Author: sonja benskin mesher

so feeling sickly we confused the artificial for real.   came in from the sun.   dazed in the parlour, until the feeling passed.   sbm.  

have you ever gone back, that painful journey, watching swallows dip as if they had never been away. staggering the stones you may find god in water falling. echoing all the tears of your life. sbm.

 i am eight now nearly nine.  tall.   18.65   work the deep mine.  small.   6  to 6,  break for bread, and poetry.    do not whistle, save your breath.       18.70 . apprenticed, looking for promotion. chains.   he is forty one i think, lungs are stone.     forty five,  19.03…

who knows which hour it starts, which minute, rhyme or reason. breaking of rules,        our hearts open.                         split a season. on spring,                 slight chance, light            or prayers can change. sons      move in a prouder stance, yet others rage. black bird sings   early the same bird calls late. sense that nearby one year came straight.…

black bird sings early, the same bird calls late. new light drowns darkness, spring spins around. black bird calls early, the same bird calls late. sonnet sings ten beats to another’s spare sound. who asks for word, who knows which hour it starts, which minute, which rule of rhyme or reason. making of lines ,…

its a tidal river, the sea water comes in to the bridge, where they used to build boats. the river full and still, mid flow, i watched and looked early, i noted the sheep tracks where we run, parallel. ‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would, the grave digger, grinning, ‘ happy new year’…

once again we come back to ourselves, our life , the reality of  things, we stumble through neatly.   while all around is trembling , we weave together with dreams and possibilies.   there is not much more to add, it is lighter now.                                       birds sing early.   once again we come back to ourselves.…

‘i came from another country, you know, quite some time ago. i lived in the jungle’ yes. ‘i have been here so long, i feel i belong’ yes. ‘ they call me an immigrant’ said the bear, sadly. sbm. shot_1344347993915

to go back in the garden. ready for next year. hopefully. sbm.  

winter bare her soul. medieval trees reach up for solstice and better days.   sing in silence and simplicity. sing for those in remembrance .   dark winter bares the soul, those that believe. sing in silence.   one voice breaks. dark winter. sbm.

carrying the book, gently, i find that jesus is off the wall again. breeze from the doors blows him and cobwebbed minds away, as i write the small book, on black keys of words. gentle here this morning, sun dreams in, quiet in all the rooms, and arms held high, i come into the morning,…