Beachcombing for the Landlockeds

Eponymous First Album

Mark Holloway

When the coast is too far away... each day, small moments may glint and catch your eye like shells and pebbles, sea glass and driftwood ... a few words is enough.

This is a selection of small pieces from the first couple of years of my haiku-and-not-haiku blog Beachcombing For The Landlocked, which started in March 2009. I hope you enjoy them. -MarkH twitter @forgottenworks http://thefragmentworks.blogspot.com earth.bound@hotmail.co.uk

copyright Mark Holloway 2012

theyre not big and theyre not clever

sun glint (the t) ing of [f] her bicycle bell first day of spring

into this moment

a cracked paving slab spills

a single flawless violet

suddenly his VOICE scatters p i g e o n s from the bridge dapples the l i g h t

amidst the birds persistent ringtones two missed calls

d r i f t i n g

past me

dandelion seeds sparse piano n o t e s

Clipper

The old man looked up through the branches of the sycamore which by now, mid-May, was in full sail. Just for a moment, he was a lad again, certain he could climb the rigging.

warm breeze one bee's tipsy flight and the daffodils carousing

Having been lured to the open flowers by the hummings of so many bees, he found one bee that sounded different from the rest. It was

playing the kazoo.

river swans one surprised by oars the other, not

between cats eye and rumble strip crow keeps coming back

at the side of the road fragments of a shattered sun

this evening sky a cats pink y a w n

once it was you & me against the world then just me

tonight i am more distant

from myself than that cold star

new moon out of the dark a yearning for my old madness

Park

Early evening, and our giant shadows walk us back across an empty park. The people we saw there earlier have all gone home. And yet, very faintly, something of them persists, fading with the light.

sideways the drift of a sunlit gull

buttercup lawn a thousand distant suns

to & fro the wind dithering at the open gate

day break half a pale blue egg shell

twig. birdfoot. blossom

the mens voices drifting the scent of sawn timber

this day placed in her lap rice, fruit, cloth

breath. tide. moon

an ache in the shoulders the weight of grey clouds

knowing when to relinquish this earth red onions

Wire

He tried to read a long line of black birds on the telephone wire but the sentence they formed was largely indecipherable.

last light the tree summons all its birds

dusk a cluster of snail shells

another cloudy night i Google the moon phase

Tent

He lay awake for much of the night, listening to the wind and the rain. Waiting for the wind to ease. Waiting for the wind to ease their tent pegs right out of the ground.

tumbling from the tent so many stars

small hours each tent flapping its own snore

a stone in my boot we get used to each other and keep walking

autumn birdsong snagged on brambles

Elaborate

This girl clearly loved her tattoos. At the top of each arm, elaborate designs disappeared under the sleeve of her t-shirt. He couldn't help wondering how far they extended. When she went to the bathroom, he picked up her coffee-table book on body art. Profusely illustrated throughout, it said on the cover.

the dry spiral of old songs autumn breeze

a dry leaf scrapes the stone a dry leaf scrapes eaf the stone a dry leaf scrapes the stone a dr scrapes the stone a dry leaf scrapes the stone ry leaf scrapes the stone a dry leaf scrapes th tone a dry leaf scrapes the stone a dry leaf sc pes the stones a dry leaf scrapes the stone a d a dry leaf scrapes the stone a dry leaf scrapes

rattle of dry pods autumn wind

the tree suddenly bare and the air full of wind-swirled starlings

all we have lost mist rising from the fields

thorn of a late red rose blood speck blooms

a strip of moon light dressing my wounds

EightGallons?

All his life he had hidden his light under a bushel. At some point he had hidden the bushel. Now he was a bit hazy about what a bushel actually was.

december sunrise one last pale pink rose

moss growing on the roof tiles above suspicion

under half a moon less than half asleep

the coldest night icicles eavesdrop on what little we say

a row of icicles 2 octaves above middle C

half-moon above the snow fields this morning the distance between us

frozen in snow the everywhichway of bootprints

winter sunshine our shadows loosen just a little

a promise made winter wind in a hollow tree but never kept

untitled

At college, he chose not to revise much, preferring to go into the examination hall with, as he put it, an open mind. Later he had to concede his empty-headedness as, whenever he turned so that his ears were at a certain angle to the wind, there arose a sound like that of someone blowing gently across the top of a bottle.

watercolour morning we bleed across our outlines into the rain

a derelict pub fly posters say the circus is coming to town

swirling mist not knowing how to speak

poetry

full moon my thoughts one sixth their normal gravity

at last i get it the light from that star

years end posting letters into the fog

Dream

That night, he woke up, went downstairs for some water. His dream carried on without him, towards a conclusion of its own.

New Years Day the medicine cabinet lacks Resolve

The End

thank you for reading