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 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



the religion virus

today i got

the all-clear



it's rolling

down the road

by itself

an empty can

of energy drink


God is ...

the name

we give to our


i will not

bow down


wet paint

"Wet Paint" 

and so 

my dog 

ever the literalist 




i discover

a new molecule

all that's left

in the tin

of sticky sweets


7 October 2014


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