thirtyone

the last day of January thirtyone stones paving the path.......

 aby bird spirals
like a falling leaf
learning to fly

thirty

and waka three   koko/maturity


old familiar chipped green tiles
swept away by a rising tide
of smooth new grey

twentynine

alone on the ochre winter plains
a stark and windbent quercia
stands guardian to a circling of ragged sheep

twentyeight

 and waka day one /fukinsei/ assymetry


the perfume exhaled
by an early morning bath towel
awakens memories of a long forgotten hotel

memories of a long forgotten hotel
the perfume exhaled
by an early morning bath towel

twentyseven

Reflected in the shop window
He yanks the lead and shouts.
I close my eyes and check myself.

twentysix

Spiny artichokes
Barbaric medieval jousters
Held captive in a red bucket

twentyfive

I know, by the way she runs her tongue over her teeth, that I have lipstick on mine.

twentyfour

At the shrine, I touch my lips to the sacred topknot , small stone Buddha.

twentythree

Living smells streaming like banners
In the pungent seasalt wind,
And the cat is driven to a shapeshifting frenzy.

Her small black shadow spins,
A flying fox
A giddy goat
A gecko clinging to the floor,
A dying swan
A bullet from a gun,
All seven samurai swords.

Edit 25 Jan
Talking to fellow smallstoners confirmed my thoughts, the first three lines would have been adequate by themselves..


Living smells streaming like banners
In the pungent seasalt wind,
And the cat is driven to a shapeshifting frenzy.

And the second part needs to be something by itself, the dynamics are there, it's just a matter of working out how to link those to the movements of a cat..for now it could be

The cat spins shadows on the wall

A flying fox
A giddy goat
A gecko clinging to the floor,
A dying swan
A bullet from a gun,
All seven samurai swords.

twentytwo

The wind's blade has a jagged edge.

 And today the sun with biblical rays can only reach the elusive, unattainable, illusory  horizon, transmuting it to rolling, liquid silver.

day twenty twenty vision

And suddenly the sun breaks through, 
Transforming the miserable, grey soaked fabric of this day
Into a twinkling curtain of radiant, glistening beads.

nineteen washday

peelings

And peeling the potatoes
I found myself thinking of  layers mash
And remembering all  those chickens
And the  bantams
And the game bird
Blue and green eggs
And someone telling me not go in the coop
Wearing red toe paint.
The fox that killed them all
The giant goat mad with grief
The black kitten dragging in a rabbit
Twice his size.
The welsh settle,
Riddling the aga.
The enormous fireplace that we could all stand in and look up at the moon.
Mike's joke about the shovel.
Your joke about my mince pies.
The pink front bedroom
The sloping bathroom floor
The pub sign I painted
Your yellow van
Your blue green eyes
Your dark celt heart.
A tarnished wedding band
That I no longer wear
And a welsh last name
That I no longer bear.

day eighteen birdspotting

 irst a fluster and a flurry  

a soft grey smudge

a fat feathered belly

a pearl of a downy head

and  then suddenly

                a veritable comet of a tail 

                blazing a trail of gorgeous orange glory across the tangling green foliage.

sweet seventeen

rain beats a steady tattoo 
on my sou' wester coloured umbrella
marking time for the watery symphony
playing in the gutters and the drains.

day sixteen

The  black bird with a yellow beak  flirting and skirting the black cat with yellow eyes, a vast schism behind the same colours

Day 15 still the storm inspires

Dirty clouds pour downwind, beaten relentlessly on while unleashing furious rain.

Day fourteen, something completely different.

n  the orange pool of a street light,enveloped in  the smell of french fries and pizza by the slice, I turned  from the evening hustle of people, cars,scooters and bikes, dogwalkers, floppy teenagers and pushchair mums and  looked at the sea out there in the dusk. Dark, surly, lowering and boiling, immense, oily and roaring, blanketed by an endless squalling  purple bruise of a sky, a terrible, untameable, alien force just feet away from our funny,busy, little lives.

thirteenth

During the storm
A hooded crow pauses for respite on a nearby roof
Giving rise to a pearly fluttering of doves.

twelfth night

Looking up, I see the Ghost Cat

day eleven

sing that sample sachet of
expensive Viola shower creme

I'm suddenly rapt with memory.

An intense taste of childhood.
Those slim cellophane wrapped tubes,
The beautiful  colour
That slightly soapy taste
The way the centre dissolved first
The exotic foreigness of Parma
The romantic mystique of violets.

day ten

at dusk a sudden  raw and  bone bleaching wind 
ushers in an ethereal symphony 
of high running seas and wheeling gulls

the ninth ray day

the reverse-thrust sound of the moka 

startles  the slatey pink and birdwhistling dawn

the eighth day

waking suddenly in flu bound confusion
muffled mind struggling 
to where a slivering light gleams
the sensation of fighting against dark green water
held in the sharkish jaws
of relentless fragmentary dreams

seventh day haiku stone

soft sweet airy breeze
whispers of tender new green
and blossomful buds

 

Day Six Sunday

cool dawn hot coffee
white breath black cat
bells ringing birds singing
a horn, a dog, a shout
someone calling
someone whistling
green finch and silver doves
door slamming, engine revving
the sky,
the sea, 
the blue.

Rabbit at the cat door
Outside looking in.
Waiting patiently
For The Prestige to be revealed. 

day four fast food stone

Oh the guilty pleasure
In the golden buttery peppery dripping saucy heaven 
That is a fried egg sandwich.

Day Three Ay Me

I should be studying the dharma,
I should be writing a small stone,
But feeling sniffly and full of a cold
Feeble excuses raise their ugly heads.
I look down at the crumpled tissue in my hand,
A piece of humble kitchen paper...
And then I see it.
A simple truth lives within its border design
A lotus and a butterfly.
The lotus chases the butterfly,
The butterfly chases the lotus,
And in the empty paperwhite pauses
there is an open,waiting spaciousness.

Day Two Orange Haiku

Six oranges bask,
Knowing themselves so handsome
Against their grey bowl.

The First Small Stone 2013

The cousins' dog
comes wheeling and bounding among us,
his bark a great bursting hymn of joy,
his yard broom coat whiskery and coarse,
the love on his tongue
rough, indiscriminate, unquestioning.
He lifts and  lightens the day.