The Toy

Image Source:

I wrote this poem for the next Guernsey Poet's open mic, the non compulsory theme being; 'Toys'.

It is a sad fact that children in countries that have bee affected by war fall victim to ordnance which litters the countryside. I have based this poem in a non-specific tropical country but munitions left over from both World Wars still litter the fields of Europe.

The Toy

Quick bare feet flick red dust from the path
It swirls briefly in the warm dry air
then settles amidst golden grass

The boys jump back and forth across a ditch
the game, follow the leader,
faster and faster across the scrubland.

Sharp eyes scan the leader's foot fall
the young mind adjusts each step
to ensure it's placed precisely on the trail.

A ray of light cast eight minutes ago
by a burning sun, millions of miles away, stops the game
as a glint catches sharp eyes.

Young hands grasp the unusual, shiny, object.
They rotate it, examine it, shake it
and admire smiling reflections in its silver skin.

The chase begins anew; the cylinder - a baton
passed from hand to hand in a relay
which takes the two home.

A voice calls, they race inside
the new 'toy' tossed to a corner
where it bounces and spins on the earthen floor

Later, in the gloom, of the sparsely furnished home
father steps on a strange metallic object
and a bead of sweat runs down his back.

John Carré Buchanan
08 December 2014

Smiles

Image Source:

I was in town this morning looking at all the ‘tat’ that people are buying in preparation for Christmas. It was sad to think that so much of it would fall out of favour, be broken, or simply thrown away before the New Year starts. It was this train of thought that led to the following poem;

Smiles

Trucks spill their contents to the floor
little fingers pick through piles of fetid waste
to grasp at scraps others discard.
Not for these, shiny paper.
Not for them, a three course meal.
Here on a city dump
a doll with no arms,
a wheel with no spokes
or blocks with letters they can't read
bring wider smiles than many
on 'developed' streets.

John Carré Buchanan
05 December 2014

Little Ted

I thought I would pen a small tribute to my oldest friend. The image above proves that even at fifty he still has more hair than me;-)

The poem is an acrostic based on his highly imaginative name. I hope you like it.

Little Ted

Lying in a cot
I comforted the infant.
Through years of dormitories
tucked away, safely hidden,
loved. Always loved;
even when he’d grown.

Trusted to guard his offspring;
exuding the love absorbed over
decades, lived in a child’s heart.

John Carré Buchanan
27 May 2014

Puška

I once stood in a market place surrounded by people, who had just fled a nearby village. They carried whatever they had been able to grab before they had been forced from burning homes, they were almost all women and children.

I was part of a small team and we were very much on our own. After a while things got quite unpleasant and we were forced to withdraw. The strange thing about that day is that the events which inspired the following poem where the most pleasant, yet harrowing, part of that day.

I hope you like the poem.

Puška*

They stand in front of me
wide hollow eyes search my soul.
Grubby faces, ragged clothes, empty eyes.
Itchy fingers point,
the word "puška" comes again.
In my hands it's a tool of the trade;
yet their young eyes have seen,
their young ears have heard
and their, so very young lives, have lost.
"Puška"
I reached into my pocket
pulled out marbles and squatted.
There in the dust we played.
That day I lost a few marbles,**
learned the word "puška"
and the hollow eyes still haunt me.

John Carré Buchanan
10 February 2014

* Puška - Rifle
** Lose your Marbles - Ideom, lose your mind,

Cloud Busting

Image Source: Mike Malaska & John Buchanan

This is a game I used to play with my children when I wanted some peace and quiet on a sunny afternoon. It basically utilised the facts that clouds tend to form and dissolve in roughly the same places, a fact that the kids did not seem to pick up on;-)

Cloud Busting

Lying in the meadow, green grass all around,
up above the Sapphire sky smiles down.
Amidst the grass a myriad of pastel blooms shine.
Despite their beauty my mind is fixed
on the soft white clouds which drift in the sky above.

Small clouds, vaguely reminiscent of cotton balls
drift from West to East
then somewhere out above the sea
fade into oblivion,
leaving a clear blue sky.

Beside me my children lie aghast,
their father has done it again.
I set them a new challenge
pointing at a small puff of cloud
I say “that one”.

Their eyes screw up with concentration
as they centre the thoughts on dissolving the cloud.
I tell them again and again;
“the trick is not to remove the cloud
but to imagine the sky without it”.

Just before the cloud drifts into the area
where they have been disappearing all afternoon.
I say “let me show you again?”
They gasp with frustration as another cloud
melts into nothingness.

I close my eyes, and lie back
to enjoy the silence.
As two children gaze intently at the sky
and practice cloud busting
oblivious to the smile on their father’s face.

John Carré Buchanan
11 April 2013