to add to...
sea blue crystal
aquamarine sea blue crystal
white light crests roaring air rolling sound
snaking rocks rocking long harmonic breath
tones spilling waves sluicing waterfalls
sweeping volcanic plateau rock pool shore bound surf stretches
leaning impressions traversing stone sarong skin pore cliff
tidal-pull-wash beckoning back to sea jagged shell
rock pool waking life white lightening fireworks sea blue
crystal dreams confetti-ing flowering word shoals
aquamarine to indigo darkening depths
opening violet fathoms peddling stretch runners longing
an azure horizon
arching curves returning light-lapis cloud lines sun tints pink
sunset flamingo golden amber flare lavas wet sand dry
rose golden embers white bubbles inhale
turquoise to malachite
sarong sling
sarong sling on the beach tattoos from the wrist draped around a shoulder silk enough for a kite against the sky...calm breeze blows ribbon frays silky wing fluttering the feathery palm tree menagerie of birds - no cat except half-a-tail snoozing on the tin roof of The Beach Shack - yawning yoga hot noon Madam Sangria glasses and sun-wrinkles polishes a silver tray, flashes the napping parrots, dazzles eyes inhaling sea bubbles wets lips and the golden nectar beads rolling the icy glass of a nice cold beer soon reflect sarong tattoos draping the painted haiku of shells quietly reading stones at the bar.
if the dress
The busy tailor, and the hardworking seamstress, too hot for May, whispers ‘…hear your woman is wearing her sarong? say they saw her dance flamenco in the square, say she was a diamond kite in the night sky too…seen your woman rough diamond the clouds?…say she laughs in the streets every day a painting – and say it’s scandalous; there were photographs, flash photographs..’
The tailor looks up and smiles, ‘I hear my woman is wearing her sarong like a kite, dancing at the beach in the moonlight while I am working on the ribbons and frays’ and the seamstress blushes by the window embroidering the sash with petals, ‘yes…yes…I’m listening out for her too…’ laying her template on the cloth, no straight lines to cut - ‘if the dress’ she said, the afternoon she wore her sarong to the beach.
Japanese under the sun
It is red, this sun, and any other word
would be glaringly ostentatious, when
this poem ought reflect the Zen-like quality
of a pretty plate of dead sliced fish
on palm rolled balls of rice.
In which case - the waiter, waits,
the chopsticks lift lips of fish,
the bamboo knocks to point out stillness,
the bubbles lean on ice-cubes in the glass,
while the sun
.................... bleeds
................................ecstatic
..........................................colours to the sky.
Dreamer’s tin of Graffiti Special
“You are a Dreamer!” she says
slightly exasperated to say the very least
the popped Champagne cork
the souvenir magnum smoking the sarong
so I simply take a ladder to the horizon line
lean it against the sky
climb each rung as high as I can
take out my tin of Graffiti Special
write ‘I LOVE YOU’ in huge
rounded letters on the blue
slide down the ladder
becoming a canoe and paddle
my heart out heading for the sarong
now a haiku of shells quietly reading
and if a cloud goes by and the sarong
becomes a Japanese scarf on the washing line
it may be of interest to note a bird in a haiku
calls just before I open the Champagne.
Daisy,
The other day, a complete stranger
ran up to me and said, ‘Let’s
get married! Let’s get married!
and hopped on to my tandem.
Naturally I replied, ‘Miss,
we’ve only just met. Please -
remove yourself from my bicycle,
that seat is reserved for Daisy.”
Mercifully, she obliged and wandered off,
just before Daisy appeared
carrying a shopping bag for her dad,
“Alright Ducks?” she said, “I’m knackered”
and placed her belongings into the basket,
hopped on board, buffed the chrome with her hanky,
and looked just fine, “You take it easy, my love,
I’m as fit as a fiddle to peddle the metal.
You freewheel a starfish.” and peddled off,
hard up the hill; easy-sailing all the way home.”
Maya, the dragonfly’s wife.
'Radical Forgiveness?' asked the dragonfly, 'Is that what forgiving the self is before becoming?'
'Before becoming, what? asked the rabbit, very confused.
'Less Radical. Or more. Depends which way you look at it..’ said the dragonfly barely moving a muscle.
‘Sometimes I think you are being deliberately superficial!’ said Maya, the dragonfly’s wife, stepping onto her bicycle. The rabbit looked this way, and that, and didn’t say a word, except 'Fisherman!'
‘You want to go somewhere?’ asked the dragonfly, keeping perfectly still.
‘Yes. Of course dear,’ she replied, remarking on the splendid neatness of line, of a nearby damselfly’s dress, so steady against the breeze.
'Fisherman! Fisherman!' said the rabbit, sneezing loud enough for the damselfly to feel a slight chill of wing muscle, and stretch, in all directions..
'Splendid!' said the dragonfly's wife.
to 08
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