The Ambitious Drifter

Words, Images and The Occasional Noise


18 Comments

Magical Talismans In Sand

When I first saw the patterns made by the crabs I thought it was a message for me alone. Now I know differently. I learned to listen to what the tide was telling me. The beach is their canvas, there are many messages as each crab expresses what it feels.

Butterfly

In my dream it was promised

I will be this next.

The tides have told me

I will live in the sun

And make my nest out in the air

The waves will be a memory

Contending clouds

Will be my wide new sea.

wpid-img_20150312_155316.jpg

Hawk

The shadow of the hawk

Will keep my nemesis – heron

Away, he will not dare

To land near here

My strong magic

Protects me still

wpid-img_20150331_135134.jpg

Comet

This ocurred in our mothers’ time,

The time of our parents

Beyond our parents.

We watched it fall, that star

Dragging down darkness

Howling as it came.

Soon it grew cold,

Many of the creatures around us

could not survive.

We crabs still

Live upon this beach,

Going, as we do,

About our business.

wpid-img_20150331_135236.jpg

More art by crabs


6 Comments

A Kitchen Poem

Kitchen Poem.

I love exotic bottles with their breath balsamic,
Where fragrance stays and curves promise.
Magical futures might be implied.
In the spice rack of my pride
These will be my kitchen totems.

So happy in my planning
I scrape the labels back
To the sandstock of the glass
I wonder, a class thing perhaps
To gentrify these pickle jars.

I gently warm the nicest oils
Add garlic, chilli, imagination,
My hope of meals and salad dreams.
And then I store them, wait and see
Find other little kitchen schemes.

Dragged out later from the dust
Back of the shelf, lid half rust
Debate if to taste, with deadened nerves
The flavour if any, not equal to the curves.

kitchenwax2My kitchen shelf. Processed with ‘hot wax coating’ in Paint Shop Pro.

 


3 Comments

When The Trees Came Down

Our ten-minute free-write is back for another round! Tap away on whatever comes to mind, no filters attached. (Feel free to edit later, or just publish as-is).

OK, I haven’t blogged a poem for a while. 10 minutes worth it is………….

When The Trees Came Down

When the trees came down, such weight!
I felt the sound deep through my feet,
The ground passed on the strain.
I thought it strange then, so loud an end,
I had not ever heard them rise.
Only the sly deep rumble,
That was background to my life.

wpid-img_20141113_020924.jpg

What’s left of the trees in the field by my house

More words…. .

Mostly Frank

Latimer Naseby. 

 Copyright notice.


4 Comments

The Drunk Outside My Window

.

There’s a man beneath my window

I can smell his drunken halo.

On warm winds in the evening

I can sense his stale sweet breath.

Small birds gather round him

For the crumbs dropped from his beard.

He exhales only memories

He’s the end of the summer feast.

It’s the vine my neighbour used to keep

Before he passed away,

The fruit that I can never reach

It ferments before its time.

I thought the the season was good this year,

The winter barely came.

But the grapes are small and bitter

I will not risk the climb.

As I sit beside my window to

Catch the last of the summer air,

The drunk who dreams the seasons

Reminds me he’s still there.

This is another experiment adding sound to my blog. The poem, the music and the photos were all made today.  Alas, I cannot convey to you the scent….. it smells like last night’s wine glasses.

 Copyright notice.


2 Comments

Daily Prompt: It’s Alive!

One day, your favorite piece of art — a famous painting or sculpture, the graffiti next door — comes to life. What happens next?

Dejeuner sur l’herbe

The ogre is having a picnic
Down there in the park,
Don’t go too close, be careful
He might well bite, or bark.

He’s sitting on the softish grass
Reading an ogre-ish book.
Don’t risk getting eaten up
Just to have a look.

The ogre enjoys the sunshine
Just like one of us,
But his lunch was half a postbox
And a number 14 bus.

At least the bus was empty
He swallowed it with a slam,
It wasn’t quite the perfect lunch
He’d fancied a bit of tram.

He’s best left to his business
Let sitting ogres rest
A number 14 bus is such
A big meal to digest.

000_0043

 Avenue Louise, Brussels, Belgium