Forget The Small Change

 

Forget the Small Change 

What will it take for mankind to change? 

To stop the destruction, pollution and rage, 

to see the potential of sharing resource, 

to savor prompt action not lengthy discourse. 

What would it take to quell mankind's greed? 

to drop the ‘want’ and focus on ‘need’, 

to relish in beauty and strive to protect, 

not keep on consuming 'til everything’s wrecked. 

Is it to late to save mankind? 

Is our destiny already defined? 

We're in the midst of an extinction event, 

yet we charge forward with relentless intent. 

Perhaps we need to show more respect, 

focus on what humanity forgets. 

In a world without nature, we cannot thrive.

We must change focus if mankind’s to survive. 

John Carré Buchanan 

25 September 2020

Cataract Removal

As The Covid-19 lockdown continues in Guernsey I find myself writing again. I can’t help but notice how intrusive nature is now the man-made hubbub has been removed.

This poem reflects on a more positive aspect of the lockdown. I hope you are able to discover your own version of nature’s beauty as we all try to stay safe.

Cataract Removal

The sky is clear today.
The sky is crystal clear.
Just blue,
light at the horizon,
deeper as eyes lift heavenward,
the lattice of contrails gone.

The bird song is loud today.
Tiny voices sound so clear.
Just birdsong,
shrill trills carried on a breeze,
sweet arias lifted heavenward,
the incessant roar of traffic gone.

Years seem stripped away.
A memory of times gone by.
Bright sun in clear sky,
the birds sing, bees buzz,
nature's beauty revealed,
the cataract of progress gone.

John Carré Buchanan
5th April 2020

Dorothy’s Bench II

This afternoon I went to sit on Dorothy’s Bench to play a few mind games. The scene was pure beauty but my mind was dark. This poem sums it up.

Dorothy’s Bench II

It's noisy here today.
The streams, while recharged
are almost unheard.
Amidst the leaves birds vie for attention
like hawkers in a busy bazaar.
Gulls scream above the hubbub.
The roar of the waves is drowned out.
Eyes closed, cool breeze on my face
I focus on the beauty
and seek to escape
but the voices scream
and the waves overwhelm.

John Carré Buchanan
18 April 2019

A Call From Guernsey Airport

This happened when I traveled from Guernsey to Newcastle last month. Unfortunately the lady concerned and I shared 2 flights and she was just as vocal on-board.

A Call From Guernsey Airport

Suddenly a voice started speaking;
"Hi, It's Janet, I'm going to be late."
it wasn't muted, It wasn't muted at all,
it was one of those full blast old people calls.
A voice born in the days of operators
every monotonous word at full blast
as if the smart phone and not the speaker was deaf.
Expressions on faces 20 meters away
ranged from irritation to simple smiles
as the woman with the latest smart phone
cut across the hubbub of the busy terminal
by shouting at her friend in Newcastle.

John Carré Buchanan
24 August 2018

Dorothy's Bench

I wrote this poem on a really bad pain day whilst sitting above Saints Bay on a bench dedicated to Dorothy Mary Harvey. The weather was perfect, the view spectacular and a choir of birds was serenading me and yet depression and despair filled my mind.

I forced myself to focus my attention on my surroundings. I paid particular attention to every detail of the environment and as I did so I drafted elements of a poem in my mind. After a couple of hours I had recovered sufficient strength to walk home and put pen to paper.

I hope you like my poem.
​
Dorothy's Bench

Dorothy's bench is sited well
a refuge from an inner hell.
Last night’s showers
have brightened flowers,
the wind tousles trees
but I can't hear the leaves;
for birds singing mask that sound
as nature's beauty abounds.
I strain to hear the dancing stream
or is it just a wishful dream?
Silent waves on beach
distant memories of joy beseech.
That blue sky with wispy clouds
shines bright above dark thunderclouds.
I wipe my eyes and pray,
that showers could wash despair away.

John Carré Buchanan
09 June 2018

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,

Have A Care

Humankind is obsessed with its own worth, we acknowledge that we are damaging the environment, we pretend that we care, yet we are naïve enough to believe that replacing ancient rain forests with palm oil trees is an acceptable trade.

This poem aims to highlight the biggest threat to our species, a threat which receives far less media attention than it deserves, for when the true impact of humankind on the environment is realised; the media’s bias towards; religion, politics, nationality and human rights pails into insignificance.

Have A Care

I don't care if you’re a Muslim
I don't care if you’re a Jew
I don't care if you’re Christian
Syrian, or from Crew.
If your L-B-G-T
they're all fine by me,
because I believe
we're all humanity.

From the tycoon in her ivory tower
to the orphan on the street.
A rebel fighting government
the girl I've yet to meet.
The Inuit in the high north,
the Bajau on the sea,
we all share the basic right
to live a life that's free.

It’s a right we share with nature
with beasts, the birds and bees,
the creatures of the ocean
and yes; the plants and trees.
From tiny little microbes
to the might of the great blue whale,
the spider hanging in its web
and the humble garden snail

Yes, we share that basic right,
to live a life that's free
but we humans also have;
a responsibility;
to mind the world we live in,
to mind the air we share,
to keep the oceans pure and clear,
and above all show we care.

so; I don't care if you’re a Muslim
I don't care if you’re a Jew
I don't care if you’re Christian
Syrian or from Crew.
If your L-B-G-T
that's ok with me
but if you insist on damaging
this world that all life shares
we're going to have a problem
because I'm someone who cares.

John Carré Buchanan
12 March 2016

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



This poem is linked to Poets United.

A Guide To Extending Foreign Policy

Image Source:

Reflecting on parliament's decision to bomb IS assets in Syria I recalled several lectures I attended during my military training. These lectures contained a number of 'lessons learnt' (often the hard way) during past conflicts.

The complexity of the current situation is horrendous and resolution will require the full spectrum of political and diplomatic effort. That said I can't help thinking that our politicians should be required to attend the same lectures, particularly as they are the people who ultimately define what our armed forces are tasked to do.

My thoughts and prayers are with the men and women who protect our nation and of course the people of Syria and Iraq.

The following poem sums up some key lessons.

A Guide To Extending Foreign Policy

“War is the continuation of politics by other means.” - Clausewitz

There are times when action is needed
when you just can’t stand and observe
but if you plan to use Armed Forces
take note these lessons learnt;

Regime change is not your decision
no matter what you might feel.
You have to let the people decide
not grind it in with your heel.

Rich bullies are never respected,
their acts breed envy and hate.
Win the hearts and the minds of a people
and your efforts will carry more weight.

When fighting terrorists or rebels,
you have to comply with the law,
if you break it you may win a battle
but morally you'll lose the war.

Your allies’ views will be different
they may even get in your way.
Tread carefully when taking action
lest the cons do the pros outweigh.

Befriending your enemy’s enemy,
is rarely the best way to go.
If you can’t find an ally you trust
take care; you’re in the wrong show.

You can't hold ground from a plane,
with artillery it's just the same.
If you want to hold on to what's around
you’ll have to put boots on the ground.

If you’re in you must be; all in,
there is no other way,
the reward for a half assed effort
is to be bitten another day.

Yes - war is a messy business
in which everyone gets burnt.
So before you stick your oar in
take heed these lessons hard learnt.

John Carré Buchanan
03 December 2015

Winds Of Time

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In the scheme of things mankind has not been on earth very long and no matter what we achieve in the future the probability is that in a geological timescale we are likely to be a mere blip in the history of this planet. That said the lifespan of Earth itself pales into insignificance in grand scheme.

This got me thinking and a the following poem breezed into mind.

Winds Of Time

The Fulani knew my power
as hunched against my breath
they drove herds in search of pasture
that I’d not smothered yet.
You call me Harmattan,
though that is not my name,
for I was here before you
before the desert came
and when your bones are naught but dust
I will still remain.

The Clatsop knew my warmth
as I swept the mountain slopes
I melted snow before me
and bought false signs of hope.
You call me Chinook
though that is not my name
for my clouds enriched sunrise
before the dawn of man
and they’ll brighten western skies
when your last race has run.

Columbus and Magellan
thought they'd harnessed me
as they navigated oceans
in search of destiny.
You call me Trade Winds
but that is not my name
for I blew before the ocean's birth
when a mighty rupture came
and I'll be blowing still
when land joins land again.

I helped shape mountains,
I swept the plains between.
From ice cap to desert
I sculpted the terrain.
I breathed, before life,
before little pools of green,
before cells came together
to crawl out from the sea
and I was here a long, long time,
before apes climbed in the trees.

Yet even I will perish
as time alone survives,
for this planet will crumble
scattered amidst the skies
it's atmosphere burnt off
carried on cosmic winds.
Our atoms will float
through a universe sublime
waiting to be born again
in the ebb and flow of time

John Carré Buchanan
31 October 2015

With thanks to Richard Fleming for his help.

This poem is linked to the midweek motif on Poets United.

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

The Toy

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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

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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

Emotions High

Image: A Barroom Brawl - Anton Otto Fischer (1882-1962)

The theme for last nights Open Mic was; 'a poem based on an article in a newspaper or magazine'. The Guernsey Press headline; "Mourners involved in Town fight", caught my eye and the following poem was the result. I hope you like it.

Emotions High

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust;
to dust up.
Down into the ground,
down into town,
down the hatch,
light the match.
Emotions high
tempers fly
a fan smashed,
headline splashed;
"Mourners involved in Town fight"
police ask for insight,
whilst down with the worms
the departed turns.

John Carré Buchanan
7 November 2014

The Pause

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I was in town this morning at 11:00 hrs. This gave rise to the following poem, I hope you like it.

The Pause

The siren wails,
Its caterwaul blankets the town
in the sound of yesteryear.
Then, at eleven sharp,
the dull thump of a canon
echoes through grey streets.
It bounces off granite facades,
sweeps over ancient cobbles
like an invisible broom
it clears the clatter and hubbub
of everyday life.
An eerie silence descends
as the metropolis stills.
People stop to reflect,
heads bowed,
thoughts, private.
The brief interlude ends
As the "All Clear" sounds,
Heroes remembered,
thanked,
as we, the free,
resume our busy lives.

John Carré Buchanan
11 November 2014

Fame

Last night I attended the local Open Mic evening. These evenings have a non-compulsory theme and last nights was; 'when I met someone famous'.

It struck me that, as an expatriate and an Army Officer, I had met a wide variety of 'famous' people, but I had also met many 'people of great value'. In my mind it is the latter group which is more worthy of acclaim. Whilst many famous people do a lot of good in the world it is ordinary people who are often best placed to add extraordinary value.

The following poem is dedicated to the millions of people of great value around the world.

Fame

Oh!
While we're all name dropping I'll have a go,
Queen Elizabeth, King Hussein,
Princes; Charles, Andrew and Pavlos of Greece.
Princesses; Aisha of Jordan, Diana and Anne
Politicians so many, I’ll name but a few;
Maggie, John Major, Ian Paisley - that’ll do.
From TV Kate Adie, John Simpson and Martin Bell
I interviewed Kenny Everett, Dame Jackson and Lord Weatherill.
Then there were sports folk, like Daley and Tessa
and dukes and duchesses, and one contessa
A slack hand full of generals, De La Billiere, Rose, Jackson
Church leaders I’ve met just two;
Robert Runcie and Desmond Tutu.
I’ve hosted bands like ‘The Sweet’,
and met Victor Meldrew.

I could go on but when all’s said and done
they're all just people like you and me.
Some fun to be with, others, just glum.

but the person I remember most,
wore mud streaks on a face like a ghost,
at six she'd lost her parents to a boy with a gun
and roamed dangerous streets alone.

We all have our heroes, the great and the wise
but A list or B list I’ve come to despise,
For when you’re out on your ear
and your folks have been shot
fame does not matter one single jot.

It’s how you treat others, that sets you apart,
true heroes fill the cracks in society
unsung, just getting on
and no one’s as important as;
a child’s dad or mum.

John Carré Buchanan
20 October 2014

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

The Breakfast News

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I was in the Gym this morning and the TV was playing the breakfast news. The all too familiar image of cross hairs hovering as a smart bomb destroyed a compound played out on the screen. This gruesome clip was accompanied by the anchor’s sombre but upbeat soundtrack.

Having witnessed the sort of damage the ordnance being used causes, I was suddenly aware of just how biased reporting can be. I don’t condone the actions of IS, they are horrendous and they need to be stopped, but I couldn’t help wondering why watching the deaths of numerous people could be considered reasonable breakfast fare whilst the death of one was not. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see the images of hostages being murdered any more than I want to see exploding smart bombs but both pieces of film footage were designed for the same political / propaganda role and I personally don't want to see either.

This train of thought led to the following poem, which aims to remind the reader that all death caused by war is tragic, and should never be celebrated.

The Breakfast News

The unfortunate kneels in front of his assailant
dressed in orange.
Rhetoric flows as cameras turn
and then,
and then the world recoils in terror.
Images banned, taken down,
the action condemned.

Grainy crosshairs in black and white
float on our screens
hovering over a nondescript compound.
Suddenly the image flares
and fades back to a pall of smoke
clearing to reveal ruins and smoldering vehicles
overlaid by a gloating anchor's voice.

Injustice?
One solitary death, gruesome
condemned by those it aimed to terrorise
yet a compound, filled with mutilated corpses
and screams of the injured
sanitised by distance and a grainy shot,
is somehow seen as good.

John Carré Buchanan
29 September 2014

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.

There is a romantic image of troops setting off to war in which marching men pass through cheering crowds being bombarded with well-wishes and flowers.

In my experience departures on Ops were more likely to be a lonely, thought filled, walk in the middle of the night. If the Quartermaster had done his job correctly he would have indented for cold and wet weather to maximise the benefit!

The walk would be followed by brief periods of frenetic activity interspersed with a lot of hanging around, soldiers call this; 'Rush to Wait'.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.

He silences the alarm before she digs him in the ribs,
dresses swiftly in the dark and creeps downstairs
taking care to avoid the squeaky stair.
Quietly he steps into the cool nocturnal gloom.
His breath hangs on the chill night air.
With practiced ease he swings the Bergen to his back.
Turns a key in the lock and pauses,
eyes glued to the unlit glass
mind focused on the sleeping heads inside.
He turns, shrugs and fades into the shadows;
absorbed by the night.
All that betrays his presence
is the measured sound of boots upon the road.
Other humpbacked figures appear and disappear
fading in and out of light cones
cast by lamps which illuminate
coils of razor wire on the fence top
as it runs on in to the mist.
At the barrier he shows his ID and joins the throng.
Rush to wait......
Time ticks past, an hour in her arms;
lost.
He knows not when, or if,
he will hold her again.
Name called, he boards the bus,
fills from the back, sits, eyes closed,
sleep envelopes
a warrior off to war.

John Carré Buchanan
12 September 2014

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



This poem is linked to Poets United.

The Drum

Whilst swimming this morning I became aware of my pulse beating away in my head, this triggered a thought process which resulted in the following poem, I hope you like it;

The Drum

The drum beats,
B-boom, B-boom,
its steady rhythm
constant,
metronymic,
filling the body
with a soft, deep, pulse,
B-boom, B-boom.
At full charge,
or a mere murmur,
it matches the pace of life;
as the drummer beats
the backing track
through the whole gig.

John Carré Buchanan
04 September 2014