Saturday, 11 June 2016

The Ace Of Spades


This month's open mic topic is 'superstition', I couldn't bring myself to do black cats, ladders and mirrors, so I came up with this instead;

The Ace of Spades

He always tied his laces in exactly the same way,
then he'd open his top left pocket
and put the photo away.
He'd pat the lucky picture
as he went out through the door
then stamp his feet twice upon the dusty floor.
His helmet bore his blood group,
his rifle the number 7
but he always broke to the right
and now he's up in heaven.
For the dickers had been dicking
and his habits, they'd espied
his silly superstitions
we're the reason that he died.
In the grass below his tombstone
a bunch of leaves did sprout
a patch of four leaf clover;
his luck's at last run out.

John Carré Buchanan
10 June 2016

Tuesday, 7 June 2016

The Mountaineer


​The last 8 years have been tough, the accident, pain, loss of mobility and the job I loved and the plummet into the depths of despair was all made worse by the guilt associated with the effect it was having on those I loved.

Somewhere in all that darkness I found a spark, faith, that ray of light that gave me the strength to start climbing.

This poem is called the Mountaineer...

The Mountaineer

I hated the face in front of me,
the pallid complexion,
puffed up jowls
dark patches under vacant eyes,
that stale unwashed reek
of pain and self loathing
a weak and crumbling vestige.

I stared mercilessly
into its worthless soul,
glaring at the
epitome of everything I despised,
trying to find a merest hint
of strength, courage or drive.

As I searched those dead eyes
pitiful tears started to flow,
my hatred deepened.
I wanted to strike him across the face,
tell him to man up, grow a pair
but more than that;
I wanted to destroy
the sniveling wreck
that stared back at me;
from the mirror.

Deep within,
something fanned a dying ember,
it spluttered briefly,
faltered and dimmed
a mournful sigh breathed life,
made it glow and this time
it stuck.

Fire to fight fire
pain to fight pain
forget hatred, hang it up
put fear and anger aside
and trust, believe, know;
I can, I will
climb the hill.

Looking back down
I see a reflection in a lake,
a tall snow laden mountain
rugged and unyielding
and there, right at the top
a small black speck;
a man standing.

John Carré Buchanan
03 June 2016


This poem is linked to Poets United.