of rearrangement.

as you were.

sbm

there are no pins,
no easy way to fix
some things.

this time, we wait
to see the outcome.

mended plates aren’t funny,
scaffold a life.

don’t laugh, it may
happen to you.

listen, repeat the
random insects.

stitch another way.

sbm.

wish i wrote dark, about deep insecurities,

a struggling childhood, i wish i wrote

like others with words of wonderfull

syllables,  bells ringing,

you know.



wish i wrote long tomes, to bore myself

rigid. to tap the hours away till bedtime,

early.



wonder if i shall write serious,

tell thee all  hard stories that

don't exist. i wonder if i shall stop,

when no one reads.



this is a time to wonder at the

dark hours leaving, waters receding,

black trees slowly turning. wintergreen.



sbm.

it is an traditional
afghan dress
look at the bodice.

encrusted with jewellery,
history, a desire to buy
is curtailed, only by
the price. i have
searched ebay for another,
more affordable, yet tis
this one, i love.

i can visit, touch
and take photographs.

the afghan dress
is £125, will not fit
me. that will not
stop me

liking.

sbm.

i have a book.



i thought the light was strange,

white glancing the grass,

cut now, buttercups gone.



he spent three days cutting,

the dog long side.    sleeping.



this morning, we have

frost in may.



the book is in the back room.



sbm.

a small soft kiss on the cheek these days,

with a hug possibly. unless of course its

you.



not like the old days. i think that we did

not hug , kiss and remonstrate.

used the surname, all was proper.



even cabbage had titles.



then the kissing came, warm, gentle

kind.



yet i hardly know you, how nice.



sbm.

. give things .

to some one else,
will they fall upon flesh,
rip it, rearrange,
leave to sleep?
maybe it were their rags.

handle with care,
small eggs hold with love,
rearrange tenderly, add cake.

we saw hedd wyn, yesterday.

sbm.


Hedd Wyn
Poet
Hedd Wyn was a Welsh language poet who was killed during the Battle of Passchendaele in World War I. He was posthumously awarded the bard’s chair at the 1917 National Eisteddfod. Wikipedia
Born: January 13, 1887, Trawsfynydd
Died: July 31, 1917

having searched for the word,

head reels across the room.

the path was mud, the willow cut

back to stump.

the memory remains.

snowdrop’s  green

appears.

this is not bethlehem.

sbm.

play early, after the weather
forecast, heavy rain,
with heavy stomach
this morning.

tell tale of the nougat
renowned as chocolate
treat.

the book discarded
we twitter and tweet
the early morning,
the two of us.

he showed himself
his own photo.

said,’look this is me’
look.
sbm.

only one shutter
speed, htc desire.

so we clicks quite fast,
failing the photo challenge
today. It is a point to make
that any old camera will do,
if we is short on cash, or
undecided what to buy.

I am not at all tecnical
nor can i spell it. the coach

went quite fast.

sbm.

it is my mother’s birthday.

we stood and watched
punch and judy yesterday,
while god was all behind us.

he bashed, we laughed,
he bashed, laughed more,
he bashed.

children were removed
from the vicinity,
others stayed.

incorrect musings
regrading life and buskers.

pastel buildings mask
the incorecctness of it all.

it is my mothers birthday.

sbm.

while standing, the realisation,
have got it wrong,
pale words a clue
in the breathing. the stone
set, left in barns.

caught the words,
hopefully in burning
hands,

thinking that the sky was clear,
wake to thundrous rain,
books tied closed
with string, broken
handkerchiefs.

concentration gone,
move now one
paragraph at a time.

earth and heaven.

sbm.