Monthly Archives: December 2014

bits of paper

much of the time is spent with this

or other things which pass the day

nicely.

use the brain. remembering strong

wrapping paper in folded sheets.

woolworths.

i have a modern roll that tears

easily, yet now continue the theme

of recycled, flattened yet stil creased,

tied with inevitable red thread or bloody

rags

again.

each year in the afterwards

we would iron the paper flat

ready.

the years go round.

sbm.

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the dress

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.

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holly wreath

comes out every year,

stored in one of the

outbuildings.

this is neither poetic nor

important, yet

we walked down the lane

together, slowly.

to place the holly wreath.

sbm.

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the gift 2

i was given a gift . not wrapped

just given. before the winter

festival, before the anniversaries.

the gift was given

gladly received.

if i believed in all that i guess i would give thanks, yet give thanks anyway.

one has escaped.

sbm.

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. clues .

maybe it was the lack of empathy,

the first sign in yellow. the others

were hidden, yet confessed deeply.

in red, the diagnosis, no doctors here,

we have common sense in blue.

understand the fear, the

need to lay and weep over all things.

legion, there are many.

sbm.

2

play list

interupt the day, checking.

it is all there to find, old favourites,

new, they pray for those in

peril each morning, later

from the other room streams

the sound of glass.

one battery is spent, the other

depleting rapidly. during

the run up to christmas i shall

replace and back up.

meanwhile. plugged in the

piano plays. classic fm.

i shall nip to currys after

lunch at maenan abbey.

sbm.

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train coal

has big lumps, i seem to remember.

i have those and small stuff too.

mother had nutty slack, mixed

with water and other stuff to keep

it going.

can you still get that these days, i had best

google, anthracite was good i feel, and those

briquettes that i thought were for

richer folk.

steady fire last eve is still alight this morning.

the joy of a cosy life, one could say

it is a gift, even though i paid

for it.

sbm.

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driving dark

the same each december, advent .

the lead up. we have a memory or two.

the world goes dark, we teach and learn,

wait for light to appear,

with those albeit small birds,

singing.

we have comfort, medieval trees,

the coventry carol.

we drive in the dark.

sbm.

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the gift

i could have bought it,

travelled to town, spent a lot of money.

others are famous in paperback,

or hard cover, some are chaps, and other

words i do not get.

they write to me of stanzas

and i google the word effectively.

no, i did not buy it,

once again i made a gift,

for you.

handwritten.

sbm.

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. classic fm .

they play a different tune,

yet i can still sing it. they ask

for a melody, i found

i can sing that too.

badly.

make it up generally, is

what we do here, it is

mostly acceptable, except

when it is not, yet i don’t

often hear about that.

they wish i write different,

yet i do not.

i listen to john rutter.

sbm.

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