shoulderblades

catch the sun - the beetle

finally dies

same same but different - thanks Bandit!

happy halloween

see also Montage Halloween Masque

and Bandit's Halloween post featuring one of my favourite poets Lorin Ford, the delightful Devika, too cool for school William Sorlien, the overly artistic Comrade Harps, the ever popular Alan Summers and yours truly

lamplit breath

floats along the hall

ghost stories

slipping

beneath the briny sea

jellyfish shadows

a different path

the unexpected warmth

of kangaroo paw

lives unseen

in daylight hours

nightwindows

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Psychogeography is the study of the effects of the urban environment on the emotions and behaviour of individuals.  It caught my attention the other day.  For me it blends hobby (haiku) with professional interests (urban design).  

This school of thought relies on the 'derive' - where you walk with the sole objective of letting your interests in the immediate surrounds guide your route and being open to encounters along the way - much like taking an urban ginko.

almost home

where the road rises

baking bread

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redbacks escape

down my best mates' dunny

the sea change

With a quiet nod to John McDonald and Comrade Harps...

Back burning in the national parks begins early Spring. The suburbs take on a surreal glow from the sun through the rising smoke. The light and the smell of ash from the first back burn signals summer is around the corner, when the bushfires start.

                                                   balconies lit
                                                   by a smouldering sun
                                                                  first back burn

desert wind

a wire fence stretches

to nowhere

withdrawing

from the petals - the bee's

wandering eye

a bit of Bach

she paints her walls

iPod white

through rippling

tree ferns - an old wind

laughs

white butterflies

heavy with ocean spray

an errant wave

reaching the shore

every drop it's moment

in the sky

strewn

across the midden

bottletops

In Australia, 'midden' principally refers to the shell heaps left a long time ago by Aboriginal folk. Where I live, they're often found in sheltered spots with incredible views of the water.

inching

across the bitumen

grasshopper

water

rippling over ripples

of light

Have a look at a revised earlier post for 31 July. The subject matter may not have been everyone's cup of tea but the artwork may still be worth a look. Cheers.

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polishing coasters

a cornflake fixed

to Mona Lisa's smile

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*

how soft

my belly this winter

his first steps

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upturned sky

the tide carries in

a currawong

gentle clouds

settle over suburbs

rush hour

PoemShape and Season Creep have put up great haiga recently. Worth checking out.

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quiet afternoon

woken by unruly flaps

of currawong song

*

almost dusk

softly the mosquito bounces

along my finger

four people

doing their own thing

jazz in the house

cliff's edge

the weight of an apple

in my hand

The morning commuter train. An hour earlier we each were warm in our beds. Beyond that, we are all strangers.

a poppy

flips about on an unseen breeze

a private joke

turning

from the edge... still

the need to fall

Just off Dee Why

An on-line collection of haiku written by Australians can be found at The Dreaming Collection. Its a delightful little site with haiku tumbled into various categories such as suburbs, the outback, pubs, sport, sheep...

They're currently running a competition to unearth more Australian haiku. It's free to enter and it's open to international folk. Entries need to be in by 1 July.

The above photograph was taken last week during business hours. The surf was incredible. At least 50 guys must have called in sick at work that morning and were spending the day riding perfect wave after perfect wave. You can tell we're in the depths of winter by the guys' full body wetsuits.

There are words that go with this picture, but the above competition wants unpublished work only (including blogs... I checked).

peeking

at the scan results

no dead birds

*

warm winters day

a Chinese wind chime sings

to an empty street

*

returning to work

a patch of sunlight

on the platform

golden ant

struggles to the waterhole

I raise my flask

*

splintered light

filling her eyes

the curtains drawn

*

And a warm cup of tea goes out to the volunteer whale watchers who kindly leant me their binoculars.

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breaching humpbacks
our hands
binocular blue
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*

a bicycle swaggers

along the sea's edge - the drunk

and his seagulls

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A couple of senryu today...

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he sneaks

some Viagra - she chooses

some bed socks

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*

missing

my cold knees

new jeans

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drawing north

to the sugarcane - shadows

cut the freeway

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*

almost home

maple trees ablaze

in the ash wet sky

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