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  • LIFE OF A POET - PAUL SCRIBBLES - *Buckle up, kids, for this feature is going to leave you breathless. Paul Scribbles, who writes at his blog of the same name, is a new Toad at our sister s...
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  • Rainy September - I'll survive Rainy September in Japan A can of cold coffee Warming up in my pocket
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    6 days ago
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  • Under the Weather - On the radio today, there was a discussion about conversation starters with strangers. The 'expert' said that people in the UK often talk about the weather...
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  • This Job, Not That Job - *What I'm reading: The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon* *What I'm listening to: Incomplete by James Bay* Isn't it fun to spend your birthday ...
    1 year ago
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    1 year ago
  • ... gloriously exciting! - There is something gloriously exciting about anticipating ones next Chad assignment, sitting in the back of the relative comfort of seat 34J, the the dron...
    3 years ago
  • Time-Out - Every now and again in life we come across a bump or hurdle. It can come in our relationships, our finances or as in my case, health. Right now I've been...
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  • thumbs up - it was a battle. looking back i don't think we ever had a chance, but you don't just give up on a young man in the prime of his life. we had to try. he ...
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Thursday, 26 September 2013

Crystals


Sitting in a café this morning I came up with this short poem; I hope you like it.

Crystals

Crystalline facets glint
flashing come hither signals
from the pale brown surface.
The small pile of rough cubes
call, entreat, tempt.

Gently he caresses the vessel;
savours the exotic aroma
born from the deep red soils
of some distant land.
Glad he didn't add sugar.

John Carré Buchanan
26 September 2013

Saturday, 21 September 2013

Service Dogs

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I read a sad article today. It was about two service dogs, that had to be put down following the Duke of Cambridge's departure from the RAF.

Dogs are used in a wide variety of roles in the Forces. They do everything from sniffing out bombs and drugs to protecting service personnel and property from a wide variety of threats. They are looked after by handlers who genuinely love them and take excellent care of them.

In fact Service personnel often go to great lengths to assist dogs. As a dentist in Germany my wife helped to save a guard dog when he broke his canine. She assisted the vet by replacing the broken canine with a metal one.

Usually service dogs go on to have a second life as a family pet, often with a past handler or service family. Sadly in this instance the two dogs, Brus and Blade, were not suitable for re-homing.

The combination of the devotion/loyalty of both the dogs and the handlers made me think about a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, I hope you like it;

Service Dogs

Jet enjoys the game.
She sniffs explosives out.
Yes Jet enjoys the game.
The lethal game.

Attila enjoys the game.
He runs intruders down.
Yes Attila enjoys the game.
The lethal game.

Max enjoys the game.
He searches through the debris.
Yes Max enjoys the game.
The lethal game.

Handlers play the game.
They have to make it fun.
Handlers play the game.
The lethal game.

The dogs all love the game.
They love their handlers too.
The dogs all love the game.
They know not what they do.

John Carré Buchanan
19 February 2011

Wednesday, 18 September 2013

Days Of Our Lives


This poem is dedicated to the people I knew in 26 Sqn RCT in Northern Ireland back in the late 80's early 90's. Particularly the ‘diesel dogs’ of B Troop and those that used the Half Crown.

Days Of Our Lives

Those were the days.
Young, carefree, invincible.
Corralled within a steel ring
topped with razor wire
as if to keep the fun in.

Outside the wire
‘Dickers’ tracked us.
Madmen bombed our cars
or threw explosives
cased in jars.

With lives at risk
we had to trust
that each would play their part.
For staying safe outside the wire
was really quite an art.

We worked hard,
then played hard.
Boy we had some fun.
Looking back across the years
friends, second to none.

John Carré Buchanan
08 September 2013

Monday, 16 September 2013

Bereft

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A poem on loss, I'm not sure if it still needs a little work, but for now I'm happy with it.

I hope you like it.

Bereft

He sat, bereft.
The powerful youth of yesteryear,
the man who’d faced all-comers, without fear;
gone.
His shrivelled frame trembled in a chair.
Fingers caressed the picture in his hand.
Monochrome locks on porcelain face,
she had always been his Grace.
Now he sat all alone,
in the house they’d called, home.
Cold walls closed in.
His broken heart,
left their home, bereft.
The fighting spirit;
gone.

John Carré Buchanan
16 September 2013

Wednesday, 11 September 2013

When Will They Learn?

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I believe this poem to be self-explanatory. I would like to stress that I am not anti-American and I do not condone in any way the events of 9/11 or those alleged to have taken place in Syria, they were and still are abhorrent.

I do, however, believe that the West and in particular the United States have to recognise the fact that many of the nations around the world have histories and cultures many times older that their own. These cultures have different beliefs, values and ways of functioning. The fact that they are different does not necessarily make them wrong.

I hope you like the poem.

When Will They Learn?

Summer draws to a weary finish.
Throngs of tourists diminish.
The first leaves fall gently to the ground
as through the hubbub sirens sound.

A whisper, gentle on the breeze
flits around with the summer leaves.
It tumbles through the city scape
touching all, its voice takes shape.

Through the hubbub a lone bell tolls
As they name three thousand souls
whose tragic loss of life was written
by their own ignorant predisposition.

Yet as they mourn their tragic loss
Their nation’s ‘hawks’ wind up the Boss.
Again they want to interfere
by dropping bombs from the troposphere.

A sure fired way to make good friends -
of nations, their way of life offends.
Where different values are the norm
Just drop bombs – stir the swarm.

Then sit back and wonder why
So many people had to die.
They don’t seem to understand
it’s always better to shake a hand.

John Carré Buchanan
11 September 2013