Monthly Archives: January 2014

did it wrong

yesterday. did not read the stuff
. wrote about laundry.

you know sudsyy hot water smells,
ironing airing, mending . the usual.

if you read here regular, you may
expect to read domesticity,
of sorts.

there are cobwebs, memories, yet the linen
is clean, with dabs of cotton.

so aghast, i did the work again,
i hope it is properly.



301. the face

one hundred and fifty faces,
for japan sticky. drawn some

years ago, she is still the same.
looking out constantly, her dress
a little loose about the neck, i often
think should have a k like knee.

perhaps the button should be fastened now,
hair washed. is she is too young a thing
to be kept here,standing in her own scaffold.

other faces will be posted some where
else, the cross added in red ink.

she is not for sale



mending necklaces

once the jeweller, now me.

spend the night thinking.

been mending a necklace,
pearls through the night.
some months now, gradually

thread so thin, i cannot see.

it was done, when
some beads slipped off.

i shall start again.




late we come, early.
winter still, warm.

approach the bridge,
the bridge in the village.

there hangs the cloud,
wipe the windscreen.

can you see, do you,
know where you are.

they came through the prysor
valley. family.

a cloud hung there too.



the dress

evokes memory.

hung on a chair,
plush velvet, sheen and colour,
plum with lace.

sparkling neckline.

the scarf, subdued blue hangs
over. i kept looking

at the contrast while
they talked.

there is another dress
i have drawn.

not photographed.



the looms

we have spoken before.

the looms stand idle, some in store
some with recognition.

machines work less in cold,
sheds and lack of encouragement.

we worked the day with thread
and needle, only turning forward,
cutting cotton backward.

with squares we talked, of
older times,

light shed on weave,
broke the heart to bone.

days have gone, the names,
the weaves, the places.

he remains, he still has the music.




having been invited, to write,
an invitation, inviting you,

i wrote instead about the
calling card, you know the
one by the clock, the one
i have not photographed.

aked again to do it properly,
requested politely, the you
after queue,, i started, yet the
double spacing and rhyme
annoyed me.

i watched bleak house instead.

the storm raged



mark making

dream of making marks,
graphite, coal, pen
with ink.

see those marks
of making, chips
in slate, chopping
fire sticks, ages old.

step worn, door scratched.

bold marks on paper,
fingers bled into stone.

it has been done
all our lives, one way.

then another. words
in air, words shouting,
no one to hear.

i live on my own.




o you like the feeling,
walking ahead quickly,
moving forward, loosening limbs.

pushing through wind,
through water, rain slanting.

shouting, counting the rams,
shadowing shepherd. wee

mouse on the path, beady
eyed. these are the hopeful days,
weak sun aching to shine.

these are the days, the marches.


idly chat to neighbours, to fetch
the dog, to dawdle, to wind
slowly down.

the snowdrops are out.




it is a relaxing place the library,
free rental on a dvd if you borrow

a barry hines. all creatures great
and small.the enemy within, a short
history of witch hunting, recommended

by the boston globe, and a guide to
the king james bible, the english language,
words like begat, horribly afraid, goats and swine.

a lovely children’s illustrated for inspiration, delight.

we built blocks, read jokes, talked of mending,
forgot our toys.

i read asher lev….

the dvd didn work.