Socks

This poem was written for an open mic with cats as the subject, it is dedicated to Socks, my three legged cat, who thrives in the face of adversity;
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Socks

I remember the day I found you
lying crumpled on the verge,
I'd been looking for your sister
when I somehow felt an urge...

There you lay twisted and broken
your life hanging by a thread;
I prayed that I'd not lose you too,
as I gently held your head.

They took your leg to save you.
As I watched you overcome
I marvelled as you learnt to walk,
then jump, hunt and run.

After I was struck down
you tucked in close beside
silently gave me the courage
my demons to deride.

You've been a good friend to me;
as I struggle to overcome
you've shared with me the strength
to survive and not succumb.

My fingers massage your scars
beneath your silky fur
and you sooth mine
with your reassuring purr.

John Carré Buchanan
20 August 2017

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

The Assassin

A poem on the joys of owning cats, if in fact it is possible to own a cat!

The Assassin

Briefly the silence is broken,
the click - clack of the flap,
then nothing.
Peripheral vision might catch a flicker
or a deepening shadow
as he slips through the kitchen
not wanting to see or be seen.
Later; much later,
you'll find him in your favourite chair
curled in a sleek ball
eyes closed,
daring you to stroke him
with his nonchalant air.
And there on the floor
an unstuffed trophy lies,
surrounded by its own feathers
having uttered its last tweet.

John Carré Buchanan
19 August 2017

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

The Robin

Today I made yet another trip down to the idyllic Moulin Huet Tea Room. Whilst I was there I was inspired to pen a short poem about one of the garden’s residents, who was intent on letting everyone know that he owned the joint. He also graciously allowed me to take his photo.

I hope you enjoy the poem.

The Robin

The Robin owns this place
it's clear for all to see
if he isn't on the bench
he's perched up in a tree.

He hops and jumps and glides about
to search the leafy shade
for morsels of his favourite food
a banquet ready-made.

His pips betray his presence
before you see him clear,
with fiery flash, his Scarlett bib
announces; 'I am here.'

Then the little fellow pips
with voice both loud and true,
as if to say; 'well ok;
I'll share my place with you'.

John Carré Buchanan
02 July 2014

Service Dogs

Image Source:

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

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

Image Source: John Buchanan

Socks is the oldest of our three cat’s and is by far my favourite. We have had him ever since he was a kitten.

Unfortunately when he was a couple of years old I found him lying in a hedge with his elbow shattered and this resulted in him losing his front right leg. His recovery was incredible and I am often amazed when I watch him nimbly hop along the top of a fence. I must admit that I take quite a bit of strength from him, as he never seems to complain or get grumpy about his leg he simply gets on with life.

He is the only one of the cats which will come to me. Indeed he quite often comes into my bedroom at night and curls up on the bed next to me, particularly when I am really suffering with pain. It is almost as if he appreciates what I am going through and comes in to give me support.

This poem is about the way he reminds me that he is a cat and not a life coach ;-)

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

Socks dozes peacefully on the king-size bed.
His small frame dominates the huge bed spread.
With chin tucked to chest and both eyes closed
he gives the impression of deep repose.
Yet, should you approach him,
an alarm bell will chime,
somewhere deep within his mind.

His outward demeanour remains the same
yet inside his sleek fur covered frame
a highly tuned nervous system prepares
and he opens an eye and at you he stares.
In that instant an assessment is made,
which end of the cat will prevail?
the roll of the head or a flick of his tail.

The head roll is not an invitation to run amok,
It’s merely permission to push your luck.
Place a finger behind his ear, or gently rub his chin
enjoy his fur, the soft warm comfort within.
if lucky, you might feel him purr.
But when he tires, or his tummy tempts too much
His tail will flick, perhaps just a touch.

The tail flick is best not ignored
If you don’t take heed your hand might be scoured.
as four razor sharp claws flash through the air
the tail flick was telling you; ‘don’t you dare!’
But he also uses it when he’s having fun,
so take care when Socks flicks his tail
or I’ll have written this poem to no avail.

John Carré Buchanan
03rd April 2013

The Day Jimmy Cheered on Celtic

Image Source: John Buchanan

Jimmy the West Highland Terrier was my SSgt's dog in the early 90’s, his diminutive frame was packed full of character. The poem below records a true story which is also captured in the image above. For the protection of the guilty I will not mention the culprits name, suffice to say it was not me and the perpetrator meant it to be a friendly prank.

Having spent the morning supporting Celtic FC, Jimmy returned from a bath with an eerie green tinge which so annoyed Joe that the next time we saw the poor little thing his hair had been clipped back significantly.

For those that do not know Rangers FC and Celtic FC are Scottish soccer teams both based in Glasgow. The two teams, collectively known as the Old Firm, are arch rivals. Rangers are traditionally a protestant and dress in Blue whilst Celtic are predominantly Roman Catholic and dress in Green Stripes. The two clubs share a history rooted in sectarianism and there is considerable ill feeling between them. In fact their games have been described as having an "atmosphere of hatred, religious tension and intimidation which continues to lead to violence in communities across Scotland."

In this instance the whole affair was a friendly prank, which resulted in no real harm, except for an element of lost pride. I hope you enjoy the poem;

The Day Jimmy Cheered on Celtic

Jimmy was a Westie
and a Rangers fan was he
and Joe, his loving owner
was from a protestant family.
So imagine the offence
When Joe spent a day away
And Jimmy's fur was painted
with green! To his dismay.
When Joe returned
The air turned blue
and Jimmy had a bath
but poster paints stain white fur
so Jimmy stayed, well half
That is until a set of sheers
was bought into the fray
and Jimmy's tainted coat
was quickly cut away.

John Carré Buchanan
22nd March 2013

The Hood

Image Source:

A friend of mine recently had to make the very hard decision to have her cat put down. This was clearly a terrible decision for her to make and she was very distressed by it. She asked me if I would write a poem for her. This was the first time that I had done anything like this and I was not sure how things would go, but I agreed to do it if she gave me some notes.

I was not sure what format to take or how sensitive I would need to be. In the end I decided to write a poem which at first might seem hard hitting but would have a gentle closure offering a degree of hope and comfort.

I asked a few people to read the poem before I gave it to my friend in order to ensure that it was appropriate and they all gave it thumbs up. I then gave it to my friend and it was several days before she was able to give me her feedback, which was fortunately positive. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Hood

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I glance at the armchair as I enter the room
expecting to see two topaz eyes watching me
from under his pure white fur,
but the back of the chair is empty.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I scan the top of the cupboards as I make the bed,
hoping to glimpse the tip of a tail waving at me
or perhaps hear a disgruntled purr,
but Robin, ‘The Hood’, he’s not there.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I check the flowerpots as I tend the Garden,
will I see four huge paw prints in the soil?
His claws will need cutting soon.
Then I remember - he has gone.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I sit and knit in front of the TV,
he does not make me stop.
I can no longer run my fingers
gently through his soft fur.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I slept in this morning,
The alarm clock ran past snooze.
There was no soft paw upon my face
To wake me should I doze.

Yet - as I straighten cushions in the lounge
a patch of white fur appears before me.
Should I drop a stitch as I watch the TV
I feel his celebratory purr on my knee.
Yes - You will always be a friend to me
I just have to close my eyes to see.

John Carré Buchanan
01 February 2013

Otto And The Great White Duck

Image Source

My wife and I were visiting her parents in Norfolk, They were building their house at the time and so we checked in to a very nice local hotel which had substantial gardens complete with a beautiful duck pond.

We had chosen the hotel because they allowed their guests to bring dogs with them which meant that we were accompanied by Otto and Freyja our two Bernese Mountain dogs. On our last evening we enjoyed a superb meal in the hotel restaurant and then prepared to retire.

Naturally this meant giving the dogs one last walk around the garden. The poem below outlines what happened next.

By writing the poem I am not trying to celebrate what the dog did, there was no excuse and to this day I still feel a twinge of guilt when I think about it. What I am celebrating is the way in which the duck stood its ground and managed to survive a tussle with a very large Bernese Mountain dog and then had the affront to stand on the lawn the following morning as if to say ‘get off my Land.’

I guess I will always remember carrying a very muddy dog through the reception along the corridors and to our room whilst being covered in mud myself without being seen and without leaving a muddy trail to our door. It was truly a night to remember. The best bit being the duck was not physically harmed.

Otto And The Great White Duck

Somewhere in the dark a scuffle broke out
It involved my dog without a doubt.
There in the pool of silver moon light
Otto and a duck were having a fight.

With duck in his mouth, the mud he churned
as he fought to gain purchase, his efforts were spurned.
He thrust his head forward, again and again
to swallow the duck - in one, his aim.

I entered the pool’s deep black ooze
forgetting I was wearing my best evening shoes.
I grabbed the collar of the mud covered hound,
he twisted and squirmed around and around.

I towed him back to the grassy bank
And then it hit me, we really stank.
My wife arrived with a large beach towel
and great concern for the missing fowl.

Wrapped in the towel the big dog struggled
as to our room the package was smuggled,
Thuds, bangs and howls were heard for an hour
As the three of us shared a late night shower.

The following morning the hotelier was told.
His only concern was for his Muscovy old;
As we drove away with the dog in the back,
The great white duck let out a loud quack.

Which clearly meant; ‘and don’t come back’.

John Carré Buchanan
09 August 2012

Bilbo – A Hamster's Tail

Image: Bilbo by Elanor Buchanan

Last night my daughter’s hamster, ‘Bilbo’ died. He had lived a fair life for a hamster and his passing was not wholly unexpected. He was buried under a rose bush in our garden and in keeping with his name Elanor read the following words from J.R.R. Tolkien’s ‘The Lord of the Rings.’ over his grave.

‘End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path... One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass... And then you see it………White shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.’

I must admit that Bilbo’s passing seemed to affect me more than it did Elanor, who had been expecting him to die as he was very old for his breed. I kept feeling jealous of Bilbo as he has moved on, whilst I remain here trapped in a pain riddled body longing for an end to my current life.

Before I reveal my poem I should explain the references to the Lord of the Rings. Both Elanor and I have a great love for these books, indeed Elanor’s own name is derived from Tolkien’s ‘The Return of the King’, when at the end of the book Frodo suggests Sam’s daughter should be named after a flower in keeping with the old custom in the Shire. Sam agrees, but says; ‘if it’s to be a flower-name, then I don’t trouble about the length; it must be a beautiful flower, because, you see, I think she is very beautiful, and is going to be beutifuller still.’

Frodo suggested the name ‘Elanor’ after the sun-star, the little golden flower in the grass of Lothlόrien, both Sam and I agreed.

And so to the poem;

Bilbo – A Hamster's Tail

Sometime during the night
the rhythmic tapping ceased.
That irritating, yet somehow comforting pulse
that played every night; stopped.

The nocturnal cacophony;
click, click, click of the water bottle valve,
grate of enamel on bars, rattle of a turning wheel.
These barriers to sleep; ended.

Snuggled quietly in its den
the soft, sand coloured fur became still.
No longer did it trap the warmth that rose from within.
The warm bloods circulation; ceased.

There, on a star filled night,
while the cats prowled the house and garden,
and the family and the dog slept peacefully,
Bilbo the Syrian hamster; died.

The sun rose into a clear blue sky,
A sand coloured body was buried under the rose bush,
as for Bilbo; he sees; ‘White shores... and beyond,
a far green country under a swift sunrise.’

John Carré Buchanan
13 May 2012

The Visitor

Image from; pixzii.com

I spent yet another evening watching our cats hunt the other night. They had clearly detected an intruder in the house and were very keen to track it down, but whilst they knew exactly where it was they were not having much success at catching it.

I watched them for a while, but then, having imagined some little critter cowering in a corner with 5 razor sharp claws flashing in at it (Socks is missing a front leg), I decided that I should intervene.

I wrote this poem to record the events of that evening, I hope you like it, please feel free to leave a comment;

The Visitor

The three cats knew it was there.
They sat like sentinels in a semi-circle
at the base of the book shelf.
Occasionally an excited shuffle
or flicked claw disturbed the silence.

I looked, but could see nothing,
yet the cats knew it was there.
I wondered if it was escaped prey
or a visitor in the wrong part of town.
Whichever, three on one, it would not last long.

Amidst frustrated cries, I removed the cats
and shut the door on their wails.
Once I had banished them
I sat silently and waited.
Hours passed and then, a scuffle.

Slowly I raised my gaze and there
on top of a book shelf was a mouse.
Its tiny nose sniffed the air
as it scuttled between the ornaments
Its silky smooth body unharmed.

I laid a humane trap
and bated it with cheese.
I hoped to catch the little beast
and set him safely free,
but the little fella’ had other plans.

I flicked the lights off and went to bed.
The cats remained barred from the room,
but through the night they kept vigil,
yowling and scratching at the door
outside the living room.

Just after dawn I checked the room
The trap had not been sprung
The cats sniffed around unsuccessfully
much to their dismay it seemed
our visitor had got away.

John Carré Buchanan
25 January 2012

Early Memories – Kenya IV

As a little boy I used to collect insects (or Dudu as they are called in Swahili) and keep them in jam jars. When the family came to leave Kenya to return to the UK all our possessions were packed into large wooden crates full of straw. I was told that my insects would not be able to travel with me, so I put them in the crates which had been packed, but had not had the tops nailed down.

My father found the insects and asked a friend to pretend to look after them until we had left. It wasn’t until a long time later that I realised what had happened.

I have always wondered what might have happened if the bugs had not been detected or escaped in the crates and made the long sea voyage back to the UK. Here is the memory expressed as a poem, I hope you like it.

Early Memories – Kenya IV

Millipede and spiders,
mantis, sticks and moths
lovingly kept in jam jars
with holes punched in the tops.
Treasured by their captor,
who was due to move away
so he hid them in a packing case
to be sent to the UK.

But his father found something
that wasn’t in the crate
and when he lifted up the lid
he found his young son’s mates
The little boy was mortified
when his ‘Dudu’ were detected
so they gave them to the neighbour
who promised they’d be protected.

And so it was, the family moved
with young son quite contented.
He knew his insects were all safe
with the neighbour who’d consented
to look after the collection
and feed them every day.
He didn’t know that the insects
had already been thrown away.

John Carré Buchanan
20 January 2012

The Gift

I’m sure that many of you have cats and knowing what cats are like I suspect many of you will have experienced the ‘pleasure’ of finding the occasional ‘gift’ caught by a cat and then left somewhere in the house for you to find and clean up. In the past our cats have left gifts which have included rabbits, pigeons, small rodents, birds and frogs.

This morning my wife found one such present on the back doorstep, on picking it up it turned out to still be alive, Quickly she fetched a bowl of water from our rain butt and submerged the poor creature in the water before calling me to come and have a look. When I arrived there was a magnificent Gold Fish about 5 or 6 inches long swimming around in the bowl of rain water. She had used the water from the rain butt as it had no chemicals and was the same temperature as the pond.

We debated waking the neighbour, but at that early hour we decided to get the fish back quickly into its own pond in an effort to enhance its survival chances. So my wife clambered over our dividing fence and took the fish back to the pond. Realising the neighbour was actually already awake she knocked on his door and explained what had happened. Fortunately he is a very understanding man. So far it looks like the fish has survived, although it did lose some scales and had a short gash in it.

This was such an unusual gift I thought I would record the event with a poem and share it with you; I hope you enjoy reading it. I would be most interested to know what your cats most unusual present has been, so please feel free to let me know by leaving a comment.

The Gift

Darkness blankets suburban gardens.
Under the distant stars and faint moonlight
The florae casts eerie irregular shadows.
Here in the gloom, concealed by the night;
Tiny creatures forage for food
and use the cloak of darkness to rest,
Unaware that through the dark
steals the harbinger of death.

The sleek body hugs close to the floor.
Large unblinking eyes focus on their target.
The head remains motionless, ears erect
as the shoulders smoothly rise and fall
and the silent paws drive the body forward.
Behind a tail hangs low,
occasionally a slight flick of the last inch
betrays building excitement.

Patiently this master of stealth
used only the darkest patches of shadow
to close the gap between predator and prey.
The eyes, blessed with night vision remained focused,
revealing a cold calculating mind.
Suddenly the moment arrives, the paw strikes,
claws flash with a sudden splash of silver in the dark
and gouge into the flank of the prey.

Proudly she views the poor creature
Flicks it over, mouths it, and plays with it.
She picks it up and trots back to the house,
places the gift on the doormat and
silently enters the warmth of the house.
Later, after the cockerel cries and the birds begin to sing,
the mistress of the house finds the golden gift,
selected so lovingly from the neighbour’s fish pond.

John Carré Buchanan
15 January 2012

* In the second verse I credit the villain of this tale with being "sleek", We have 2 3/4 cats (one is an amputee) and whilst two are sleek, we feel that the paw prints left at the scene of this crime were probably from our slightly more generously proportioned feline friend.

The Cake

I have always enjoyed baking and decorating cakes, and over the years I have become reasonably competent at it.

Each year I make a Christmas cake and a Yule Log and in the past I have spent over 30 hours putting elaborate icing onto a Christmas Cake.

Unfortunately over the last few years I have not been able to sit long enough to create a really elaborate finish. That said this year I did come up with a reasonably good cake, which I took to share at church.

Whilst creating this year’s cakes I had to hide them from our cat’s and dog. I was half way through emptying a cupboard in which I could hide them when I remembered a cake my wife made for my daughter’s Birthday, and a Yule Log I made a few years ago. These two memories gave me the inspiration to write this poem.

The Cake

The baking tin was triple wrapped,
brown paper, tied with string,
when a lumpy, brown, sticky mix
was poured from height therein.

The oven had been warming up,
when the door was pulled asunder
and the tin was placed atop a shelf
not middle, but just under.

Slowly the sticky mixture baked?
and gradually it did harden,
'till tested ready with a skewer,
from the furnace it was pardoned.

Cooled in tin, and then on rack,
and bathed in cooking brandy,
then wrapped and stored and bathed,
some more was modus operandi.

The rich brown fruit cake was liberated,
and brushed with sticky jam.
Then wrapped in a golden covering
of evenly rolled marzipan.

Next came the icing. Purest white
and smoothly layered all over.
Then left to set and layered again
sheer white like cliffs at Dover.

Now for the deftly placed nozzle
a squeeze, a press and withdraw
colourful piping surrounded the base
then around the top ‘encore’.

Figures were sculptured in marzipan.
The nativity scene oh so neat,
the beautiful cake was finished,
all that was left is to eat.

The cake looked so impressive,
with its nativity scene, so unique,
nobody wanted to cut it,
So it sat on the table all week.

People hungrily admired it,
but no one dared take a slice,
then late last night for his supper,
the dog ate it all in a trice.

John Carré Buchanan
30 December 2011

Cats Eyes

Image Source:

I have been experimenting with semi educational poems recently, researching a topic, such as Bananas, and then putting a poem together to present the subject to the reader in a way in which something might be learnt. The following poem introduces the Tapetum Lucidum which is a layer in a cat’s eye which reflects the light back into the retina and by so doing making the light twice seen, and the cat better at seeing in the dark.

Cats Eyes

He owns the night
that owns the light.
Tapetum Lucidum and Retina
do their work.
Twice seen light
makes night, light;
and light night
means dinner.

John Carré Buchanan
22 August 2011

This poem is linked to Poets United.

Lost and Found

As we grow older we experience change in almost all areas of our lives. Many are relatively insignificant and most of us learn to roll with the flow. We call the additional lines on our faces laughter lines or the grey hairs amassing on our heads silver, (that’s assuming we are lucky and they have not simply abandoned ship!) I have even heard tell; that a keg is better than a six-pack!

Perhaps the one change that is hardest to adapt to is loss, particularly of a friend. Richard Bach, a man who, through his books, helped shaped my childhood mind, once wrote;

"Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends."

I was thinking about loss as I sat in the cliff top tea garden at Icart eating a rum and raisin ice cream. In my mind’s eye I saw the faces of a number of friends whom I have lost over the years. The first being a friend at school who I can still see doing beautiful somersaults from the school diving board. Then there were the images of Service friends lost both in the UK and overseas. I realised that I really do believe that I will meet with them again and that whilst I really miss their camaraderie, I am able to look back on the times we shared with joy.

I then took to thinking about the loss of mobility I have suffered during the last three years. I realised that this dominates almost every waking moment of my life. At first the comparison between loss of life and the loss of mobility, made me feel extremely selfish. Here was I eating rum and raisin ice cream in a beautiful garden feeling self-pity when others had lost their lives, what sort of person was I?

After a short bout of self-flagellation I realised that the loss I feel most is the loss of freedom. Naturally this made me think of people like Nelson Mandela, John McCarthy and Chris Moon. Each of these men had faced loss of freedom and come through it seemingly stronger.

I remembered reading that while incarcerated on Robben Island prison Nelson Mandela was empowered by the message of self-mastery contained in the poem ""Invictus"" written by the English poet William Ernest Henley. The last two lines of this poem are;

“I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”

John McCarthey wrote that during his captivity he benefitted from coming to terms with the fact that he had entered a world where the past didn’t exist. As a professional speaker he also identifies the importance of standing up to a foe and keeping the mind alert.

Chris Moon a friend of mine at Sandhurst, was kidnapped by the Khmer Rouge and later, in a separate incident in Mozambique, lost his right lower leg and right hand when he trod on a land mine. A motivational speaker now he stresses the importance of; not becoming a victim, maintaining the ability to reason, focusing on the positives and opportunities and perhaps most importantly not being beaten by the limits we put on ourselves.

The ice cream was now long gone, my way forward has been made clearer; summed up by wisdom of three incredible men. Don’t be a victim, don’t dwell on the past, I am the master of my fate and the captain of my soul and look for and make the most of opportunities.

I then thought of my own poem ‘Where The Sea Meets The Clouds (Turmoil)’ which I wrote in 2003 and blogged only 2 weeks ago. The final line of which is;

“and beyond it, the horizon is clear, for those who wish to see it.”

I guess having taken the first step the challenge now is to put my foot on the second rung of the ladder.

My poem for today is about the loss of Otto, our Bernese Mountain dog, a close friend whom I look forward to meeting again.

Otto

There’s a hole at my feet,
It used to be filled by my friend
He’d lie there and wait ‘til I tried to step over,
Then stand and watch me contend.
There’s a hole at my feet where he should be.

There’s a hole at my elbow,
It used to be filled by his nose
He’d wait and he’d wait then just as I ate
He’d knock me and soil my clothes
There’s a hole at my elbow where he should be.

There’s a hole in my heart,
It used to be filled with his love
He’d lie down beside me just for a hug
And cover me up like some black furry rug
There’s a hole in my heart where he should be.

There’s a hole in my mind,
Which is filled with my friend
He lies there and waits ‘til I step over,
And then we’ll be whole and happy and free
And roam in the heavens just him and me.

John Carré Buchanan
28 February 2010