Category: Member Posts

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.  

two voices, softly said, “yes” they cannot understand the numbers nor find their families.     sbm.

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.   use the brain. remembering strong wrapping paper in folded sheets.   woolworths.   i have a modern roll that tears easily, yet now continue the theme of recycled, flattened yet stil creased, tied with inevitable red thread or…

it is an traditional afghan dress look at the bodice. encrusted with jewellery, history, a desire to buy is curtailed, only by the price. i have searched ebay for another, more affordable, yet tis this one, i love. i can visit, touch and take photographs. the afghan dress is £125, will not fit me. that…

comes out every year, stored in one of the outbuildings.   this is neither poetic nor important, yet we walked down the lane together, slowly.   to place the holly wreath.   sbm.  

i was given a gift . not wrapped just given.      before the winter festival, before the anniversaries.   the gift was given gladly received. if i believed in all that i guess i would give thanks, yet  give thanks anyway. one has escaped.   sbm.

maybe it was the lack of empathy, the first sign in yellow. the others were hidden, yet confessed deeply.   in red, the diagnosis, no doctors here, we have common sense in blue.   understand the fear, the need to lay and weep over all things.   legion, there are many.   sbm.

interupt the day, checking. it is all there to find, old favourites, new, they pray for those in peril each morning, later   from the other room streams the sound of glass.   one battery is spent, the other depleting rapidly. during the run up to christmas i shall replace and back up.   meanwhile.…

has big lumps, i seem to remember. i have those and small stuff too. mother had nutty slack, mixed with water and other stuff to keep it going.   can you still get that these days, i had best google, anthracite was good i feel, and those   briquettes that i thought were for richer…