Monthly Archives: August 2014

if they played the same tune

if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?

life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.

whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.

these things do happen,
to most people.

except some seem immune to
harm.

who are the chosen ones?

the radio plays the same tune,
faintly upstairs.

sbm.

adrian

laura ashley

always liked newtown,
now seeing the peripheries.

not been to glansevern, now
i have.

never had a red dress
made of paper cloth,
now i have two.

the same. i have not a
photograph yet,
so will shoes do?

sbm.

IMGP3701

maentwrog

high tide, leaves turn
early here, by the junction,

late august. many
roads here, all picturesque,
this is north wales after all.

talk of splendid isolation,
bleaker days to come.

pain passes slowly, we shall
have autumn.

sbm.

2013-11-22-13-37-58

point

can you see
the little arrow
there ?

can you see your past
before you?

i have felt the air breathe,
waiting for another chapter.

while all the while
the time moves on
regardless.

sbm.

shot_1396688772763

is it petition

or the repetition,
that excshot_1408969917180[1]ites the mind,
small notes on paper.

torn from the rest,
simply with the rule.

metal makes a straighter line,
rags to edge the word.

these words are mine.

seeds
fall.

sbm

socks

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

2012-07-29-15-29-58

. sunday .

slow on the road yet,
mist rising, as autumn.

birds sing, tea steams.

gently old radio
plays. down in the house
clocks chime, keys hang.

week went well,
all things considered.

we are safe here,
lucky ones.

an accident of birth.

place.

sbm.

alarm

. red .

in a white room, blood on the pillow.

empty rooms sublime, look how
the light comes, how the red,
glows.

into warmth here, and above.

he is a solitary man.

sbm.

shot_1407155817954[1]

. these places .

i go, meant to be recreation.
are so, yet food
for learning, sometimes
yearning ,third
attribute.

driving home, remember the attitude,
of body leaning.
we look at the mountain passing,
and weep a while

this is the memory, the memory.

sbm.

shot_1408543435525[1]

. the bus poem .

(title inspired by a friend)

then we went to work by bus,
early, cold, usually,
sat on the back seat.made friends
over months.

one condemned girls
like me without knowing
my history. one was marked
with spots i did not see.

i only saw how kind he was to me.

sbm.

shot_1380371306721