Christmas Eve

I was looking out the window tonight,
When in the sky I saw a sight.
Was Father Christmas in his sledge,
Flying high over field and hedge.
On his way to Nairobi he said,
To fill the stockings on your bed.
I shouted out as loud as I could,
I know William and Emeline have been good,
Give them a hug from garandma and me,
So they know we love them you see.

Love and the bee

Love is the water
that nourishes the seed,
that grows the flower
that feeds the bee,
that makes the honey
for you and me.

One spirit

The you you see, is not you.
It is the body shell of the spirit that is you.
You are not Muslim, Catholic or Jew.
You, we, me
Are spirit in energy.

Illusions

When you have eyes to see
and yet are blind,
you see the illusions
of an unseeing mind.

When you have eyes to see
and yet are blind,
you wander fruitlessly
in a wandering mind.

When you have eyes to see,
And are no longer blind,
You wander fruitully
In a wondering mind.

You are not what you appear to be.
You are shining light within
Not just a body,
Nor bone nor mere skin.

In sickness and in health

It's been a long time now,
we struggled with strife.
It's been a long time now,
We've been husband and wife.

Though you speak little now,
your heart still shines an occasional smile,
bringing more joy somehow,
than your oft heard laughter before this trial.

Though there's so little now,
you can do as in the past,
as we were, so we are now,
living the life for us cast.

It's been many years now,
And like birds of a feather,
in sickness and health,
We've remained together.

Parkinson's cruel struck you down,
taking it's toll, so plain to see,
but always this unwanted crown,
You have borne with dignity.

It's been a long time now,
you've been my life.
It's been a long time now,
my darling wife.

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.

What's a man to do

Thoughts, so many thoughts.
Doubts, so many doubts.
Truths, so many truths,
Certainties so few.
What's a man to do?

Molecules

I am a collection of molecules.
Who'd of thought they were such fools?

Seeing

I am plant yet,
I feel thee.
I am water and
I know thee.
You are man looking blindly.


.

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 anyone care"?

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,
Did something from nothing come through the door?

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.