23 October 2014

another bowl


there goes

another bowl


i wasn't broken

until religion

broke me

 

unpicked apples


unpicked apples

the ambitions of my Spring

now withered

 

roadkill


roadkill pheasant

all the blustery colours

of autumn

 

driving north


driving north

through my head a swirl

of starlings

 

in one go


in one go

all the rain

in a rainstick

 

windfall days


windfall days

at last i let go

of the tree

 

virus


the religion virus

today i got

the all-clear

 

rolling


it's rolling

down the road

by itself


an empty can

of energy drink

 

God is ...


the name

we give to our

ignorance


i will not

bow down

 

wet paint


"Wet Paint" 

and so 

my dog 

ever the literalist 

does 

  

molecule


i discover

a new molecule


all that's left

in the tin

of sticky sweets

 

7 October 2014

pumpkin


full moon rises

i try to lift our

ridiculous pumpkin

 

after all this time, an intro


Recently, I found myself digging into this blog's archive, picking a month and seeing what I might find in there. This proved to be an uncomfortable experience. Much of it is not good. Some of it, it seems to me now, is bewilderingly terrible. Most of my life, I shredded, burned, or just threw away everything I wrote; I have always tended to erase myself as I go along. And so, as on a number a previous occasions, it took willpower not to press Delete on this blog, for ever.

The blog Beachcombing For The Landlocked, though, as I must keep telling myself, is not a showcase. It's not a glass-fronted, velvet-lined display cabinet. It is just a cardboard box. It's a place to put stuff for the time being - the shells, pebbles, sea glass, bits of driftwood and blue nylon rope, picked up from my walk along the shoreline of everyday life with the intention, maybe, of one day making something out of them. 

And so, if I do delve into the archive from time to time, it is just to fetch that box in from the shed, or down from the attic, and sift through it to let those bits and bobs remind me of particular moments and perhaps spark a new idea or two. Sometimes, when the sea's salt sheen has dried, you can't imagine what made you pick up that moment in the first place; but, on this occasion, I was able to use the fragments here to fashion several new ornamental tiny haibun.

The phrase Beachcombing For The Landlocked, however, sums up what has become a kind of personal philosophy. I really should get it put on a T-shirt. 
 

6 October 2014

i came. i saw. i played conkers


Sunlight scrawled on a stone wall. The glitter pen cursive of snail trails.

Each of my haiku says, simply, I was here.


old habits

i check their graffiti

for typos