Black Dog

This poem is written on the Open Mic theme; 'Dog'.

​Black Dog

I have three black dogs;

A little one called Loki
a vibrant ball of fun,
then Ame, getting old now
she has a smelly bum.

The third is mean and vicious
it stalks me most the time
its growls are seditious
it's demeanour is malign.

In the end; It will kill me,
a conclusion long forgone.
I wish that I could shake it
but the bastard's name, is John.

John Carré Buchanan
05 July 2017

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.

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

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.



This poem is linked to Poets United.

Boxes

Watching the Invictus Games I was inspired by the stories of incredible people who have experienced and continue to experience, horrendous pain and suffering with such determination and dignity.

I have my own challenges, we all do, but listening to the testimonies made by people with PTSD and other invisible injuries spurred me on to write the following poem. I can’t advocate this approach, but it is the approach I used until I realised that I was using cardboard boxes, and they crumble with age. At that point I talked, and found hope…
​
Boxes

Sometimes,
Just occasionally,
a scent,
a shadow in the periphery
let's slip a memory
that leaves me stunned.
Numbed.

Pandora had one box,
I have many;
rubble,
teachers - predators,
torture, beatings, burnt feet,
silent screams in the night
choked back, concealed
and children taught to kill.

We're told a peek loosed all evils
yet one remained confined.
With Elpis* tightly locked away
I'll strive to keep my boxes shut,
for,
if I were to lift a lid,
there'd be no hope for me.

John Carré Buchanan
22 May 2016

* In Greek mythology Elpis was the personification and spirit of hope or expectation,

A Full Life

Two years ago a doctor told me that it was unrealistic for me, a fifty year old man, to want to live the sort of active life that I lived before my accident and that I should accept my lot.

To me his suggestion was like telling a lion to eat grass, it wasn't going to happen. I decided then and there that I had had enough of doctors and their drugs. Two years on I have just completed my first major goal.

I hope this poem might inspire someone else to grab the bull by the horns and find the courage to go for it.

A Full Life

They said;
"After this you'll be able to live a full life."
But what did they really mean?
How did these overweight, red faced,
middle age men define "live"?
I'd never run again.
I'd never climb, or swim or jump
Or live....
but in their view,
why would a fifty year old want to run, climb or jump?
They had consigned me to their bin
their 'has been' bin.
Leave life to the young,
accept the constraints of a failing body,
fade into the mass.
So I said "NO".
I threw away their drugs,
dug deep and fought to live life again.
Baby steps at first
then as meters turned to K's
I felt the real me rise again.
Quiet determination at first
and then a blazing;
"I CAN"
"I WILL"
as the pain burned deeper
the fire within grew
and the "I CAN"
became "I DID"
and now I am ready;
To LIVE.

John Carré Buchanan
02 September 2015

Benches Galore

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In April 2013 I wrote a poem called 'The Third Bench'. The poem described a short but very painful walk I took to a bench on a cliff path near my house. For some it was not easy reading. Two years on and I've been at it again...

This time I have had a year of intensive training, a new approach to pain management (called; avoid doctors and drugs at all costs.) and a huge lump of determination. When I got back I was in agony, the pain has not changed..... but my attitude, well perhaps you should read the poem; I hope you enjoy it.

Benches Galore

I’ve been working out hard
in a pool and the gym.
Has it been worth it -
the effort put in?

A jog on the cliff path
I’d best take a phone,
‘coz if I break down
I’ll be miles from home.

Last time I tried this;
I made the ‘Third Bench’
but things got real ugly,
and I cried like a wench.

I start out slowly
my sticks left at home;
I will need them later
it hurts to the bone.

I grit my teeth
ignore the pain.
Think; ‘I am the master,’
time and again.

I manage the steps,
a bit clumsy, it’s true
they’re steep and uneven
there’s more than a few.

I pass couples, families,
walkers with dogs,
we hop to the sides
a little like frogs.

Then I steam past it,
I pass the ‘Third Bench’
but this time;
this time, my heart gives a clench.

‘coz I’m on the way back
with a leg that’s real sore
and I’ve hardly a care;
I’ve passed benches GALORE.

15 February 2015
John Carré Buchanan

It's Only Pain

During the last year or so I have managed to wean myself off the prescription opiates and anti-depressants I was using to control CRPS. This had the added benefit of allowing me to stop seeing the doctors and nurses who were treating me using conventional pain treatment models.

Since I escaped their clutches, I have remained drug free, lost over 50 Lbs in weight and set myself the goal of completing a half Ironman (known as Granite man) next year. People who meet me often say that they are glad that I’ve recovered; unfortunately this is not the case. I still have CRPS, my pain levels remain super high and I still suffer from bouts of depression.

Chronic pain exists almost as an entity; it is not like acute pain which is designed to stop you from harming yourself. This has made training pretty difficult, as CRPS masks acute pain caused by normal training injuries. (When you’re standing in a fire it’s hard to tell you have a hamstring problem.) My solution has been to return to the premise I learnt as a young paratrooper; “Whatever it does to me, it can’t make me pregnant!”

The following poem is a candid insight into my daily struggle with CRPS.

It’s Only Pain

“It’s only pain”,
the mantra whispered again and again.
As if to convince me the waves are not there,
they just feel like a phosphorous flare.
As they flow and they burn
I just have to learn,
That; “no harm’s being done”.

Nausea wells deep inside
as the skin of my leg is gently fried.
Unlike real fire, nerves remain whole
so there’s no mercy for this tortured soul.
Twenty-four seven I have to endure
they tell me; “there is no cure”.
“It’s only pain”, I say it again.

I push and I strive
as I make to survive.
My mind carries just three thoughts
Ouch,
Why bother? and
“It’s only pain”,
said again and again.

John Carré Buchanan
18 October 2014

Fighting Alligators

The old adage; ‘when you are up to your arse in alligators; it’s difficult to remember that your intent was to drain the swamp’, is so true of living with CRPS.

Whichever form of treatment you prescribe to, there are side effects. All too often it feels like your sole purpose is to fight, not to win but just to slow the inevitable decline.

This poem is born from such feelings, I hope you like it.

Fighting Alligators

Drip, splat. Drip, splat,
droplets begin to merge,
a thin film forms.
Drip, splash,
now it has volume
still the rain falls.
The depth increases,
slowly, relentlessly,
I’m buoyed from the floor,
forced to tread water
in the filthy mire.
The swamp deepens,
it fills with claws and teeth.
I'm forced to fend off alligators
while the rain falls.
Claws rip, teeth gnash
the fight drags on.
Resolve, strength, my very soul,
sapped- by the incessant onslaught.
I begin to flounder,
every ounce of strength
expended in a fruitless struggle
to stay afloat, to fight alligators.
Each scintilla squandered
just to experience the languid
dismemberment of body and soul.
What's the point?
Stop kicking.

John Carré Buchanan
21 February 2014

Digging In

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I went swimming this morning and, once again, found myself knocking off lengths with an internal dialogue in my mind. The irrational voice begged me to stop and go back to bed and opiates. The rational side of my mind outlined the health and pain management benefits of exercise. As the dialogue continued I just kept swimming, and dug in.

I found myself thinking of other times when I have had to ‘dig in’ to get something done in spite of pain or discomfort. Once out of the pool and in full ‘recovery mode’ I kept thinking about ‘digging in’ and my mind wandered to the wilds of the Brecon Beacons. This resulted in the following poem, I hope you like it;

Digging In

Horizontal sleet bombards bare faced mountain slopes.
Lines of iced water score the view,
Through this scratched lens, the tableau appears featureless,
monochrome boulders interspersed with clumps of grass.
Here in this barren wilderness, they dig.
Shovel and pick toil in the rock strewn soil.
Hands slip and blister on mud covered helves
as the steel glances, bucks and jams again and again.
Slowly, painfully the bodies sink into the mountain.
The relentless internment matched only by driven rain.
The light fades, and somewhere out in that cold dark night,
they dig on.
In the morning's steely grey light,
tired eyes peer, from beneath mud streaked brows,
into that same rain scratched lens,
as they wait to move out,
then dig in again.

John Carré Buchanan
07 February 2014

The Glacier

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Chronic Pain often results in sleep deprivation. This leaves me lying alone in a darkened room, long after the rest of my household has retired. These periods of time are when I feel the effects of CRPS the most. The potentially lethal combination of pain, depression and tiredness grate on the very fabric of my soul and survival becomes a major battle, often one I don’t particularly want to win.

I was engaged in yet another round of mindful thinking last night, trying to rationalise the thoughts; ‘why does time always drag so much?’ and ‘can’t I just skip to the end?’ I explored a number of different answers before deciding that the most appropriate answer at that point in time was; ‘because life is shit and no, not yet.’ Not perhaps the most mindful answer, but certainly one that felt closest to the mark at that specific point in time.

I penned a few notes to help me address the questions when I was in a better frame of mind, and these led me to write the following poem.

The Glacier

Seconds drift slowly by.
Layer on tortured layer.
Gradually minutes form
then grate past, slowly.
A relentless, glacial, plod.
Onward, onward, then, on.
Minutes form a solitary hour.
Slowly the mass builds,
each second layered on the last.
A clock's hands glide smoothly,
yet beneath the glacier
immeasurable forces rip and tear.
Ice gouges bedrock and rents
shards from the once mighty granite,
leaving nothing but pulverised till
strewn at its terminus.

John Carré Buchanan
01 February 2014

This poem is linked to Poets United.

The Swim

Over the last five years I have gradually become less able to engage in physical pursuits. Swimming has been suggested a number of times, but as the moving water in a bath or shower is like fire on my leg I could not face a pool….

My New Year resolution was to lose weight, this meant getting off drugs, eating less and being more active, a very tall order indeed. As doing nothing was not an option and I was starving and still not losing weight, I decided to give swimming a go; it has not been a pleasant endeavour.

Fortunately I used to be a good swimmer and despite not being able to kick, it's way too painful, I am plugging in the lengths. This poem came to me whilst trying to ignore the fire flowing over my right leg.

Oh and the mile…… Dream on.

The Swim

Stroke after stroke
windmill sails
heavy limbs drawn behind
On, on, left, right
Head turns rhythmically
Air drawn, held, expelled
still the arms turn
Reach, push
Water flows past
Length after length
Slowly moving towards
the mile.

John Carré Buchanan
09 January 2014

Please

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My continued battle with CRPS has been particularly difficult recently. My decision to go drug free has had mixed blessings as cost/benefit analysis of side effects versus pain relief and depression plays out.

It has taken eight months to come off the opiates and anti-depressants and my first 'drug free' day (ie. no base line) was marred by the need to resort to breakthrough opiates during the evening, a fact that depression was quick to focus on.

Last night as I sat head in a bucket and racked in pain I wrote the bare bones of this poem. It is not cheerful, but it goes somewhere towards illustrating what living in constant pain is like.

Please

Dreams lie scattered, shreds in life's wake.
Tattered and torn, an ensign in a storm.
Cut the halyard, set it free
to soar - unbound - on the tempest.
God on high, hear my prayer;
Cut the halyard, set me free.

John Carré Buchanan
25 January 2014

My friend Rick Shepherd kindly put this poem to music. The tune is an Irish air called Inisheer composed by Thomas Walsh.

The Bars

Image Source: John Buchanan

Living with pain is not easy but I have been given a number of tools which help me to endure it, one group of tools which I use a lot is the cognitive suite. This helps me keep my thoughts, emotions, feelings and behaviours aligned.

During the last month or so I have been kept indoors by a combination of the rain or the pain. I have tried to keep myself as busy as possible, but there are only so many drawings I can draw, poems I can write or times I can watch ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ on the TV.

As I have struggled to keep my feelings in check I have taken to watching what has been going on outside through the window and I have realised that I have felt imprisoned. A few days ago I realised that the rain on the windows has added to the illusion. This realisation was the genesis for a poem. I hope you like it.

The Bars

Staring through the bars on the window
I watch the distant trees sway in the gale.
The three fruit trees in the garden
have lost the blossom that appeared two weeks ago.
Grubby pink petals now wash along the ground
and gather in the corners of the drive;
it looks like there'll be no plums this year.
The grey sky, full of cloud, seems to brush the ground,
its watery mass drives hard at the faces of passers-by.
They dash from door to door trying to stay dry.
Here I sit in the warm living room
a cosy blanket wrapped around my shoulders,
staring out through the rain soaked window,
a prisoner to the rivulets
which trickle down the glass pane.

John Carré Buchanan
12 April 2013

The Third Bench

Image Source: John Buchanan

Yesterday we had beautiful weather here in Guernsey and I took the opportunity to take a stroll out along the cliffs at Icart. In recent years there have been times when I wished the cliffs were steeper here, but yesterday I was determined to take a walk.

The Image above shows both the third bench and the view from it. This view has travelled all over the world in my mind. It has been used as a benchmark against which to compare all other views. In my opinion, it has seldom been surpassed.

According to Google Earth, the third bench is one hundred and eighty meters from where I parked the car, which means that my round trip was three hundred and sixty meters, it took me about two and a half hours.

On my return home I wrote the following poem, I hope you like it.

The Third Bench

I went for a walk today,
out on the cliff paths.
As I hobbled along
the familiar foot worn path
I could hear the gulls mock me.
I'd plant my sticks carefully
then advance my left foot
just a few inches and then
I'd move the right, just a touch
trying to stop my trousers
brushing against my skin.
Then, braced for what was to come,
I took all my courage in hand,
and placed my right foot.
Instantly pain seared up the leg
like a bolt of lightning,
it surged through the knee
and scorched my soul.
My body screamed at my mind to stop
It refused, forbade a pause,
not before the bench,
the third bench.
Plant the stick, breath, left and then
bite hard on the scream.
Sometimes a moan or gasp escapes.
Tears of frustration wet my cheeks.
I used to run here,
NO,
‘used to’ is no good.
I will make the bench,
the third bench.
I was less than ten meters out
when a dog walker crested the hill in front of me
one hundred meters away.
He walked slowly with two Malamutes.
Left foot, place my sticks, right foot
another searing blast of pain
one step closer to the third bench.
I move the sticks again,
the walker passed me,
passed the man with tears rolling down his face
and I took another step
toward the third bench.

John Carré Buchanan
06 April 2013

The Charioteer

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The Charioteer

People part
as I glide
through the crowd
head at chest height.

Mothers tell children
‘mind the man in the chair,’
the kids turn with a start
and stare.

Yes,
I’m the man in the chair.
The man in the brand new
shiny chair.

Carving through the crowd
like a Roman chariot.
Head held unbowed,
a laureate.

But…. later….
when I’m alone
the beasts will be set free -
and they will rage.

No longer the charioteer
I will play the part
of the condemned.
John - a la carte.

Yet - amid the melee,
secure in the knowledge
that, He has a plan,
I will survive.

John Carré Buchanan
17 January 2013



This poem is shared with Poets United.

The Review

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One of the factors of living with chronic pain is the need to constantly review where you are in relation to Goals, Drugs and Exercises. This week I have been working with my support team to confirm that I am getting the most out of the regimes that I use.

I keep a written record of my pain management which I use on a daily basis to pace myself and then on an ad hoc basis to inform the team. This covers which exercises and stretches I do, my pain levels at start and end of the day, the drugs taken, hours slept and activities undertaken.

This type of record is very useful as it provides hard data against which comparisons can be made, preventing emotion and feelings from getting in the way of what is really happening.

The multidisciplinary team discussed how things had been going. We agreed that there was a need to change both the medication and exercise regimes. We also discussed how attitude toward recovery, specifically my determination to minimise drug use and maximise the amount of exercise and activity I was doing, could affect recovery.

During an excellent, month long, pain management course I attended in the UK I was taught the importance of coming off drugs and making every effort to improve my personal fitness. Under normal circumstances this is widely accepted as being the best practice approach toward pain management.

However it would appear that the principles are intended as a guide rather than a set of rules. They are designed for the average man or woman in the street, and not someone with the drive and determination that has served me so well in the past.

Whilst the logic of what was being said was unquestionable, it was very difficult for me to accept. The turmoil it created in my mind drove me to write the following poem, perhaps other pain sufferers might find it interesting.

The Review

Today we talked meds again;
the doctors are giving me more.
They think a higher dose,
will make me happier than before

They haven’t factored in failure
the feeling that I bear;
when my body is so doped up
I feel like I’m not there.

They tell me how impressed they are
with the way that I’ve got on
pushing through the barriers;
but they say that way is wrong.

I learnt the hard way,
success requires hard work.
without pain there is no gain,
for glory you can’t shirk.

I strive to be a person
who will not accept defeat.
Who through sheer determination
This chronic pain I’d beat.

I was taught; to keep my body clean;
To avoid drugs where I can;
that morphine can not cure my pain
so exclude it from my plan.

The doctors say that normal folk
would find these rules so true.
but it’s my determination -
that’s made my plans fall through.

Now they’re going to dope me up
so I will not feel the pain,
but I sense the weight of failure
will drag me down again.

So if I make my next review
it’s likely I’ll be told;
to increase the dose of happy pills;
and they’ll see my world implode.

John Carré Buchanan
07 September 2012

Endurance

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One of the skills I have been working on has been to relax into those moments when my body least feels like relaxing. This is an extremely difficult skill to master, but at the same time it is a skill which chronic pain sufferers need to master if they are to rest or sleep.

I have been taught many different ways of doing this, none of them work every time but my toolbox now contains methods such as; transcendental meditation, Emotional Freedom Technique, distraction, progressive muscle relaxation and breath control. Using a combination of these has helped me through some difficult times.

I would urge any other chronic pain sufferer to learn how to relax. I suspect that most readers will not truly understand this, but fellow sufferers will understand and hopefully be able to follow my advice.

The following poem aims to describe the conflict between pain and the ability to relax.

Endurance

The silence is deafening,
Silently the clock ticks,
The TV and radio lie mute
even the keys on the laptop
remain still.
Time just slips by.
Each exhaled breath
re-enters the world
at its own silent pace
as it slips through taught lips
in a measured, controlled stream.
The pages on his lap don’t turn.
It is as if time itself has stopped.
Yet in his mind a fire burns
The primal scream lodged in his throat
remains unissued, caught as if
it were that of a terrified young child
with a monster under its bed.
The constant cycle of the eyelids
As they contract and relax
betrays the singular effort
of a mind fighting for control,
relax, relax and again.

John Carré Buchanan
23 August 2012

Four Years On

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This post is written to thank all the people who have stood by me during the last four years. Without their love, guidance and support, I would not be here today.

Four years ago I was knocked from my bicycle on the way to work. What followed has been horrendous for both me and my family.

I have lived in continuous and severe pain which has gradually worsened since the accident; my medical support team tell me that it will continue to worsen. What should improve is my ability to live with and manage the pain.

I have lost my Job, the ability to do all the hobbies I once enjoyed, but far and away more important I lost the ability to partake fully in the lives of my wife and our two beautiful, loving young children. The guilt associated with being unable even to ascend stairs to kiss them good night is hard to bear.

I started writing in attempt to give myself something to do; I also conducted a massive soul search and realignment project which aimed to redesign my inner self, my soul, such that it could live in the new, less capable, body.

This uncomfortable and often dangerous journey continues. So far I have become a Christian, found new friends, who are there for me before I need ask. I have plumbed the very depths of despair and surfaced again. I constantly endure pain which despite using powerful Opiates is sufficient in intensity to make me black out at times.

Despite all of this I am still here.

The following poem is - believe it or not - a poem of hope; it serves to remind me that I never was a quitter. I hope you can find something in it too.

Four Years On

The memory is not important
Screech of breaks, shattered glass,
burst of fear, anger, pain;
that is how it started,
she just pulled out.

The loss that’s what truly counts
Feet pound along beautiful cliff paths,
bicycles, kayaks, water skis;
that’s what was lost,
everything I enjoyed.

No, It’s deeper, much worse
The essence of everything loved
Wife, Children, Friends, Job;
all of them suffer,
Torn asunder, shredded.

Self image, destroyed, hated
unimaginable pain, imaginable,
insomnia, tears, vomit;
these unwanted parasites,
devour all joy, never cease.

Every day, a new battle
continuous cycle of pain management,
exercise, therapy, stretches, drugs;
just to stay stable,
the gradual decline evident.

The one desire, end it, end it all
screech of brakes, shattered lives,
pain, despair, guilt;
tortured soul
fight, don’t quit, pray.

Put cares aside, trust the Lord,
true friends lend shoulders and listen,
plan, strive, achieve;
Four years on,
Pain worse, but hanging in.

John Carré Buchanan
08 August 2012

Ode to Narcotic Relief (ONR 20)

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One of the downsides of chronic pain is the need to use powerful pain killers which bring with them risks of unpleasant side effects and even death. Sufferers who have been taught pain management techniques usually try to minimise the amount of drugs that they use. That said even the best of us occasionally need to use drugs.

The type and dosages of drugs differ dependant on the individual and factors such as; the current state of pain, activity levels, state of mind and even something as mundane as the weather or barometric pressure.

I have recently taken a short holiday with my family which involved considerably more movement than I would normally undertake. During the break I had to significantly increase the quantity of painkillers I was using.

Whilst consuming the drugs I became acutely aware of the importance of getting both the dosage and the timing of each dose correct. Making such calculations is extremely difficult when every brain cell is screaming in agony. As if that was not hard enough the added temptation to take follow up dosages early is extremely hard to control.

On completion of my holiday I had to perform a vital task, namely work out a plan to safely come off the increased dosages, without going into cold turkey. Whilst doing this I became aware of just how dangerous these drugs could be in the hands of a sufferer of Chronic pain during a flare up or setback, this inspired me to write the following poem;

Ode to Narcotic Relief (ONR 20)

They bear a mark
ONR 20
and look so innocent
so tiny, so dainty.
Just knock back a couple
sit back, wait a while.
Twenty minutes later
I’m on the junk pile.
For perhaps half an hour
I can raise a smile,
Then the pain’ll be back
and I’ll taste the bile
and start to clock watch
whilst reeling in pain
waiting for the next dose
to relieve me again.
I’ll crave for more
But I have to take care
For these tiny capsules
could answer my prayer
and help me find peace
either up or downstairs.
They bear a mark
ONR Twenty
and as demon or friend
they could help or kill me.

John Carré Buchanan
03 August 2012

Demons Vs Love



Image Source

During the last couple of months I have been using a tricyclic antidepressant which has been shown to have an analgesic effect for some chronic pain sufferers. Unfortunately in my case the drug did not have the desired effect and changed my already dismal sleep pattern making me slip into sleep at irregular intervals both day and night.

The nocturnal snoozes became a real issue for me as I found that when I woke in pain I was incredibly difficult to gain control of harmful thoughts and prevent the inevitable slip into a dangerously depressive state.

During this period I spent most nights racked in pain, unable to sleep, fighting horrendous thoughts; thoughts I took to see as ‘demons’. Fortunately during the days I had the support of family and friends. This allowed be to recharge my emotional batteries sufficiently to survive the following night.

This poem aims to describe my feelings during this period and also show the importance of both faith and love in the healing process. I dedicate it to my Family and Friends who have had and continue to have, my back since this ordeal began.

Demons Vs Love

Curtains have closed,
teeth have been brushed,
Goodnight kisses shared.
The house falls quiet,
now it’s time:
demon time.

Now there are no distractions.
one mind stands alone
protected by thought.
Demons rage wildly;
fuelled by pain
and a burning desire for freedom.

Rational thought crumbles
as demons swarm over it.
Anger, grief, guilt, loss, despair;
they’re all there like rats and they
scurry and gnaw at the fabric
of the thought shield.

Counterpoint after counterpoint
are rebuffed and defeated.
The organised mind is shredded.
Every tear produces new edges
which cut and grate the soul
until it begs for release.

Night after sleepless Night
the exhausted mind
struggles to repel demons.
Day after day
cracks in the shield
are repaired by their love.

John Carré Buchanan
31 May 2012

A Prayer

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A Prayer

Floating,
muffled sound,
grey darkness,
through soft shut lids.
Warm body,
cold thoughts.
so cold they burn-
as they roll over me;
like water on a
wave washed shore.
I am laid bare.
Warm body,
cold mind,
oh;
that the body were cold?

John Carré Buchanan
18 May 2012