Monthly Archives: February 2015

holding nose

comment, been asked to write?

has it all overtaken the urge
to say the things you hope,
the words you think.

one is important as the other.

i told him that i do not get
angry as expected, try to do
my best.

told him about the situatiom,
why i cannot drink
hot chocolate, now.

yet i shall comment soon,
and just maybe
try the drink again.

holding nose.

sbm.
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all so very organised

except when we are not, except
when we forget. or we are not
notified.

there are lists and diaries, notes
and reminders, days set aside for certain
tasks. it has to be done, when
there is only one
to do it.

yet, oh the shame, the horror
if we miss a trick, or lose the
page.

eventually we will know,
that none of it matters.

even though it all does.

now.

sbm.

( prompted by 52.60. )

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the timetable

. the timetable .
Posted on February 19, 2015

is on the front bedroom wall,
a reminder of other days, and latin.

homework, was a separate issue.

seems we will return, see those places.

she says it is all changed, so have
i . seems like another life, as i
stand back.

we shall go to the museum.

sbm.

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deletions

more than we can write. erase
and unpick the seams. words tarry,
waver and leave this place, this room,

scuttle back into corners. sweep the house clean,
cross the words and know that when the time is right,
they will come again, dripping from fingers,
folded , torn, photographed in plenty.

wondered about misspelling, maybe
missed the point?

sbm.

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i may have a knighthood

possibly not, yet the deed was done,
the sword was plastic. raised we
engaged in sword, in word play.

always the actor he fine tuned
the pokes and prods, wounded me
a little. apparently i am self healing,
did not need to fall and groan so.

arise sir grandma to fight another
day. Yet i have given up that struggle,
i actually know that regeneration
is not endless.

i may not have a knighthood.

i have a gift.

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time tells

come six twenty four, much
is done already. words are
discussed, will be till evening.

one was discarded, as not being used
these days, while some misspelt
took on other meanings. the work load

creates tension, while skin crawls
back to back.

at six twenty seven, the music
ends.

sbm.

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the workhouse

it used to be a work house you know,
alongside the road. there is no idea
when it changed to a hospital, creating
another fear. now it is empty up for sale.

a long time.

they say the owner cut down trees ilegally,
noticed from the planning office
opposite. he is punished.

one tree lays across the wall,no one
tidies things .

we drive at 30mph as is the law,
strain to see the old architecture,
one eye on the road.

it is empty a long time.

sbm.

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among the small things yesterday

was a larger thing, not world news, happily,
not somethinhg to chew over.

amongst the colours, the gifts, the tiny cup,
cracked, collectable, among the people
at the friday club is friendship, a bigger
thing.

although many of us like smaller items,
we have grown to know that close friends
are a quite very big, important thing in a
life. small life.

sbm.

. salt everywhere .

crystals underfoot. hardship
lays in pages.

white scars scattered .

look at the world, salt tastes
bitter.

gritted teeth.

soul in subsidence

dry on skin, crusted.
tears fall.

blood.

sbm.

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mole hills and old photographs

we discussed the hardness of the ground,
it is still quite cold. yet we found that moles
make soft places for planting.

dig up buried crocks for saving.

old photographs spur us on, to
care and treasure, to sweep and clean.

so wash and mend your broken plates
my friends, become a gentler way,
make a pleasant day.

look for mole hills, and old photographs.

sbm.

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