Monthly Archives: April 2014

upper room

we shall leave the upper room,
as others left before.

all comes slowly, let it be.

let the converastion over take
the drawing, drawing out ideas ,
allelujas of creativity.

let the friends come slowly,
join the group. we shall draw.

we shall use the lower chamber.

I have a letter from a friend.

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.all things are changing.

while all things have changed.

rubbers are now a derivative of oil,
latex still drips from trees for certain usage.

we talked on god, death and whitsun,
on sunday. we banged the glass, together.

it broke.

there is an island near the holy head.

st michael.

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dovecote

two installations, the old garden,
blue bells, wild garlic fuelling the air.

rain soaked, watcing the rooks nest
high at rosemundy, falling backwards
woke to find just a dream.

the doves
were plaster.

rosemundy.

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st agnes

i have been away, met folk, lost a letter.

it may be a pattern, way of thinking, the peptide
theory.

it may be simply nothing, another idea
to fade in memory.

it was all uproar in the upper room.

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a working day

i like wool, and tidying it,
notice the flecks and textures,
sneezing once again at the mohair,
with no news, no more
of sahara dust, move on

to admire couture of the linen dress,
the bias cut, and tucking, quite a feat

in these days of mass produced.

the duchess wore a coat like no other,
my daughter says it makes no sense
these days, when all others just
grab clothes quicky, and get to work.

we reckon her mother in law’s brooch
will be sewn on preventing loss.

we all experience this in some way,
loss that is, not the queen’s jewellery.

i like a working day

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wednesday

we had 3d each,old money
for sweets from the cafe.

it was not a cafe any
more, a corner shop,
not on the corner, which
makes me wonder why so many
were on said corner?

i liked ross’s
puff candy, left
by the fire to go
sticky. palm toffee
and crisps.

yet the latter were 3d
a bag, a waste of money mum said,
just potato, so they were banned.

my brother was older, working
bought them for me in secret.

these days i like liquorice,a lot.

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spoon

it is an ancient place,
oswald’s tree, the floor
bends, polished wood.

there was a wedding yesterday,
all kilted, the groom ate pie,
wore proper shoes with segs.

she showed me a cabinet, a spoon,
hand forged, old, beaten for sale.

i was travelling, a pretty
place, not good enough for some.

the bottle is crooked,

we left it
so.

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not with standing

means despite of,
yet sitting, write each day.

while clothes are aired
ready. the dog fed
layed belly down, asleep.

while the cat belches prettily,
stalks back out to open air,

writing continues not with standing.

some times in bed sitting,
now curled – the sofa.

a night of dreams has left,
the same dream over.

i do not write in spite of,
i write because .

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