Modern techno communications

your day half done

I’ve just had breakfast

skype

your city or mine

big apple machine

discs turn an inch apart

your city or mine?


View from Sunset Park

cityscape from hill

snap - misty out-of-focus

potential painting

Jupiter, Venus, Mars

twin jewels ride
the western sky
Mars high in the east

Monday in Manhattan

scent of fresh sawn tree
mingles with spicy food
by the water



bus bumbles homeward
swaying passengers
eyelids droop

Saturday night at Freddy's

Freddy’s Bar

lights glow in dark cavern

what is our quest

backroom stage 

hosts bands

into the small hours

hydrogen jukebox

sing stories, play songs 

of a gritty urban kind

From Sunday

ride the subway
to Manhattan
children's playground

Daylight Saving Time

daylight saving
meets re-set body clock
right in the zone




. . . meaning a 6.45 wake-up, rather than 5.45. So much more civilised, don'cha know?

Red Hook and waterfront

ghosts of industry

strong shapes and waterfront

inspire modern craft


(or:
industrial ghosts
along the waterfront
shape modern life)

from warehouse

and longshoreman’s home

to art-space, café and store

dog drawn to sea

man tugs and leans to hold him

no dip today

Orion

Orion strides

high above street lights

in the city

walk through Prospect Park

last year’s leaves

hang slanted on the tree

prevailing  west wind

cyclists rush by

loud in conversation

next year le tour?

digging in leaf litter

american robin cocks its head

hears camera-beeps

mallards paddle

near lake shore

Canada geese march

amended haiku

This is a combo of two previous -

daffodils

on last fall’s leaves

crow moon

International Women's Day

Waterproof coat
tied round waist
cautious idiot

(spring-like warmth - I couldn't trust it)

the bridge joins
boroughs
and women today

(http://www.joinmeonthebridge.org)

8.3.12 I watched the rather small march across Brooklyn Bridge today.

supermarket shop

weekly shopping

in a different country

is exotic

A beautiful building - once a bank.

moon, stars, lights

Tonight a full moon

hides the stars even better

than city light.

Full crow moon

cawings herald

end of winter

Prospect Park haiku

Prospect Park's bare trees
standing in last fall's leaves
daffodils

before the school walk . . . haiku

before the school walk
we fly through space with
Obi-wan Kenobi

more haiku

(near Greenwood cemetery)

garden near graveyard

snowdrops and gnomes and

“happiness blooms”

landscaped garden 

massive dwellings on the hill

for the dead

from a Brooklyn hill

see a hand raised in greeting

liberty’s statue

(in Barnes and Noble)

so many people

laptop for company

in book shop café

haiku for a traveller

1.3.12

chasing evening light

flying towards the flaming west

a four hour sunset

later changed to:
flying west
following daylight - 
four hour sunset

2.3.12

a sleeper wakes
body clock says half past eight
real time three thirty


3.3.12

here rain and grey skies
on Facebook sunshine

cup of tea please!

weekend ritual

walk, piano lesson

croissant and tiny toy

late afternoon sun

kids run, scoot and swing

we chat and shiver

waiting for dinner

email notification

of bright meteor

La Fontaine - Le Corbeau

        LE CORBEAU ET LE RENARD

       Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perché,
           Tenait en son bec un fromage.
       Maître Renard, par l'odeur alléché,
           Lui tint à peu près ce langage :
       Et bonjour, Monsieur du Corbeau,
    Que vous êtes joli ! que vous me semblez beau !
           Sans mentir, si votre ramage
           Se rapporte à votre plumage,
     Vous êtes le Phénix des hôtes de ces bois.

À ces mots le Corbeau ne se sent pas de joie,
           Et pour montrer sa belle voix,
   Il ouvre un large bec, laisse tomber sa proie.
   Le Renard s'en saisit, et dit : Mon bon Monsieur,
              Apprenez que tout flatteur
     Vit aux dépens de celui qui l'écoute.
   Cette leçon vaut bien un fromage sans doute.
           Le Corbeau honteux et confus
   Jura, mais un peu tard, qu'on ne l'y prendrait plus.

London Snow - Robert Bridges

London Snow by Robert Bridges

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,

In large white flakes falling on the city brown,

Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,

Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;

Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;

Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:

Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;

Hiding difference, making unevenness even,

Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.

All night it fell, and when full inches seven

It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,

The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;

And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness

Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:

The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;

The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;

No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,

And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.

Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,

They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze

Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;

Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;

Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!'

'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'

With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,

Following along the white deserted way,

A country company long dispersed asunder:

When now already the sun, in pale display

Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below

His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.

For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;

And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,

Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:

But even for them awhile no cares encumber

Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,

The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber

At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken. A poem which came to the mind of one of my walking companions today as we trudged through old snow towards Rockingham.  From poems about woods, to snowy woods, and on to snow in London . . .