Doggone

Something a little bit different.

Scenario: I'm sitting on the loo when the dog decides to burst in and sit between my feet!

Doggone

I'm sitting on the Loo,
having a poo.
I don't need you
admiring the view.

John Carré Buchanan
25 July 2018

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.

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

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

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