Ruins In My Mind

Image Source:

When I return to Guernsey my family moved into a house which, in the words of the estate agent, "had lots of potential". In order to realise this potential a number of walls had to be moved and knocked through.

One morning while taking down a wall a large amount of rubble and dust piled up in the hall. As the dust cleared I had a flashback which stirred up some unpleasant memories, thoughts I had long since locked away.

Every now and again, as I walk through the hall, the sights, sounds and smells of the original event, strangely combine with those of my house renovations in my mind. It was one of these flashbacks that inspired this poem.

Ruins In My Mind

Blood trickled through the dust on a lifeless hand
sticky crimson turned black
as it dried in the grey stone dust.
And there; a shock of hair,
matted, covered in blasted stone.
here in the rubble of the wall I'd taken down
here in the hall of my own home
memories of a past
I thought I'd forgotten.
Ghosts of horrors past,
resurrected to haunt me,
resurrected to taunt me,
in the ruins of my mind.

John Carré Buchanan
16 August 2015

Buzzword Bingo

Image Source:

For weeks now the media has been full of quotes and comments made by politicians and commentators alike. Their constant use of buzzwords reminded me of a game I once witnessed and inspired the following poem;

Buzzword Bingo

The consultant orates confidently from his platform,
flip sheets and models abound.
Whilst down in the masses, (who've heard it before),
a game's been passed around.

Delegates studiously take down notes
pens all of a quiver,
ears hang on every word
as his wisdom is calmly delivered;

"... this global solution"
heads nod and agree
"demonstrates a holistic approach",
some can't hide their glee
"delivering a one stop shop",
you could hear a pin drop.

Proudly he notes the air of excitement,
they're eating right out of his hand,
so he goes off script in a vain attempt
to 'leverage his own brand'.

"BINGO!" She cries, to accompanying groans
and a ripple of laughter ran 'round
up on the stage, the bluffer felt caged
by his ego so cruelly drowned.

John Carré Buchanan
27 April 2015

Mirrors

Image Source:

The Theme for our last Open Mic was 'Mirror'. To be honest I forgot to write anything for it, so whilst waiting for the evening to start I dashed off this acrostic (the first letters of each line spell mirror).

The image I have used displays visually the idea I was trying to get across. There are several more excellent images on this theme if you follow this link.

I hope you like the poem.

Mirrors

My face glares back at me
Image of yester-year
Registers in my mind’s eye
Rugged chin, bright eyes
Oh why do mirrors always get it
'rse about face.

John Carré Buchanan
09 March 2015

Benches Galore

Image Source:

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 Morning It Snowed

Image Source:

Living on an Island which celebrates being liberated from German occupation and having witnessed the effects of modern genocide in the Balkans, I recognise the importance of marking the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz which takes place today. My heart goes out to all those affected by what happened during the holocaust.

It is a disgrace that whilst the world, quite rightly, remembers the atrocities which took place under the Nazi regime, there are a number of countries in which genocide is occurring today. To our great shame, these atrocities are being allowed to occur by our governments and media who for the greater part turn a blind eye.

This poem, written 3 years ago, is for those affected by genocide wherever and whenever it has occurred.

The Morning It Snowed

His shrunken frame stood tall
She noticed dandruff on his shoulders
And brushing it watched it fall
evoking memories that still appal.

White flakes tumbling to the ground.
hollow eyes peering from windows
seeing where they were bound
as the ash settled all around.

The stench hung on misty air
walking across the courtyard
as quickly as they dare
their heads bowed low in despair.

Smoke belching from the tower
bearing souls away.
Hour after hour
ash settling on the ground like flour.

Yet they survived the Genocide
when the Devil’s dandruff
covered the countryside
leaving its wounds deep inside.

John Carré Buchanan
13 July 2011

Dash

Image Source:

Section Battle Drills are a fundamental part of a British soldier's basic training. They are, quite literally, 'drilled' into recruits until they become second nature. They are designed to teach the six phases of a battle and by so doing they maximise both the individual soldier's chances of survival and the section's chances of closing with and destroying the enemy.

This poem is based on an event which took place on a range in Brecon when my section corporal used a 7.62 Self Loading Rifle fired from just behind me to simulate enemy fire. Funny old thing; the second drill; 'Reaction to Effective Enemy Fire' (Dash, Down, Crawl, Observe, Sights, Fire) still rattles through my brain every now and again.

Dash

I ran.
Water burst in the air,
stone split and spat at my feet
sharp staccato cracks filled my ears.
One thought, no time for more,
Take cover
STONES FLEW
COVER
Down, crawl, observe, sights
... Fire.
Later as I checked my feet,
I found the hole
... in my boot's rubber heel.

John Carré Buchanan
27 December 2014

Christmas Morning

Image Source:

Merry Christmas everyone, I thought I would post this short poem inspired by memories of my father throwing my new 'paratrooper Action Man' out of a first floor window, whilst I stood below looking forward to my go;-)

I hope you enjoy the poem and once again; Merry Christmas.

Christmas Morning

Giggles erupt from the huddle.
Excited nudges, toothless smiles.
The air fills with high pitched chatter,
as children talk all at once; no one listening.
Too much fun.

Shiny paper torn asunder, thrust behind.
Fingers break into cardboard boxes
to grasp treasures within.

Hovering in the background,
camera flashing,
parents revel in the joy before them.
A Christmas scene played out
in a thousand living rooms.

It won't be long before little voices everywhere plead;
"Daddy, please can I have a go?
...... IT IS MINE !"

John Carré Buchanan
05 December 2014

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

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