la playa

bodies making sand connections
gritty grains grip sunscreened limbs
fresh seawater, skin transluscent
flickering pages gather wind,
facing south,
losing doubt,
tides roll in from Africa.

oriental genies pop up,

hands grant stubborn sinews calm,

shape-shift salesmen trudge to silence

conjure watches down one arm,

on the shore,

breakers roar,
tides roll in from Africa.

rows of blue sombreroed sunbeds

palm trees dance as horses crash
shell collections clear the sea out

tiny feet now make a splash,

all the while

Marbellan style,
tides roll in from Africa.

posted on poetry jam and poets united

Morning Manifesto

Notice the birds. Recognise their song. And join. Click minimize. Smell the salt water and consider where sea meets shore, sifting order from chaos. Watch a dog scamper for a ball with undivided soul. Make yourself smaller. Be astonished by the repeating waves. Scan a horizon line and some headlands. Try to understand  seagulls. Feel patterns being swept onto sand as swirling clouds step aside to introduce sunlight. Click minimize.

Restore yourself down. Consider the cycle of flowers. Reject worry. Look into the blue and watch the daytime moon balance in silhouette. Forget details. Feel small. Breathe deep the sky into your tiny lungs. Concentrate on footsteps: bodies held by gravity, bass drumming lightly against an orbitting planet. Held in space. Sample the growing swell on the shore. Pat that passing dog. Let the sand caress your footsteps as a plane slides past above you. Click minimize.

Accept a sunbeam on your face. Walk slowly. Ask yourself why the air seems so pure today. Watch a dancing robin. Be joined in the movement as birds pirouette through air currents. Accept the joy of their flight. Let a fly land on your hand. Walk beside a golf course and listen to the echo of order. Click minimize.

Life is not a tall order from the ground. Marvel that all you can see is a glimpse. That you are eternal.

Click minimize.

Finally, attempt to grasp that you are small but beautiful...  

Posted for

Theme Thursday and Imperfect Prose

Charlie says

I take myself a quick look round to check everything's hunky dory.

Sure enough it's all the way I remember it. The little notepad at the side of the bed; the white plastic biro; the long blue sofa; the bright menu for the room service nosh.

Tonight's window view could be better: the old factory wall ain't what you'd call inspiring, but it'll take more than that to get me down.

They always stick the bathroom right there next to the door don't they? Funny thing, but it's like I'm drawn straight towards the taps. I love the whoosh that surges around the room when you turn them on. It's diamond. It's like they've got a natural spring supply somewhere on the main road or something.

As it happens, this one's got a nice lived-in feel: the bath's gleaming white at the sides, but down the bottom of it, it's lost a bit of its sparkle. Some scratches on the tiles too and the lino's seen better days, but to be honest, I find rooms like this one reassuring.

I love the little rectangle of soap that's always there on the sink. Wrapped up like a personalised gift. Carefully I open it and grab hold like it's a mobile. I let my fingers run across the smooth surface. Then I hold it to my nose-there ain't no great scent to it, but no matter. Just having it left for me makes me feel like I'm at home.

I guess you've noticed how there's always that message stuck to the tiles? The one about putting your towels in the bath if you want em changed? Help us to help our environment it says, but what they really mean is help us to save us some cash. Quite right. You don't want to be wasteful-it's why our country's in the state it's in. Millions of little bits of wastefulness all add up. You've done it yourself. Under Blair we was all letting it slip through our fingers-never thought it would ever matter. Anyway, the towel thing don't affect me. I'm only ever staying one night, but if it were two, I'd always re-use. Just so's you know. 

Once the water's piping hot, I ease myself in. I'm in there like a liner launching off the quayside. The heat surges through me and I settle down, enjoying the quiet. I'm calm. I'm calm. I let my mind wander through an evening to myself. Soon I'll be lying on the bed flicking through the channels. I'll try and find me a football match if I can. Always love the chance to see a live game. I can still remember the thrill of it when I was a youngster. The FA Cup final or an England match. Sitting on the couch with dad, scarves round our necks. Brilliant times they was... 

I dry off then slip under the covers and scan until I find a Spanish 2nd Division game. I always wonder about them geezers in the studio. How they landed firmly on their feet. Nice suits. Flashy teeth-whitened grins. All for being blessed with the ability to kick a ball across a few blades of grass. A few years of running and now all they have to do is talk. Set up for life they are. Can't imagine John Barnes celebrating a night at a Travelodge...

Still, I'm a happy man. I'm warm. Took me a couple of weeks to save for this here night out. I usually book em up in advance at the library computers. It's cosy in there and if you're clever about it you can follow the deals. Got this one for nineteen quid, didn't I. Makes me smile. I'm having the time of my life. It's a far cry from a night dossing I can tell you.

Tomorrow I'll be back round my patch. It's a good one. Meet loads of folk coming out of the Tesco. Most of em just blank me, but just enough of em give eye contact, and one or two'll stop and buy the Issue. Helps when they smile. Makes a difference.

As soon as I get back there, I'll start saving for another night like this. Tell you what-meet you back here two weeks from now? Maybe speak to you then...


Posted on imperfect prose

Curiosity

hot on the wheels of
alien paparazzi
peace on Mars is snapped...

posted for haiku heights #159

A day in Alnmouth

The pearl of a recent "family and friends" holiday is finally found after a series of rather damp, rainy "stay indoors" sort of days. When the dry weather arrives, with the sun even threatening to pop through the clouds, we head for the village of Alnmouth, situated on the beautiful, unspoilt Northumberland coastline. Ours is not the first visit by Northerners. Previously named a new town under Norman rule in 1150, it was apparently destroyed by Scottish invaders in 1336. Hopefully our brief sojourn will not do too much damage...

There are few signs of destruction as we take up position on the golden shoreline, stretching for miles as far as the eye can see, with the postcard-friendly Coquet Island standing stage right of the horizon. A cool breeze pulls the children into the fast approaching waves: over and over as if being rewound, then fast-forwarded, their brightly coloured wetsuits hop in and out of the lolloping white breakers.

I am holding a "Thomas the tank engine" kite and the strength of the wind provides a constant tug on my hand. The pull is reassuring, as if I'm somehow plugging into nature via the kite's string. I imagine a surge of natural energy, as the wind's current pulses through my body and transfers back to earth via the icy, lapping waves that I'm kicking through. The buffeting sound pounds relentlessly on the kite's plastic. Waves trip to shore and the refreshing smell of seawater is somehow reassuring.

Away from the water's edge, one man is having trouble breaking in a black pony. Like a bronco in a rodeo, she fusses and swishes her tail, unwilling to let nature take its course.

After more paddling, some stone collecting and the important discovery of a snail, we are ready for a simple beach lunch. Sharing sandwiches, we pin down our travel rugs in the face of an increasingly blustery wind as clouds are sent spinning across a clearing blue sky.

Soon the sun is shining as we indulge in a spot of  beach cricket, where the main challenge, at first, is to ensure that the stumps remain upright. We wedge a red boulder against them to keep them intact and soon the ball is free-wheeling away from the bat as a youngster hits a crisp cover-drive across the flattened sand.

A short stroll around town is next on the agenda. We head down Pease's Lane towards Dandelion Cafe, whose bright yellow logo has lured us magnetically away from a more traditional coffee shop. Straight ahead of us as we walk is Alnmouth Village Golf Club. A golfer professionally sizes up, then sinks a long putt on the beautifully manicured green. As if he's just won the Ryder Cup, he collects multiple high-fives from his playing partners.

Sitting in the bright conservatory of Dandelion Cafe, we sip lattes and munch through some large slices of cake, comparing notes on how relaxed we feel. The children are happy to mix cake, ice-cream, water and sachets of sugar into one stupendous, scientific experiment, whilst the "grown-ups" reminisce and mull over  bygone days.

In the bar, local artwork, all vibrant blue skies, remind us of the present and we head back outdoors to catch the rest of the day. As we walk back along the gravel track, dissecting beach and golf course, the swell of the breakers provides a perfect soundtrack.

Soon our cars are swallowing us back into the pace of modern life and we are heading back to complete the last part of the holiday, but the day spent in Alnmouth has been one to remember.

posted on theme thursday- recollections.

practically magic

can't write a script
for the magic man
all smoke and mirrors
stilettoed hands
tight-ropes water
ripped up palms
wakens talitha
puts your head in the sand
sips wine from water
has no fixed abode
feeds a god delusion
on a lonely road
pulls bread from a hat
with a sat-nav for fish
a sixth-sense near sycamores
a real death-wish
wakes up acting
like he never got hit
puts your fist in his side
makes you think he's legit
when he walks through walls
there's nowhere to hide
as he goes up in smoke
leaves for you to decide.




posted for poetry jam
prompt: do you believe in magic?

meaning

cup of tea at twelve
planets turn around the sun
small boy smiles and waves


for: haiku heights 154 meaning

mobile immobile

a world on your fingerprints
clenched like a hand grenade
cyberspace messages
creasing your lips
you're causing diversions
unfazed while a passer-by
trip-wires away from
a virtual time-bomb
you're: surfing haphazardly
liking distractedly
blacking reality
out for a bit
controlled by a microchip
hypno-robotic charged
rendered immobile
when a lamp-post is hit...

Click to see mobile distraction in action here.

Posted  for Theme Thursday-Distraction

first cycle

pedals turn small feet
mother frees and grips air as
he rides off her hands

Posted for Haiku Heights #153 "First"

Ups and Downs: A Day in Western Lake District.

A casual squint at the map was my first mistake of the day.

Choosing the nearest direct route from our cosy holiday cottage in Ambleside to the Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway in the Western Lake District was my second.

I'd visited the railway as a teenager and my memories of it had become enshrined as something magical that must be revisited. Have you ever noticed how time can make an occasion seem much more perfect than it probably was?  I visualised the railway as the perfect day out. I'd tried to take the family there on previous Lake District holidays, but had always been talked out of it. This time there was to be no escape...

What I've learned about the world
 #186023D:
What looks like the quickest route on a map is not necessarily the best one to take.

Maybe the signs should have warned me, but I suppose I must have just ignored them. The Wrynose and Hardnott Passes sounded like something from an afternoon's adventure with Frodo and Sam in "Lord of the Rings". This could be nothing worse than stumbling over a few rocks as heroic music by the London Philarmonic sprinkled onto a magnificent vista.

Unfortunately I had no staff to lean on. Instead my trusty companion was the Citreon Xsara which, it soon transpired, was completely unfit for the task in hand. Maybe in the Shire below, the Citreon might have looked ready for an adventure, but up here in the clouds, it was trembling like a spooked hobbit waiting for some black riders to pass.

Some advice. When you're driving up a mountain in first gear and you have to stop precariously at the edge every few hundred metres or so to let a massive 4x4 go by, always make sure you put the car back in gear. I only forgot this once but it prompted tears from both of my children and a cry of another kind from my wife. You do travel faster sliding back down a steep incline, than you do crunching upwards, it must be said.

What I've learned about the world:
#186023E:
When negotiating a hairy hair-pin bend whilst driving down the side of a mountain and trying to see the way forward, the triangular side/front window of a Citreon Xsara looks less like a mistake and more like a liability.

Oh, and what I've learned about the world

 #186023F:

The Lake District is a very misleading name. Why not the Mountain District?
And,
#186023G:
Never ever drive over anything called a Pass again.
(Hopefully the driver above learned this too...)

Finally we reach Dalegarth Station: the rain comes on and we wander into the gift shop. They are selling certificates for having survived the Passes and my daughter, as if to mock me, asks to buy one.

We've missed the train. It will be an hour until the next one, so we jump back into the Citreon and race another seven miles to Ravenglass. I'm glad that it's flat all the way. 

When we reach Ravenglass, it's not as I remember it. In the adult world, you have to pay to park the car before you can rush to catch the steam engine, but we make it and even have time to grab a cup of tea for the ride.

Steam pours past our open windows and a fantastic little journey through a beautiful landscape of fields, forests and hillsides begins. At last I begin to remember why I've wanted to come back for over twenty years...

When we reach Dalegarth Station for the second time, we notice, this time, the coloured bunting that welcomes us. It coincides with a less stressful feeling now that we have no car to worry about.

We decide to take a saunter along the narrow road and head out into the countryside. Turning right at the Brook House Inn, we find a path that leads us past a little church called St Catherine's and on towards a riverside walk. We sneak under a small bridge (which seems to have been built solely to re-enact the story of "The Billy Goats Gruff") and onto a pebbly riverside.  Throwing stones into the water becomes our focus for the next half hour. We move across stepping stones to the middle of the river, hopping from stone to stone until we reach a perfect little island, full of flat pebbles with which to skim the surface of the river. Almost without realising it, we are having a "this is the life" moment...

Heading back up the path, we are magnetised by the quiet little churchyard. As we wander around, I'm looking for some kind of inspiration and find it in an inscription on slate positioned to the right of the church entrance.

Displayed are the words of a young signalman. They are a moving tribute to the ultimate sacrifice he made for his country as well as his undaunted, unquenchable faith. In this setting, surrounded by hillside, trees and sky, the words seem to resonate profoundly over the decades since they were uttered. 

Back at Dalegarth, crowds are gathering to catch the return train. So much so, that we miss it and are forced to wait for the next one. It becomes warmer for a while and all around us ice creams are beginning to be consumed. A lad bounds over the single narrow gauge line, shouting "Harry, watch this!" to his, at first, non-plussed twin brother.  Soon though, Harry is also long-jumping the line with gusto. As the next train arrives there is a jostling for position. I turn to see one mother left alone, with her baby on the platform as we squeeze into our tiny, wooden carriage.

The journey home starts well and goes a little like this:   

A hawk is hovering on a hillside when I turn to look away. Turning back, the empty sky leaves me wondering what prey has been swooped upon in that instant.

Suddenly out of nowhere, there is panic as a dog in the carriage next to ours suddenly leaps off the train. I am sure he will be crushed under the carriage but he somehow manages to twist right and avoid going under. After, what seems an age, the train grinds to a stand-still and the owner is forced to complete a "walk of shame" past the entire train to retrieve his dog. On his return, he reports the reason for the abrupt departure. His dog, it seems, had simply spotted another dog; love at first bark, puppy love etc.

We chug back into Ravenglass station, thoroughly recharged by our day in the country. The in-between part of the day has been a triumph.

However, it will end, for me at least, in much the same level of confusion as it started. When my daughter jumps up to leave the carriage whilst the train is in motion,  I move too fast to stop her, and bang my head on the metal topped carriage. It hits the sweet spot. Another dose of concussion will follow.

I will go on to enjoy my Lake District holiday, but not until the next couple of days have passed...

Heading back for some food at Broughton-in-Furness, I can't even raise a smile at the pub's name, and don't manage to eat much of my lasagne...

I do manage to get some new directions from the pub's owner, however. We avoid the Wrynose and Hardknott Passes on our return journey to Ambleside, but it's my wife who does the driving this time.

(*It was April 14, 2012 that we visited Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway.)

Blue

Before the firmament
All colides,
An azure confusion
Of chaos subsiding.

Spawned out of darkness into time.

Colour from vapour,

Blurring and charging,
Echo and turbulent,
Celestial and marine,
Mixing and forming,
Searching to be

The work of your hands.

Out of the blue

The storm is still,

A sight of inverted anarchy

Is good

They say.

The storm is still

Inside;

Writhing under a surgeon's knife.

Millennia have not untangled

This lingering Siamese collaboration

Of sea and sea.

Silently,
Under whispering dusk
You are
Transfusing creation,
Making new

And though my sail is set

To glide your ocean,

I am blue.











Posted for Poetry Jam