i-land-i-site

shore line

2011-09-23T17:15:00.003+02:00

shore thing, a photo by floots on Flickr.

home

2011-08-09T09:16:00.002+02:00

home, a photo by floots on Flickr.

2011-07-25T14:01:00.002+02:00

equilibrium, a photo by floots on Flickr.

lily

2011-06-29T19:05:00.002+02:00

lily, a photo by floots on Flickr.

watching others work

2011-06-26T11:54:00.002+02:00

watching others work, a photo by floots on Flickr.

baby starlings

2011-06-16T14:18:00.003+02:00

baby starlings, a photo by floots on Flickr.

curves

2011-05-10T18:17:00.000+02:00

curves, a photo by floots on Flickr.

pedestrian advice

2011-04-28T11:22:00.002+02:00

pedestrian advice, a photo by floots on Flickr.

haiga 273

2011-04-18T19:29:00.000+02:00

haiga 273, a photo by floots on Flickr.

old blues (composed this morning)

2011-04-05T19:48:00.003+02:00

old blues (composed this morning), a photo by floots on Flickr.

coast

2011-04-02T13:00:00.001+02:00

coast, a photo by floots on Flickr.

solo for two voices

2011-03-27T12:56:00.000+02:00

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steps

2011-02-18T13:23:00.000+01:00

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seeing the complete picture

2011-02-17T16:08:00.000+01:00

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searching for arrowheads

2011-02-14T05:45:00.000+01:00

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cuillins sunrise

2011-02-03T11:09:00.000+01:00

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ECG - an old poem set to some of my daughter's recent pictures

2011-01-30T17:30:00.002+01:00

ecg
Originally uploaded by floots

How did you come to coat my heart with frost
When once it glowed for you with inner heat?
Indeed it seems the warmth has all been lost:
My pulse just footsteps down an empty street.
The seasons traced our romance all too well,
From vernal rush to summer’s sated sloth,
Then on to autumn’s soft unwelcome knell,
Which let rust’s colours mar our fading troth
‘Til winter struck and left our branches bare,
No leaves left in this grieving lover’s tome,
So water turns to ice without a care,
And dresses life in sullen monochrome.
While I take refuge in a wordsmith’s art
In hope this verse might melt your heart.

winter sonnet (fencing - take two)

2011-01-17T08:38:00.000+01:00

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fencing

2011-01-11T09:20:00.000+01:00

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invisible roses

2011-01-09T16:15:00.001+01:00

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highland haibun

2010-11-22T20:59:00.001+01:00

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november garden

2010-11-10T15:08:00.000+01:00

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2010-10-31T19:31:00.000+01:00

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Sonnet On Coffee In The Early Hours

2010-10-20T13:27:00.001+02:00

Sonnet on Coffee In The Early Hours

I know so well that sleep won’t take me back,
But lie and shift ‘midst half-forgotten dreams,
Then sigh and roll and stumble out of bed
To dress by Braille and mem’ry in the dark.
The cat curls round my legs in mewed surprise
As I, ignoring all that good advice,
Stand watching while the kettle tries to boil,
Fighting the adage and night’s silvered light.
I hold a purring bundle in my arms,
Let heat and coffee percolate the room,
‘Til melancholy doffs ironic hat
To greet defeat by vapour with a smile.

The sky plays blues in endless empty bars:
The hill behind the house holds up the stars.

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2010-10-14T19:50:00.000+02:00

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2010-09-21T13:01:00.000+02:00

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woolly thinking

2010-08-23T18:15:00.000+02:00

i was up just before dawn
sitting there in a pre-caffeine trance
waiting to lose myself in toast marmalade and strong black coffee
it was too early (and i was too late) for the puerile smiles of breakfast tv
so
i opened the curtains to let in the half-light

outside

other figures moved
three men four dogs
and
a paisley swirl of moving lambs
wide-eyed wash-whirling across the hillside below the house
i munched and pondered
as the dogs
arched like eager mobile commas
crouched stalked and sprinted
to
control eddies of ovine obstinacy

my coffee
and the round up
ran out about the same time

the sheep were bleating in the pens
as a big artic backed down the lane

for once
i let diligence triumph over gastronomy
and
laced up my boots
for a walk
then
set off with that aimless plod of the terminally indecisive

i watched gulls rise from the low-tide flats
saw rabbits scamper ahead of me
and
disappear into the fireweed
with a flash of scut and purpose

i wandered through waist-high wet bracken
shivering as water ran down my thighs
until
my random ellipse brought me back onto the road
just as the big truck turned out of the T-junction

the lambs looked out at me
their eyes transmitting all kinds of who what whys
they had no idea where they were going
maybe
they figured i had some answers

yeah right
on down days i need a map to find my asshole or my id
still
the thought gave me a smile

or was it a sheepish grin

i decided to think about it over coffee

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fresh start

2010-08-19T08:43:00.000+02:00

even a good guy has his flaws

2010-08-14T11:06:00.000+02:00

Floor Coverings - A short poem by Walter Wall

When Jimmy came to fit the carpet all the house was such a mess.
I shifted ev’ry f%$*ing object (and lost my temper, I confess.)
I moved the books; I moved the tables; moved the telly and the chairs.
(Alas I didn’t move my bowels - I had no time for selfish cares!)

When Jimmy came to fit the carpet everything was upside down:
Searching for the simplest treasure gave me cause to weep and frown.
But in the end of course he finished; I tidied up and that was that.
I sat down with a gin and tonic ………..
“What’s that bump? Oh, where’s the cat!”

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iPod therefore i am

2010-08-13T17:29:00.003+02:00

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(livin' on) mesambryanthemum time

2010-07-25T13:07:00.000+02:00

maybe
(like all the best horizons)
it’s about change
or
about where you stand

are you lookin’ at your feet
or
measurin’ orion’s belt

you may be waitin’ for sun-up
or
wishin' for the quiet comfort of the night

they’ll come around

stay close - when the clouds are scudding high in summer skies
stay close - when the moon is a tenuous silver wraith
as long as i feel your sleeping breath against my skin

they’ll come around

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liken unto frost

2010-07-14T11:15:00.000+02:00

lichen on silver bark
sensuous braille in dappled summer light
one could do worse than be a clinger of birches

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caledonian canal

2010-07-01T11:30:00.000+02:00

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2010-06-20T11:59:00.000+02:00

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Return To Tender (Sonnet written after Elvis had left the building?)

2010-06-14T16:57:00.001+02:00

Of course I know that times weren’t always good
Between us. Passion can give way to spite
When fairy tales don’t end quite as they should
And ev’ry harmless word becomes a slight.
Perhaps, then, distance can become a friend,
With mist-filled miles to insulate the rift
Which simply being close cannot forfend:
Love’s slow, remorseless, continental drift.
Now words which once I whispered in your ear
Must live in letters scrawled upon a page,
In hope that they may pierce a heart’s veneer.
While you, in turn, will let your pen assuage
What’s done: each finding in our gaunt epistles
The hard and soft of love: the wool; the thistles.

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Note: for the benefit of any "purists", I would point out that I decided to allow content to triumph over form and deliberately added an extra syllable to each line of the final couplet.

2010-06-06T18:26:00.000+02:00

garden heat

2010-06-05T13:17:00.000+02:00

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sonnet

2010-06-03T19:01:00.000+02:00

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2010-05-31T16:18:00.001+02:00

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2010-05-18T16:34:00.000+02:00

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the usurer's lament

2010-05-10T16:30:00.003+02:00

the internet is a vast store of info right
doesn’t matter what you’re looking for
cross-stitch patterns
hard-core
cary grant’s real name
it’s all gonna be there
(you could probably find a hard-core cross-stitch pattern
featuring said actor
but
would you want that on your wall)

however
there is a downside to all this “research” ……
people get ill - they go online before they go see the doc
see that boil on your butt
(in the literal sense this may require a mirror on a stick
just google - i’m sure you’ll find one)

meanwhile - back at the pustule
is it malignant
infectious
an STD
or
the result of being bitten by some evil life-form
man - by the time you finally get to see a medic
you’re damn near suppurating information

problem is this
you got a pc
but
your gp has an md
(all these initials are making me ill - hold on while i log on to see if that’s likely)
they don’t like being second-guessed

which - finally - brings me to the point
my job is kinda stressful
and
i don’t get a lotta sympathy
moneylender huh - you deserve whatever gets thrown at you
well it can’t be boring - you’ll never lose interest
(wish i had a pound for every time i’ve heard that one)
if i give clients a hard time - i’m a bastard
if i go easy - i’m a mug
so
i get wound up
my heart rate is too high
i got a rash
and
now
on top of it all
i’m a little blocked down below
(if you take my meaning)

so
i went online
checked out my symptoms
and
possible links with my profession
then
and only then
i made an appointment with the doc

i spent twenty minutes reading copies of reader's digest from 1991
until i was called in
what seems to be the problem she said
so i filled her in on my job and lifestyle
then cut to the chase
and
told her about my tough times in the toilet

i’ve done some background reading on this i said proudly
and
i believe it could be stress-related constipation
exacerbated by immersion in constant moral dichotomy
as seen in the case of gardener and keech - 1972

wow i’ve never seen anyone so angry
(subsequent surfing has revealed that she displayed
“apoplectic aural vapour expulsion syndrome”)
she just gave me this cold withering look

truth is i was so scared that my bowel problem resolved itself
(albeit a little too suddenly for comfort)

then she leaned back
took a deep breath
and said
through gritted teeth
(“anger-induced bruxism”)
with a voice so slow
it was like malevolent molasses

no shit shylock

(anyone wanna buy a computer)

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tight security

2010-05-08T16:19:00.001+02:00

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2010-05-07T19:59:00.000+02:00

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bloom

2010-04-27T11:11:00.004+02:00

cowslip

an unassuming word
a
word
with very little ……. prepossession

cowslip

a small yellow flower
which lights up hedgerows
and
grassy banks

my mother liked them

recently
i returned to the haunts of my youth
a place of strolls and stolen kisses
this time
we drank latte and visited a garden centre
(such are the pleasures of advancing years)
but
while there - amidst the ardent middle classes
i found a beacon beam of mellow light
a cowslip
(a wild flower tamed - but reaching through the bars)

i bought it - for it gave me hope

later
now alone
i set off to drive home
but
decided on a detour
a chance to walk through woods
which i had last seen
when i was full of angst and hormones
(they – like me - had little changed)
i donned my “stout hiking boots”
(a sign that i have acquired some sense
- or that i now have more than one pair of shoes)
and
simply
walked
mooched
maybe even
meandered
through the beech woods of my tormented treasured teens

no big deal
i nodded to the trees i knew
said hi to absent friends
and
puddledwaded in the mud of tractor-rutted paths
squelching through the past
until i reached the car
and
made the long drive home

thirteen hours of stale sandwiches
expensive petrol
nocturnal pees in pissers the size of concert halls
a
journey
which
like all good journeys
had to have an end

in sleep

next day i finally got round to unpacking the car
and there
side by side in the snug darkness
were the cowslip and my dirty boots
i got a trowel
dug out a new home for my floral refugee
then paused
and
went back for my boots
brought them over
and
into the freshly dug hole
scraped off the now-dried mud from those woods
before
carefully setting the plant

then
as if it were a botanical firework
i quit the blues touchpaper
and
retired immediately
until
this morning
when
glancing through a rain-streaked window
i saw the glow of today’s bloom
made all the brighter
for having its roots in yesterday

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alfresco food for thought

2010-04-20T16:48:00.000+02:00

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taking my doggerel for a walk

2010-04-09T18:43:00.000+02:00

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eynort april 2010

2010-04-04T08:38:00.000+02:00

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quiet heat

2010-03-19T09:10:00.000+01:00

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2010-03-16T10:15:00.004+01:00

i can’t remember whose idea it was
it had been one of those endless nights
full of fingerpicking guitar
and
lyrics that made the clock stand still
maybe the cider helped too
passing round the gallon jug
dreaming of blossom windfalls and clear days

perhaps that was the starting point
let’s build a kite
there were no hows whys or health and safety brainstorms
yeah man - build a fucking kite - sounds good
(team spirit before the jargonheads got their tentacles on it)

string bamboo-canes and plastic bin liners
an uninspiring recipe but it did the job
we soon had a black diamond
ready for its meeting
with the
moon

the tail was just another length of string
with paper bows every foot or so
i
remember
tearing up magazines from the pile i kept for collage-making
(that’s how rommel’s death mask came to be flying over devon)

the four of us tumbled out of the flat
clutching the kite the night and each other
and
made our noisy way to the green above the cliff gardens
an approaching autumn storm was already setting the big pines swaying
while the illuminations’ tinted bulbs
(for the joy of holidaying visitors)
swung and bobbed
filling the place with colours
(sometimes the colours were there when the lights were not
but that’s a sixties story for another time)

i had heavy line on an old centre-pin reel which had been my grandad’s
the girls carried our creation across the grass
struggling to hold it steady in the buffeting air
(i can still see their hair their eyes their halo of mischievous excitement)
once they were fifty or sixty feet away
they let go
we didn’t even have to run
our makeshift machine soared and wheeled
in a rattle of plastic and whispering swirling tail
it caught colours
drew a line across the gibbous moon

and
at times
was lost in darkness
just a simple
pulsing
beat
a
p
r
e
s
e
n
c
e

which lived on even when we couldn’t see it

gulls joined in the fun
appearing and disappearing
in silvered flight through the aura of scattered street lamps

maybe it crashed
maybe it tore itself to pieces in one of those gothic pines
fact is i can’t (or won’t) remember
we must have gone back - subdued but still bubbling
perhaps there was love and cocoa

all i know is that that damn kite is still flexing and flying
i’ve built many more over the years
even had one of those carbon fibre stunters for a while
but
none of them quite match that september night

i must’ve flown a score of kites
standing there
holding the line
trying to reel in the arcing sky
but
only now
writing this writhing tale of words
have i realised
that
all along the tense vibrating years ........

the sky was reeling me

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icarus schmicarus - a nature ramble

2010-03-11T11:25:00.005+01:00

some days i feel the need to fly
like
get in touch with my inner bird
grab a thermal
do some somnolent circling
maybe
a bloodracingheadpounding exultant swoop

what i actually did
was the true guy thing
forgive the stereotype - but i got the credentials
(though that ain’t what the doc calls ‘em)
i headed for the shed
haven of cobwebs sawdust and rusty tools
(no you smartass - the doc didn’t say that either)

i got my overalls
and
smeared ‘em up real good with the grease gun
rubbed it in ‘til it shone like a squire’s forehead
then
i found one of the cat’s cast-off cushions
slit it with my trusty pen-knife
and
spread the feathers all over aforementioned greasy garment
next i got an old pair of gardening gloves
stitched larger feathers to them
(i’ll leave out the bit about spending three hours chasing chickens)
let them reach out way beyond the fingers

i went back inside the house and found a balaclava
but
around this time
i was distracted by mr budweiser
and
a cheese and red onion sandwich
so
it was a while before i staggered back to shedland
and
completed my feathery head

finally
as
i wrigglesqueezed myself into my new outfit
i caught a dusty glimpse of myself
in an old hubcap i have nailed to the wall
no more work needed
as
i’m already pretty well endowed in the proboscis department
(enough with the doctor jokes)

now
i wrestled with my conscience
it didn’t take long
for the first time ever fight or flight was a real option
choring or soaring
no contest
i struggled up the hill behind the house
(leaving a trail of grease feathers and bemused sheep)
then
stood at the top
arms outstretched
letting the wind play riffs on my gloved pinions

all i had to do was jump
maybe that’s always been my problem
i shuffled a little
twitching like a constipated cat
(difficult to do when you’re dressed like a bird)
but
couldn’t make that leap of faith

a shadow passed across my face
i figured it was the reality director’s clapperboard
calling cut on all birdwords
then
i glanced up to see a curious goldie
spiralling above me

no contest man
i sat down kinda disconsolate

maybe eagles can do more than clasp crags with crooked hands
(i’ve always had doubts about tennyson’s syntax on that one anyway)
this particular bird - showing more than a little fellow-feeling
(that’s empathy not fondling)
swung around a few more times
then glided down
and
with a final spread of those big raggedy wings
settled beside me

such birds are - by nature - somewhat taciturn
so i figured it was up to me to do the talking
i told him of my love of wildlife - both senses
of the need for freedom
to see things from a different angle

he seemed to understand
so i went on
said sure i’d lived
but
only knew how to walk
needed to know how it felt to fly
i craved all kinds of shared experience
wanted to put myself in the other man’s shoes

i sat back
a little nervous
but
also strangely expectant
and
i swear the golden guy nodded
to
show
he understood

i guess that’s the end of the story
i know how it feels to have feathers
and
somewhere
sailing high above the hills
there’s an eagle
wearing nikes

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between times

2010-03-02T08:00:00.000+01:00

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the turn

2010-02-21T18:09:00.000+01:00

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2010-02-11T14:05:00.000+01:00

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