The Reunion

I wrote this poem following a reunion I attended last week.

The Reunion

One by one they file in
a quick cheer, insults traded
firm hard shakes, back slaps,
the call for another pint.
A roll call of sorts;
'whose arriving? when?'
Old friendships rekindle instantly
time itself rewound.
The circle and volume grow
tall tales and beers flow
onlookers eavesdrop and wonder;
for this form of friendship
is too special for ordinary folk,
these comrades share bonds
stronger then the very lives they tie.

John Carré Buchanan
25 June 2017

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



This poem is linked to; Poets United.

Miscreants

I wrote this poem for an Open Mic with the subject of; 'Skin'. I feel slightly guilty because I couldn't include more names and keep the rhyme. Suffice to say that that I am proud to have served with a bunch of reprobates who got under my skin.

Miscreants

Somehow those miscreants got under my skin,
they were brothers, but never kin.
The likes of Midnight, Scotty, Mac and Doc
in a place where strife ran amok.
There was a job to be done
and it got done
but they had an unrivalled capacity for fun.
It was hard to keep the lid on
Immersed in a crucible
bonds formed, bonds that live on
and will; 'till the last of us is done.
Yes my friends,
you got under my skin
and you live here, deep within.

John Carré Buchanan
11 September 2016

Music With A View

I went to the Moulin Huet Tea Room yesterday to listen to the fabulous Ukuladeez launch their new album. They were joined by The Crowman and Esther Rose Parkes who had come over from Jersey.

The trip down to the Tea Room was very hairy (I was in my wheelchair and gravity was stronger than traction), as for the trip back.....

but what an afternoon, we even had a fly past from a Merlin helicopter.

While I was there I wrote this poem.

Music With A View

Strings vibrate the air,
the garden fills with music.
Cocked, sun-hatted heads,
listen appreciatively.
The perfect view,
constrained by the steep valley
opens to the bay,
guarded by granite cliffs
whose Jagged teeth pierce the horizon.
Within the garden,
bordered by hydrangeas
the crowd gathers,
and the excitement grows.
The band strikes up
harmonies fill the air,
heads nod, feet tap, shoulders sway.
Stunning view,
beautiful garden,
and foot stomping music.
A perfect end,
to a perfect day.

John Carré Buchanan
21 June 2014

D-Day ~ Ode to Heroes

Today marks the 70th anniversary of D-day (6th June 1944). The day on which Allied troops landed by air and sea as part of Operation NEPTUNE which was the landing phase of the broader invasion of Normandy known as Operation OVERLOARD.

Of the 160,000 troops who crossed the English Channel on D-Day, approximately 12,000 were reported as casualties with 4,400 confirmed dead.

Most of these men would baulk at being called heroes. In my opinion these men, who despite all odds delivered troops, took bridges and secured the drop-zones and beach-heads that day, are all heroes.

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
we will remember them.”

D-Day – Ode to Heroes

Doors opened
commands flew
helmets surged forward
and the view cleared.
Darkness rushed past
and then a blast of air
tumbling…
Tumbling…
Check canopy,
kick out twists,
steer away,
and the ground rushed up
thud, roll, release, RV,
then push forward.
Capture, destroy,
clear drop zones,
gliders disgorged
as the push continued.
Capture, destroy,
bridges over Douve, Caen, Orne, Dives,
the battery at Merville
as their comrades fell
they pushed forward.

The ramp lowered
commands flew
helmets surged forward
the view cleared
sand, water, wire, smoke, bodies
stretching….
Stretching….
Push forward
into chest deep, cold water.
So cold.
Heavy battle dress; sodden
dragged down
stumbled forward
friends all around
with grim faces
over the hornet buzz of bullets
the crump of artillery and bombs
came the skirl of bagpipes playing
whilst sand laden water leaped
and men fell, torn apart
screams rent the air
and still they drove forward
on UTAH, OMAHA, GOLD, JUNO, and SWORD
they pushed on,
as comrades fell
they overcame the urge to hide
and ran, staggered and crawled forward

When their countries called
they stepped up
they paid an unimaginable price.
Some pay it still.
These men, Heroes all.
We will remember them.

John Carré Buchanan
05 June 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

The Twitcher

Image Source:

For a short period of time in the early 90's I was a Primary Forward Air Controller (PFAC). This was an exciting and very challenging role which involved guiding fast jets on to their targets. Problem was; once an attack had taken place and the pilots had flown away the PFAC would still be on the ground within sight of the enemy and they would be looking for him.

For some reason this role sprung to mind when I was tasked with writing a poem themed 'birds' for this months Open Mic. The poem took 15 minutes to write, I hope you like it.

The Twitcher

The birds flew in just after dawn.
They skimmed the treetops,
left ripples on the surface of the lake.
The first, and last, their prey knew of them
was a mighty, stomach wrenching, roar
as they flashed past;
leaving dust and devastation in their wake.
Up on the hill top
he tucked the laser away,
confirmed the kill,
then crawled over the brow,
stood and broke into a tab*.
Job done,
bug out.

John Carré Buchanan
19 May 2014

* Tab; A term the Paras' use to describe a run carrying full kit. A bit like the Royal Marines' 'Yomp', but faster ;-)

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

The Broom Cupboard

When I joined the Army in the early 80's many of the directing staff (DS) at Depot Para were Falklands veterans. They had experienced war at it's most primal level and were determined to ensure that the soldiers they trained were, to use the Regiment's motto, 'ready for anything'. By coincidence the platoon was destined to return to the same battalion as the DS, which naturally drove them to push harder and ensure that their protégés did them justice.

In this incredibly hard environment there was a need for recruits to vent and the DS used an unconventional (and very unofficial) mechanism for allowing us to do so. As such the broom cupboard became a place where differences could be settled and respect could be earned away from prying eyes.

It was also a place where I learnt that friendships forged in fire last forever.

The Broom Cupboard

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
Behind the closed door
differences were settled.
The bully, strong, confident,
bought crashing to the floor
by his victim
and yet, no face was lost.

Amidst the brooms and polish
fists flew, differences were sorted;
the result stayed silent,
save for the unspoken respect
forged in the dim confines
of a place where rank
meant nothing.

John Carré Buchanan
10 May 2014

Days Of Our Lives

This poem is dedicated to the people I knew in 26 Sqn RCT in Northern Ireland back in the late 80's early 90's. Particularly the ‘diesel dogs’ of B Troop and those that used the Half Crown.

Days Of Our Lives

Those were the days.
Young, carefree, invincible.
Corralled within a steel ring
topped with razor wire
as if to keep the fun in.

Outside the wire
‘Dickers’ tracked us.
Madmen bombed our cars
or threw explosives
cased in jars.

With lives at risk
we had to trust
that each would play their part.
For staying safe outside the wire
was really quite an art.

We worked hard,
then played hard.
Boy we had some fun.
Looking back across the years
friends, second to none.

John Carré Buchanan
08 September 2013

Chinese Proverb

Image Source:

I was asked to write a humorous poem based on an old adage. The subject matter was left completely up to me and not having written for a while I went for something easy. I hope you enjoy it.

Chinese Proverb

He lay there silent,
head tipped back,
a look of surprise
fixed in his eyes.

On his head
two black spots lie
separated by a maw
that was not there before.

The line of scarlet
crossed his brow.
He’d not had time
to utter 'ow'.

I remembered then
an old adage;

“Do not remove a fly
from your friend’s forehead
with a hatchet.”

John Carré Buchanan
17 January 2013

Four Years On

Image Source

This post is written to thank all the people who have stood by me during the last four years. Without their love, guidance and support, I would not be here today.

Four years ago I was knocked from my bicycle on the way to work. What followed has been horrendous for both me and my family.

I have lived in continuous and severe pain which has gradually worsened since the accident; my medical support team tell me that it will continue to worsen. What should improve is my ability to live with and manage the pain.

I have lost my Job, the ability to do all the hobbies I once enjoyed, but far and away more important I lost the ability to partake fully in the lives of my wife and our two beautiful, loving young children. The guilt associated with being unable even to ascend stairs to kiss them good night is hard to bear.

I started writing in attempt to give myself something to do; I also conducted a massive soul search and realignment project which aimed to redesign my inner self, my soul, such that it could live in the new, less capable, body.

This uncomfortable and often dangerous journey continues. So far I have become a Christian, found new friends, who are there for me before I need ask. I have plumbed the very depths of despair and surfaced again. I constantly endure pain which despite using powerful Opiates is sufficient in intensity to make me black out at times.

Despite all of this I am still here.

The following poem is - believe it or not - a poem of hope; it serves to remind me that I never was a quitter. I hope you can find something in it too.

Four Years On

The memory is not important
Screech of breaks, shattered glass,
burst of fear, anger, pain;
that is how it started,
she just pulled out.

The loss that’s what truly counts
Feet pound along beautiful cliff paths,
bicycles, kayaks, water skis;
that’s what was lost,
everything I enjoyed.

No, It’s deeper, much worse
The essence of everything loved
Wife, Children, Friends, Job;
all of them suffer,
Torn asunder, shredded.

Self image, destroyed, hated
unimaginable pain, imaginable,
insomnia, tears, vomit;
these unwanted parasites,
devour all joy, never cease.

Every day, a new battle
continuous cycle of pain management,
exercise, therapy, stretches, drugs;
just to stay stable,
the gradual decline evident.

The one desire, end it, end it all
screech of brakes, shattered lives,
pain, despair, guilt;
tortured soul
fight, don’t quit, pray.

Put cares aside, trust the Lord,
true friends lend shoulders and listen,
plan, strive, achieve;
Four years on,
Pain worse, but hanging in.

John Carré Buchanan
08 August 2012

Early Memories – UK I

  Image from; open.salon.com

Having returned to England our family moved to Croydon. The area was not the most salubrious of locations but was ideally located near a school, nursery and a Hospital where my Mother worked as a nurse.

Following the Second World War, Britain had experienced a period of high immigration as people from the Commonwealth, and particularly from the West Indies, had been encouraged by the British Government to come and work in the UK.

Many of these people endured extreme prejudice and intolerance from sectors of the indigenous British society and early African-Caribbean immigrants found private employment and housing denied to them on the basis of race. It was so bad that even the Trade unions would often refuse to help African-Caribbean workers.

Throughout the 1950’s there had been a number of Riots and racially motivated violence was common place right into the early 60’s.

It is against this background and the fact that my parents were returning from overseas tours where they had been part of the British expatriate community that in the late 60's I became best friends with a young West Indian lad called Steven.

This poem, based on memory and discussions with my mother, describes how two kids from different racial backgrounds became best friends and remained completely oblivious to the racial tension which our parents must have been so conscious of. I just wish that such friendships would replace intolerance and racism all over the world.

I hope you like this poem;

Early Memories – UK I

Mum had said Steven could come and play
but only if his mother said OK.
So when I saw them in a shop
I dragged my mum toward them.
‘This is Steven and his mum’ I said.

I didn’t see our mums’ surprise
as I looked at them with pleading eyes;
for whilst Steven was West Indian
he’d lived his life in England,
but a product of the Empire I was expat born and bred.

Our parents were of an age
Where race and colour like a cage
trapped them with convention
which today it’s taboo to mention.

Our mothers shone that day
As they pushed the barriers away
and let their boys play together;
Two best friends who saw each other
as if we each had gained a brother.

John Carré Buchanan
27 January 2012