The Ambitious Drifter

Words, Images and The Occasional Noise


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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.

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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

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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.

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More art by crabs


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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.

 


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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.

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

More words…. .

Mostly Frank

Latimer Naseby. 

 Copyright notice.


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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.


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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


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Running Lines

Tell us about a time you couldn’t quite get your words or images to express what you wanted to express. What do you think the barrier was? For bonus points, try again.  Photographers, artists, poets: show us EXPRESSION.

I’ve never been known to be lost for words. I can express myself any time, without thought or consideration.  It might not be correct or coherent, but there’s plenty of words!

For my photos, it’s a matter of choosing images to fit a theme, but I almost never take pictures with an idea in mind (unless it’s a photo of a door)

I do agonise over poetry. It  can take years to complete a piece. A poem can only be abandoned… never perfected.  The art of haiku is probably the closest to reaching perfection. The verse is short and they come in sets.

Here’s a poem (imperfect)  and a few photos to go with it. I wrote the verse in my head almost as I took the pictures, rare for me.  I’m editing the poem even now, but I have to stop and hit ‘publish’.

Running Lines.

The tide is a tireless hunter
It never stops just turns
Denying us security
Keeping its arcane times.
It beaches all our floating schemes
Or drowns them in the wash,
Makes shoal our deepest harbours
Makes seas of our safest docks.

But I have got the measure
Against the shifting times,
My running line is set here
My boat is not becalmed.
It does not please my aching back
Can shred skin from my hands,
But this tide cannot lock me in
Or leave me on this sand.
My boat is mine to take me
Away to where I’m going,
Free to make my travels,
Free to bring me home.

Hawkesbury River, NSW, Australia.


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A Hat Full Of Light.

For a moment today, time stands still — but you can tweak one thing while it’s stopped. What do you do?  Photographers, artists, poets: show us STILLNESS.

Stillness is the essence of photography. We have captured a moment, somewhere around 1/200th of a second or less. Our cameras let us decide how small a slice of reality we want to have.  Once taken, the image is ours. We can concentrate on seeing what we wanted to see, or begin to notice what else was there. A final tweak, we can begin to see what isnt really there, artifacts of our imagination.

Time does stand still, it’s a dimension. We, however, continue to move within it.  Photography, art and literature are our attempts to  make sense of what we see as we drift forever downstream.

If time could be stopped

I’d walk across the glassy water

Filling my hat full of light.

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Click to enlarge