A Sort of Journal

2004

This journal is a record of poems and photographs. The photographs I create as I cycle around the counties of Worcester, Gloucester and Warwick in the search for a healthier lifestyle or as I travel the world. The poems can come from anywhere - I have the freedom to wander the countryside and await inspiration. I can also eat chocolate knowing that I’m going to find a long upwardly mobile hill and burn it off. What could be more perfect?

A cliché for Christmas - Cat in a Window, Pershore High Street, December 16th, 2004

Autumn in Kent, October 2004

Touchwood, Solihull, February 14th, 2004, 14.45

The lights go out in all the shops, The tills go dead, all trading stops. The shopping mall is put on hold; No shoppers shop, no goods are sold, No bargain frocks, from bargain rails, No end-of-line rock-bottom sales Or discontinued, worthless goods, Last season’s raincoats, without hoods. All these things are kept at bay, The power’s gone, no sales today

Engine & Mountains - Terrace, British Columbia; June 2004

Inspired by a poster for ‘The Mousetrap’, 21/1/2004

The butler did it! A familiar cry,

At the scene of a crime where someone had to die.

And always the butler, never the maid;

A deadly profession, his upper class trade.

But how does he do it, his weapon of choice?

A poisoned Madeira that chokes off the voice,

Or the edge of a salver, quick blow to the head,

A trip down the staircase: his master, gone, dead.

And what makes him do it, this malevolent male?

What drives him to risk a lifetime in a jail?

Is it the subservience, the constant kow-towing?

Or hearing his lord tup the maid he is wooing?

No, the answer we seek lies in earthier things.

It’s not loathing he feels as the pantry bell rings.

It’s his consuming passion that lies down in the vault

That gives us the clue to this murderer’s fault

For his liking for Chablis, Sauternes, hock and port

Has twisted his brain and muddled his thought.

He’s disposed of the block to a life spent in pleasure,

And now he lies drunk, on the floor, in the cellar.

(Before someone worries that I’ve given the plot away, I haven’t seen ‘The Mousetrap’ and have no knowledge relating to the involvement of any butler in any incident within that dramatic entertainment)

Rainbow off Russell, North Island, New Zealand, April 2003

Detail from a war memorial, Little Comberton, Worcestershire; November 14th, 2004

War Sonnet

Is it not war that drives us to despair That we will never rise above the mire, The grim and festering fields of fire, The smoke, the noise, the shrieks that rend the air, From men we've sent across the mud to dare The foe to take their lives amongst the wire, A ceaseless flow of death that will not tire Until we have no more, or come to care? Yet if we found the means to end this game To fix this dreary picture in a frame, To paint it as a scene of love and bliss Instead of blood and hate, would we think this A better way to live our lives, behave? Or are the ways of conflict those we crave?

Memorial to the Savage Family in the church at Elmley Castle, Worcestershire

Lost Thoughts

Does old age beckon? Can I hear its call? I know that more and more my thoughts do fly So quickly past that I scarce sense at all The sense within them, and what they imply.

Soon come the days I know are those to dread When simple thoughts that come to mind so clear, So quickly formed and cast within my head, As quick, through some distraction, disappear,

Such minor things precipitate their loss A sounding horn, a smell, a child's screech Enough to ease the mind out of its course And push the thoughts I have just out of reach

Beyond recall, they're swiftly swept away Leaving behind a sense of loss, regret. That these ideas should have gone astray But that's not all; I fear there is worse yet

I watched a woman, sitting, quite at ease And by her sat a man who kept her close He held her hand, he talked, he tried to please But she stared out, remote, but not morose

The vacant smile that played across her lips Betrayed her mind, showed thoughts did still exist, Played back within her head, those happy trips When she was young, now fading into mist

She's taken leave now from the human race Her son, the man beside her, is no more She sees no one she knows in any place And who knows what she sees at her minds core

I do not want to emulate her life To find there is a time to come soon, when, My thoughts are so dismantled, full of strife That those that I know now, I'll know not then

March 1st, 2004

Stained glass window in Goodrich Church, Herefordshire; September 4th, 2004

Peace; A Sort Of Sonnet

Peace, so many interruptions, hard to Find at home or work, time to sit and just Remember, time to contemplate the lust For living you once had; it deserts you. Peace, lost in so many ways, not just new; Old ways, children, people, such noise that's thrust Into your head, relentless, noise that must Drag down your soul, not knowing what to do. But yet you know the cure, the solution To your prayer, your dream of blissful silence. You need not live with such dire pollution, You have the means, show the world defiance. Live long, live well, that's your resolution, For deafness then will reward your patience.

November 28th, 2003

Bottles in late evening, Birlingham, Worcestershire; November 21st, 2004

Sonnet from a Poker Tournament

All day we sit and watch a game of chance, Or is it skill? No matter, it's a bore! The tedium is unrelieved - no more! We cannot take another hand, a glance At yet more cards revealed upon the flop, More false excitement, pocket pairs, the turn, Then the river - is that the Thames? We yearn. Oh please, please tell them now it's time to stop. But they play on, full of thoughts of winning, We're still here, life ebbs away, blood thinning. Card after card, we watch them, hour by hour. The cakes have gone, tea too, the milk's turned sour. They're head-to-head, all in - the final bell? He doubles up, back in the game - oh hell!

November 4th, 2004

(This poem is dedicated to Niki, Tracey, Hugh, Tony and Steve. The poker terms 'pocket pairs, flop, all-in, turn, river, head-to-head and double up' refer to the game of 'Texas Holdem')

Out-of-use - taken somewhere in the early 1970s - I can't remember where!

A Sunday Evening at Bearsted Station

Clack, clack, Clack, clack, Second by second The clock by the track, Measures the time Til the train should arrive, Draw up at the platform, Bring the station alive.

But the platform stays empty, Fine rain fills the air, Though a signal arm falls, No one gathers there. No one wants to travel, No one wants to meet, A workmate, a loved one, Someone off the street.

Electric blue flashes, Brakes squealing, Wheels grinding. Then silence. No door slams; No voices; No greetings; No footsteps on gravel; Just the clock still clacking, The seconds still passing, The drizzle still falling And puddles still forming.

Then noise again, Sparking, rumbling, hissing. The train leaves for Dover, But no one is missing; The station stands empty With darkness descending And on into the night Clacks the clock, never ending.

6th October 2004

(Should any railway anorak read the above, the falling signal arm is poetic license - Bearsted has colour light signalling.)

The Bike at Pershore Station, August 12th, 2004