what can i say, except happy.   mine started after the solstice really, it seemed to make more sense, yet   i will go along with the rest today, say happy.   we should say happy everyday.   i think it is a thread that runs level, while the bad and joyous stuff, is another,…

for those in peril on the sea plays each morning steadily.   fingers tap the sounds, the words, little ideas readily.        wore rags, ate off broken plates before it was screened.   yet i bet this is not a first, not really our idea.   so we keep on mending, making, pray…

started with magic furry frost , clearing cars to get to work.  early the planes came over sideways, lights shining, we stood and watched them fly. it was all over face book, some complaining of the noise, some like me, stood in wonder, remembering.   a day of lumps, that fell to nothing, so in…

on cleaning, finding moth. although expired gently, lift and place in box with the others. on old ribbon, slightly frayed, wind, pin, keep for another day. for work, for photographs. on words, collect, retain the simple ones, that do not confound, hand write into paper books. post often. on living. make notes. sbm.    

we have a clean white bed, slept late, a shock to break the ritual. a treat on a major scale. probably ten.   i think i may like to travel to small places, old and full of history. deep aged fabrics stained with the words of time. to touch.   feel the textures, the threads,…

can be.   frightful, in snow or heavy rain, dark the days are, the evenings darker. forecasts bring gloom and panic, then are cancelled minutes later, the phone kicks off.   ice is predicted,  mountains white   and jesus is reborn up the valley.   now there is a story, meanwhile arriving home to candlelight,…

wish i wrote dark, about deep insecurities, a struggling childhood, i wish i wrote like others with words of wonderfull syllables,  bells ringing, you know.   wish i wrote long tomes, to bore myself rigid. to tap the hours away till bedtime, early.   wonder if i shall write serious, tell thee all  hard stories…

fingers tap. can you hear the wind outside, the radio, all things growing, I could. it was the start. should have known this will happen, to me, to all of us. some have had a splendid year, while some have not. shall i speak of crumbled cookies, of those dice, which we collect? no, i…

here this morning, treading one note at a time, pointing toes, wondering about the roof next door in all this wind.   vedro con mio diletto   now the days grow lighter, my head is tied back on, and all seems well.   it all sounds worse than it really is, the beams , you…

having searched for the word, head reels across the room.     the path was mud, the willow cut back to stump.   the memory remains.   snowdrop’s  green appears.   this is not bethlehem. sbm.