Saturday, September 23, 2017


* * *

he says the gallery 

is full of women 

talking about soup 


* * *

she tells me 

her piano tuner hopes 

to get a new knee 


* * *

she says the 

last time I drove 

I hit a badger


* * * 


betting slip in hand 

he tells me 

he's started chemo 


*oct '15 
  

Friday, September 22, 2017


the

window

cleaner's

ladder


leaves

two

small

holes


in

the

planet


*09 01 15 
(revised format) 
published online in Bones No 6, March 2015
and in print in Dwarf Stars Anthology 2016 from the Science Fiction Poetry Association 
 

unwraps a sherbet lemon as the hearse goes past


*26.08.16  
  

Tuesday, September 19, 2017


a

dragon

fly

!

let's

all

wave

to

the

tiny

pilot

 
*5 09 16 
 

small hours

the gardener awake

and listening

to the rain
 
 

undulating cloud

an acorn in

the squirrel's pause

 

autumn drizzle     patches pale where the fairground rides had been     

    

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Friday, September 08, 2017


through an open window      the blustery music of the funfair

   

Monday, September 04, 2017


weighs

down

a

pear

branch

this

side

of

the

wall


gibbous

moon

 

Sunday, September 03, 2017


past

the

last

beach

hut

and

into

the

dunes

we'll

meet

you

there


*23.08.17 
 

dune grasses

somehow we'll hold

it all together

 

that

sound


not

the

first

few

drops

of

rain

but

acorns



*29.08.17 
 

unripe conkers

two guys

  practising bagpipes


*13.08.17 
   

at the centre

of the park

far from any paths

a shopping cart

full of sunlight



*13.08.17 

a row of cacti

frosted glass / and beyond it

the rain



*08.08.17 
  

scudding clouds

33 white sails

on the lake


*06.08.17 
  

where

they

go

on

ahead

the

chime

of

an

untied

halyard



*06.08.17 
  

where

i

am

just

butterfly

scraps

of

sunlight



*04.08.17 
  

tiny

lawn

moths

one

more

pale

word

struggles

free



*04.08.17 
 

summer evening


the gardener's knees thrumming


with nettle stings



*31.07.17 
  

blue hydrangeas

& other things

we do differently

back home


*15.07.17 
  

cloud shadows


his face


a rocky outcrop



*17.07.17 
 

one week later

that piece

of sea glass

in a pocket



*12.07.17 
  

self portrait 


blue tilt 


a red cloud

dusk swallows

the ghost ship



*02.07.17 
   

view from the pier

down between

the boards



*01.07.17 
   
view from the pier: southwold


can't bear it

naked emperors

everywhere



*06.07.17 
  
George Orwell On The Pier


plucks my hat

from my head

wild rose


*14.06.17 
  

" block its nostrils

and a shearwater

gets lost "



" three languages

in a sentence

to express herself "



Two found-haiku that leapt out of the car radio at me.
Guests talking on BBC Radio 4 programmes.

*01.07.17

Saturday, September 02, 2017


bleak day

throws a stick for

the black dog



*28.06.17 
 

& the rain

has dropped black

slugs every where



*28.06.17 
 

turns the pillow

to the cold side returns

to the dream



*30.05.17 
 

poppy heads

the funfair all packed up

& ready to go




*18.06.17 
  

catches

on a rose thorn

her cotton

scarf



*17.06.17 
   

left 

by 

the 

wayside 

sometimes 



self 
   


*06.04.17 
   

So. An act of self-sabotage or one of self-preservation? Too early to tell.

For anyone stumbling into this page by chance, for eight years I was forgottenworks, which was my twitter-based nom de 'ku, and I had a haiku blog, both of which grew to very respectable readership levels.

Er ... Then I ditched them.

I am now back on twitter but under a different name and not among the poets; and I have this page. I am, at the moment, about as anonymous, invisible, and un-read as it's possible to be.

For most of this year, I have not been in the right frame of mind for writing. Well, we had a lot going on, with J's breast cancer diagnosis & treatment, which all coincided with the build-up to L's school GCSE exams (in which he did tremendously well, by the way, thank you for asking). But in just the last week or two there have been signs of the old enthusiasm returning.

On the off-chance that this blog does develop into something over time, there are a couple of things I'd like to get clear right from the start:

I am not a poet. I don't write poetry. These are not poems, even if they sometimes look that way. Think fragmentary prose instead.

Also, despite the fact that a seven word haiku of mine went off on its own to win a prestigious award, I do not think of myself as a writer at all. I don't write for money or to establish any literary reputation. I don't write in a myriad of different forms and styles. Often, I just don't write.

If I write, it is simply as a by-product of paying attention to whatever small moment may catch my mind's eye during any ordinary day. The word mindfullness makes me slightly queasy, but that's essentially what my blog title means. It's how my interest in haiku started, and I suspect that's probably the extent of what I can do. But we'll see.

Let's go beachcombing!

 

Friday, September 01, 2017


All that can be done, has been done. J underwent surgery, one round of chemotherapy (which resulted in a week's stay in hospital, so ill that the chemo, with five more scheduled cycles to go, had to be abandoned) and radiotherapy. So, that's that. As far as we know, she's ok. Unless there's anything else unpleasant lurking in the undergrowth, we can resume grazing by the waterhole.


small hours

reaching for each

other's hand