Monthly Archives: January 2017

the theory

that feeling, that . arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings, opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling. track four repeated. that comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound.

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work

reading how the body works, you will have a better understanding, yet they do not teach of this

at school. they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts, i did not know microbes fancy food, move our choices.

the play continues, some of the old cast, new actors oblige, ideas on lack of addictive ways. simple days without receptors. singing under breath, numbers.

have you been to the counting?

lines ruled to stop

vertigo setting in.

two

three

four

five

two

three

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work.

sbm.

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old black car

it has been written before.

the first shall be last,
the last shall come first,

so saith. first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come: first shall be last; and the last shall be first. …. honour, were first in this world, of the first rank and figure, should be the last in the world to come:

so saith, they saith.

they come in old cars,

small black . sitting

forward concentrating.

some run a marathon.

sbm.

a book of a certain size

a book of a certain size, some prefer content and romance.

having moved things around the cat finds contentment near the

books on mental health.

she said it is especially nice for children. i think everybody, yet do not reply.

the cat has aspergers,

the dog is black. the

case is finally

diagnosed. she is

married again.

the dvds are in alpha

betical order tidy.

to get out again you must press the big button. most people forget until all the pushing

fails. is this helpful? probably for some it is , while others pay 30p for printing.

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he wanted a garden

have you collected seeds of many years, packed, labelled, dated.

have you died, and left the table unprepared. i have them now in boxes, a gift.

from those who love. they will bring me work, joy, an independent air.

seeds need water.

sun stays later.

i have imposter syndrome, never diagnosed yet googled when heard on radio live .

there may be too many additives these days not enough honesty grown.

she said i should have something new in the greenhouse.

i have, i said, and thought of you who

planted the seeds.

sbm
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. children .

stand back to spite the craving, look on as from afar. people, some write hymns & mantra others watch tv, not the news. oh no not the news, the truth is too depressing, a bit near the mark.

i guess yours sleep in bed, loved and cherished. others love and cherish , yet their families sleep in mud, on streets.

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 nowhere is safe.

come in dreams, the shape of your face remaining. there is a line now, dreams and aspirations. words and degradations. lines deepen, water etched.

the rain falls round our houses.

how small.

how white

the child,

skin rinsed

with tears.

salt in the wind.

©sbm

lame

sexton

my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.

i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of death.

i tidy up, hang out washing.

demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is a small hope to always return home.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas. remember that you stand alone. are not alone from criticism and contradiction.

beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated. empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer, who cry in dark corners.

yet i have mislaid the black beetle too.

it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.

sbm.

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dead

&

we walked on up near the copper mine , a darker place. got to thinking.

&

it comes as no suprise. often ill they die. it is the way. it is not sad.

&

we are sensed with loss. that includes you.

he says that’s where the wind comes from, to go most everywhere.

&

probably do not miss him. he was not around us much, well not at all really.

he buggered off. no inspiration then. yet. he was my dad.

&

some day i will carry the bones inside.

sbm.

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#legend

an idea.

the work continues. red thread and all that abounds there.

the museums.

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.

linen threads hang heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready. shall we mend the rags,

or pin them ?

remnants remain, hiding. working faster with out all those words, those images . bare bones of the fact

corrupted items turn with dust.

stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed. work along the coast with thread and diligence.

sbm.

(thanks to the asmolean and jen jones quilt centre for the prompts)
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is it rags today

she said hello, smiled. i smiled back with no regret.

the books are left tied tightly.

woke up to see the shy pink. clouds.

we stood together working pushing rags through to make things neater. others searched the lines, the crossing, looking for reincarnations. we thought they were sheltering from the rain.

another day of vinegar soaked words. another play on keys, as we drift through winter days.

curtains dragged across the gloom, early, yet while light lingers later, we wander to the snowdrop drift, hear the last bird call.

give things to some one else, will they fall upon flesh, rip it, rearrange, leave to sleep? maybe it were their rags. or handle with care, small eggs hold with love, rearrange tenderly.

?

. it seems the work is cupboards. cabinet makers.

sbm.

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i saw that you were gone

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that. does this mean it is spring soon?

i did not know you, yet when i saw that you were gone too, i felt sadly.

i stood and looked at the blackthorn trees.

black bird sings early, the same bird calls late . drown darkness.

&

small things shelter. there is much to research, decide to believe or not.

there are so many stories, re-enacted with a hyphen. there are watermarks left.

the lime kilns are empty now, yet the mass remains, the wonder at the shape. ( spring

will.)

sbm.