Present Future

The present was written yesterday.
The future is written today.

What I want, when I want

In a supermarket shopping one day, I saw a child in a push chair, kicking, the shins of a poor old lady!
.
Please don't do that the old lady said,
It really hurts upon my leg.
Ignoring her plea,
The wicked child kicked on with glee.
The old lady turned to his ignoring mother for help.
"Please", she pleaded once more, "please tell your little whelp,
To stop kicking my poor old legs,
It hurts, please tell him to stop" she begs.

To which the chavvy little mother replied,
"He's my son and he shall not be denied."
"He can do what he wants, where he wants, when he wants"!
A man overhearing turned and in delightful response,
Took a jam jar from the shelf,
As if to buy it for himself.

Unscrewing the lid, he poured the contents over her hair.
"You see", he said, with an unflinching glare",
As all around began to stare,
"If you are not bothered then it's only fair
That I can do what I want, when I want and where,
Because if you dont then why should I care"?

No Need To Go To War

If only we were wise enough to learn from the mistakes of others.



I have no need to go to war,
In winter cold or wet monsoon ,
Or stare upon the bloody gore,
Of battlefields, in bodies strewn.
I have no need to go to war,
Nor hear the battle sound,
Of those who went before
To seize the battle ground.

I have no need to go to war,
Nor hear the sound of dying breath,
Midst limbless bodies by the score,
Lying in silent death.
I have no need these things to see
Nor more stories, need I hear,
Of brave and fruitless glory,
To feel the stench of fear.

I have no need to go to war,
Nor watch grim death it’s harvest reap,
For countless souls have gone before,
That we might tranquil sleep.
We shall not your sacrifice forget,
For generations yet unborn.
Soldiers brave, their lives regret
We who follow, can but mourn.

Where battle was, now fields of corn,
And fruits exotic fill the store.
Cheerful we rise and greet the dawn,
Thanking those who went before.
In death they paid the final price,
In foreign field on distant shore,
Who dares forget such sacrifice,
Shall pay again, the price of war.

Shades

We are many shades of many colours,
The seconds and minutes in the hours,
The winding valleys, beneath the mountains,
The crystal water of spouting fountains,
The scented petals of colourful flowers,
The winter drizzle in fresh spring showers.

We are the breath of the northerly winds,
The tropical heat on sun burned skins,
The grains of sand upon the beaches,
The mellow flavour, of yellow peaches.
We are the darkness in the moonless nights,
The flash of lightening, a spark ignites.

We are the words that tell a story,
Of history past and deeds of glory,
We are the thoughts our voices speak,
The ghostly shadows, of times antique.
We are father, mother and ancestor feint,
Brush strokes of creation, on a canvas of paint.

We are the yellow and green in shades of blue,
Of colours many, from colours few.
We are the shades of grey in black and white,
The light of day and the dark of night.
We are the music of concerto and violin string,
The soprano and tenor, when we sing.

We are part devil, part god, you see,
One and the same, for eternity.
I am you and you are me,
In varying form and subtle degree.
I am the beginning and I am the end,
I am your enemy and I am your friend.

Wisdom

Some wisdom from our Native American brothers:

An elder Cherokee Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life. He spoke to them.


"A fight is going on inside me ... it is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."



The children thought about it for a minute and then one child asked: "Which wolf will win"?



The old Cherokee simply replied ... "The one you feed."

Celestial Chess

It was not my will  to live or to die.
So whose will am I?

Since my will is neither here nor there,
And I know not what I'm doing here,
I am the will of some other force,
Set upon its chosen course.

Since I have no say,
In the coming of the night
Or the passing of the day,
I am just a pawn, in a game of celestial chess,
Whose beginning and end I cannot guess.

I can only embrace the life I am given,
And wonder where from death I shall be driven.

Cascade of Wisteria

Sometimes words are not enough to describe the wondour that is Nature!

Nothingness

A state of nothingness there could never have been,
For from nothingness, nothing has ever been seen.
And if once then why not twice or a billion times more?
So physicists all, for sanity's sake, open the door.

Think beyond your cloistered brain to mind and matter.
To the winds your myths forever scatter.
Free at last the chains that enslave your fevered pondering.
Let your minds soar and go a wandering.

The Lugger Bugger

Looking north from Maralal to the valley of South Horr,
There's a bloody great sand lugger filled with dung and elephant spore,
If you walk along the lugger when the evening shadows creep,
You'll find a poor old bugger sound asleep,
His left hand holds a demi-jar, his right a broken glass,
There's a fishing rod made up behind his ear,
And he murmurs in his slumbers, you can hear him if you're near,
Bang 'em Hugill bang em boy and bring the blighters here.


Written by my father in 1970 after safari to Lake Rudolph in Kenya

The Cock

Oblivious of the wok,
Does strut the crowing cock.

Mum - My Inspiration

A year ago the flowers lost their bloom
And my sun went out far too soon.
I tried to be strong like the trees so high,
I saw you in every floating butterfly

Soon, I felt your spirit free in the breeze
Gentle, calm and quietly at peace
I felt your love keeping me safe and warm
My guardian angel to a new life born.


Dearest Mum
My deepest love is with you always
Your loving daughter.

This was written by my sister to commemorate the 1st anniversary of our mother's passing.

Mother

When we came into this World, you were there,

To kiss our cheeks, hold our hands and stroke our hair.

Throughout our lives you were there to pick us up when we fell,

But one thing you couldn’t do, was teach us how to spell.

When newly wed you left old England’s shore,

In a single engine Auster just after the war,

Kenya bound and your future uncertain,

Upon your life you lifted another curtain.

And with you we did share this great adventure,

Always never less than loved or ever insecure,

From fertile highlands to the Mara River and Indian Ocean,

Our life moved fluidly forwards in perpetual motion.

You our loving mother and to father faithful wife,

Took us on the oft happy journey of your life.

It was not always easy for you it’s true to say,

But you bravely battled all the way.

Mother, teacher, such as you a Mara buffalo had never seen,

Bloodied, bruised you walked away, forever known as Buffalo Queen.

In sickness and in health and every trial or tribulation,

Your courage filled us always with loving admiration.

Every day of our lives we were blessed that you were here,

With us your compassion and wisdom you did gently share,

And when finally you left this World, we were there,

To kiss your cheeks, hold your hands and stroke your hair.

Osama And The Blackbird

Now here’s a story, I have to tell.
Pray excuse me, If I do not tell it well.
It was a warm spring day,
Not long ago,
I happened to gaze, through a window,
And in the garden,
A murderous scene was set,
One I saw and shall not forget.

I saw a blackbird trapped upon the ground,
From his open, orange beak, came not a sound,
Over him talons upon his throat,
A Sparrow Hawk stood,
Wings spread like a hood,
Hiding his dark deed,
From the neighbourhood.

Deadly claws held firm the prey,
Remorseless, almost sanguine,
Was he in his way.
His stranglehold tightened,
Upon the blackbird, frightened.
Its small feathered body,
Struggled and fought,
Though it seemed, all for nought.
With every sinew, it struggled and strived,
Fighting for life and the strength to survive.

It flittered and fluttered,
Gasping for air,
Afraid to die, in the Hawks lair,
Fighting for time,
For time was life,
Worth the pain and all the strife,
Till the blackbird,
Could fight no more,
And death upon him,
Closed the door.

Whilst feathered friends looked on alarmed,
The Hawk, feeling its prey becalmed,
Winged effortless into the cloudless sky,
One last time, the blackbird to fly.

Then Osama,
Your words came to me once more,
The words I have heard, many times before.
We prefer life but you prefer death,
You said.
The blackbird was gone,
The blackbird was dead.

No longer do we hear his song.
Nor see him fly among the hedgerows,
Nor over fields where the thistle and the nettle grows,
No longer does he scamper on my lawn,
Picking up breadcrumbs in the early morn.
Ah! death, I’ve seen it clear.
Is the end of life, God holds dear.

You see Osama,
Nature’s laws are unbending,
The struggle for life, is unending.
It is not death the Blackbird seeks,
Though he live for years,
Or merely weeks.
It’s life, the Blackbird cherishes,
Not death by which he perishes.

Osama, if it is death you prefer,
Then why this life do you suffer?
If death Osama, is so glorious,
Why is Allah’s work so laborious?
If it is in death we are living,
Why is Allah in life so giving?

If death is God's true light,
What need we of miraculous sight?
If death is glorious sensation,
What needs God of wondrous creation?

So why Osama, would you flee,
The deathly talons of the Sparrow Hawk,
Swooping down from the tree?
Without life Osama, there is no God,
And without God, there is no life,
That’s why the blackbird struggles and strives,
And why humming bees toil in their hives.

It is not for death, they suffer strife,
It is for time, for time is life.
And every time, has rhyme and season.
If blackbird lives, he lives for reason.
Blackbird is born of God’s creation,
Wondrous, beyond our imagination.
Our soul to God we give,
Not to wastefully die,
But rather that we might in glory live.

In life we hear the blackbird’s song,
But in death, his music is forever gone.
The mournful silence of death, cannot be heard.
Unlike the song of a singing blackbird.
So who, Osama, chooses to die?
Not the Blackbird, not the Sparrow Hawk, nor I.

If death is so glorious Osama,
Then please tell me why,
Why the great Allah, made you and I?
And why Osama, would you flee,
The deathly talons of the Sparrow Hawk,
Swooping down from the tree?

Postscript:

In May 2011 the Sparrow Hawk swept down from the tree and struck. Like the Blackbird, Osama has gone.

Drumbeat of Africa

Cercle Nautique Bujumbura

painted

by

Gina Archer

Pulsing through my heart is the drumbeat of Africa,
It calls me back to the shores of Lake Tanganyika.
My eyes yearn to see the bourganvilliia blossom and the mango tree,
My senses seek the sweet fruit of the papaya and Burundi tea.

I recall the rythm of those reggae songs we heard,
Drinking through the night at Half London with our senses blurred,
Never to be forgotten nights when the music never ends,
In Kampala with like-minded strangers and other close friends.

Oh my mysterious Africa, how will I ever forget,
The crickets clicking at night or your crimson sunset,
Your verdant hillside forests, the thorn bush on your grassy plains,
Your rusty red dust in my eyes or your tropical rains?

Oh Africa! Land of the lion, the leopard and the elephant,
No other land entices me with such enchanted scent,
No lover is more seductive nor captivating in her charms,
As you Africa, when you enfold me in your arms.

The gorillas in the mist, I would not have missed,
Nor the aroma of your coffee or the girls I kissed,
Nor the grazing Eland, the Oryx, or the Fish Eagle's screech,
Nor your palm fringed beaches, or the shining stars, beyond my reach.

Masai drummers

Frustrations Of A Golfer

                                                      

He awakes and bleary eyed,

Looks not at his wife by his side.
He cares not today for morning cuddles,
Only that the greens should be free of puddles.

Please God, he hopes it’s not raining.
All week on the carpet he’s been training,
Sinking putts by the score,
And chipping balls through the door.

No trouble today leaping out of bed,
Or clearing cobwebs from his head,
For today starts the week-end,
And the golf swing is surely on the mend.

No hoovering or washing dishes,
Just driving balls with elegant swishes,
Down manicured fairways far out of sight,
Scaring rabbits with his might!

Up and washed and ready to go,
A new set of clubs he’s anxious to show.
A confidant swing on the first tee,
But the effing ball goes straight up a tree.

His second ball finds a ruddy ditch,
Lost ball, a bit of a hitch.
Upon the green in six at last,
His handicap is disappearing fast.

The wind gets up and begins to howl,
Upon his face an evil scowl,
As swing and game fall apart,
He moves on with sinking heart.

When at last he hands in his score,
The shout goes up, a hundred and four!
What went wrong, me old sunshine?
I lost six balls on number nine.

Drinks all round I think old chap,
That really was a load of old crap!
Go on take the micky, many or few,
But next week, I’ll be laughing at you!

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