it was quite a shock, that there are no boxes left.
only those of a different size, quite a shock your anger
that leapt from nowhere. of course it does not
matter.yet with that and the moon,how can one sleep.
how can one pack and tidy when things are the wrong
shape, and emotions rise.
do me a favour, and know it was a favour, looking
the sheds are now tidy.
dreams, hours long. in tune .
there came some men with music,
some times things seem so very
well, brings guilt for the others.
the process has to stop, some point.
space is cleaned, prepared again.
all things pass.
what to say, when you cannot help.
smile, when the work is overflowing,
when nothing froths properly. milk is not
my favourite thing.
never has been.
those dependant on never eating.
a pause, a comma,here and there, sometimes
confuse. yet know the difficult task comes
easy in time, with practice.
you may not think so when the machine explodes,
covers in embarrasment. there is another mill.
some times it feels awkward.
the looms are still working.
or is it, will it grow some more come october?
the drive is easy, flat, up and down quite stately,
neat stripes, well nearly.
little lawn by the pigsty , a bit rough, no problem.
the lower, is sloping with little paths and mole bumps.
we start off buzzing, then the engine steaming,
we pause, gather breathe push on, ankles bending.
was this such a great idea? looks good on completion.
friends came, admired the dresses, do you wear them?
no not really, they are just part of the furnishings.
i am not quite that tiny.
look at the photograph,
a funny little thing.
who cannot type nor spell
effiiently, the words flowing
too fast from fingers.
hold the charcoal tight, add
fears and misgivings, sound the
angry words in stone. it is not meant
personal, we did not find the key.
so we work until tea, spoiling
the pattern with verbs.
the picture is set, sewn, scratched,
we have stiff little fingers.
some want their receipts, other don’t.
it is all a matter of taste, etiquette,
upbringing and security. in the bag or
some check at home, that all is well,
secure and safety. some shred, while others
burn the evidence of careful spending.
i put them in the compost bin, where only
the resident mouse will see them.
it eats well there.
i know not its gender,
nor political persuasion.
there is a shop nearby,
a charity that sells
some things for a penny.
i bought an orange collander.
the hold all
does not quite hold them all.
i cannot close it now. offered
a space i chose the cards, eyes closed
metaphorically i suppose.
death comes in many ways, these ended in the
i wanted to choose yours, yours and yours, yet
it had to be done quickly, recorded, posted,
there are 36 less, i repeat.the bag will not close.
the little book of death,
on the irony.
. as requested.
Posted on September 23, 2015
we think of , write of fish heads,
placed in a dish we wonder.
the cat walks off, not understanding
the urge for recycling of some sort.
we know fish bone is good as fertilizer, yet cannot bear
to grind them. they float, stare at me bloody.
smelly, not fit for the bin, nor paper, nor glass,
eyes blurred deathly.
as suggested, throw to the night creatures.
she said that some thing will eat them.
may be beans or latrines,
who cares anyway. love them.
yes it is interesting to read,
to watch the animation. no need to judge.
this is the way to learn, to watch,
to think, take photographs.
google when back at home, read about
people, and know we may after all
it is a big house, he spends his time
rendering the walls.
a dark bird has flown over.
taste best to those who like them.
slightly tart, we suck, throw the stones
to the wild.
maybe they will grow.
the door bell rang, you came with
your sweet heart, when i was closed.
you drank the tea i made you, ate
my chocolate biscuits.
i hardly recognised you without your hat.
an odd affair. ate more plums, went to bed.
the words, no need to visit,
fell on deaf ears.