the words came suddenly.
an odd day, no gentle people
to woo thee, day of stress, and horror,
you watch the news. a day of reality,
the reckoning that no where is safe.
there is a new moon this week.
sbm
resting on one a while.
very early here, news came, so
now we lay a while, to hope
it will alleviate the gloom from
those who have no manners, no
style and niceties. i will draw on
the experience, while others
bomb empty houses.
it is a gold award for drawing.
moon boats.
‘ i did not wish to die, my son’
sbm.
then she spoke to me,
came from abergele,
at the door all day,
learning history
of kitchens, copper pans.
talked of every day, not dates,
or kings and queens.
the bedroom roped with blue,
a smallish bed and posies.
I feel nothing here,
no lost words or empathy.
it was closer, below.
where are you now?
is it a spinette?
sbm.
the blue is a prim,
and pretty room, draped
with musical games
of chance,
for settling here.
harp strings
relay the vital net,
after Shakespeare.
the visitors leave,
lord Byron wrote
of hours of idleness,
the letters below,
and all the while
you have no love for me,
worrying over the empty barn.
sbm.
it is an older mirror,
speckled with time.
liquid memories,
we make a place of safety
with our thoughts and habits.
our work. our souls
are in our chests.
look here, she said.
please, do not touch
the ladies bed,
with lavender and velvet pillow.
the way is barred now,
the time is past.
things have become misshapen.