Author: sonja benskin mesher

. littled things .

balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.   have done this a while, got the rhythm, the style of dressage and deportment for one of our station.   i don’t have a badge, so look with confidence, courage so they know.      …

it is the moth that speaks. the jaw holds the teeth. ..

in a letter to a friend, never written, never said, sad, it is impossible. to explain. there will be khama, guilt, ridden over mountains, over years. tis tough is guilt. the back bedroom, hankies folded ready, in every room, in pockets now gone musty. the pottery is dusty. i have another life. i have a…

mine, also has become a stranger. how strange. i often do not sleep, so have decided it is not a problem. there is always another world out there, that is not ours. i like mine. i like your writing. sbm  

back to the cathedral where the book says it is all for nothing anyway talk about giving hope away.   a spiritual reduction, a sad deduction from some who should know better   sbm.    

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.…

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…

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.  

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…

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…

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.