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John Buchanan
57 followers -
Poet, Writer and Blogger.
Poet, Writer and Blogger.

57 followers
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​Socks

I remember the day I found you
lying crumpled on the verge,
I'd been looking for your sister
when I somehow felt an urge...

There you lay twisted and broken
your life hanging by a thread;
I prayed that I'd not lose you too,
as I gently held your head.

They took your leg to save you
and I watched you overcome.
I marvelled as you learnt to walk,
then jump, hunt and run.

After I was struck down
you tucked in close beside
silently gave me the courage
my demons to deride.

You've been a good friend to me;
as I struggle to overcome
you've shared with me the strength
to survive and not succumb.

My fingers massage your scars
beneath your silky fur
and you sooth mine
with your reassuring purr.

John Carré Buchanan
20 August 2017

Dedicated to Socks, my three legged cat, who thrives in the face of adversity.

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A poem on the joys of owning cats, if in fact it is possible to own a cat!

The Assassin

Briefly the silence is broken,
the click - clack of the flap,
then nothing.
Peripheral vision might catch a flicker
or a deepening shadow
as he slips through the kitchen
not wanting to see or be seen.
Later; much later,
you'll find him in your favourite chair
curled in a sleek ball
eyes closed,
daring you to stroke him
with his nonchalant air.
And there on the floor
an unstuffed trophy lies,
surrounded by its own feathers
having uttered its last tweet.

John Carré Buchanan
19 August 2017

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This week my wife and I became 'empty nesters'. The experience prompted this poem;

Empty Nest

And now they've gone.
Where the stairs thundered,
silence.
Where guitars or music blaired,
quiet.
The chatter at the table,
gone.
Excited voices through ceilings,
hushed.
The summons from the kitchen
not needed.
The slammed door,
the morning rush,
the toilet flush,
stilled.
I sit and wonder
the cacophony of
twenty one years
gone.

John Carré Buchanan
30 July 2017

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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

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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

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Sitting On The Pan

The flight's all boarded, nice and neat
everyone has got a seat
inflight checks have been done
a safety brief for everyone
no one listens, they never do
well ok, perhaps a few.
A speaker crackles into life
the captain says we face more strife
a short delay while a slot is found
the aeroplane is stuck on ground
the door is open for fresh air
and avture makes that air smell queer.
Eventually things fall in line
I can't help think, "about bloody time!"
the plane's pushed back as tables stow
upright seats, we're ready... Go!
the mewling baby's fallen quiet
we're on our way, what a riot.

John Carré Buchanan
22 June 2017

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Departure Lounge Blues

I'm waiting on a flipping 'plane,
the retched flight's delayed again,
it always seems to be the same,
departure lounge - waiting game.

No water through security,
replacement available; for a fee.
They say the wifi here is free,
but can't log on it's so dodgy!

The tannoy squawks into life,
"don't leave your bags or there'll be strife"
and calls delaying flights are rife.
For some this is a way of life!

Frazzled parents, excited kids,
business men, deals on skids,
and tempers rise ....... God forbids;
lean back, breath and close eyelids.

Then comes the call, the flight is ready
the rush and crush as folk so heady
board the flight that's not quite ready
and in the rush someone left teddy......

John Carré Buchanan
22 June 2017

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Parás On Parade*

Like captured soldiers they stand in ranks
Resolute.
Their lifeblood drips from open wounds
carved into their skin,
tapped to small vessels,
collected, processed and turned into
tires, boots, balls and rubber bands.
For thirty years they'll stand;
and then - exhausted
they'll be torn down, replaced.
and their offspring will endure
The same fate; so that we
can erase our mistakes.

John Carré Buchanan
17 June 2017

* The Pará rubber tree (Hevea Brasiliensis) is the preferred source of commercially grown natural rubber latex.

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Double Maths

The black gown swept in,
flecked in dandruff and chalk
and the dance began again.
Function, cosine, blah blah blah.
The chalk bounced on the blackboard
its staccato bursts leaving
a nonsensical trail of symbols
hurriedly transcribed to paper
by confused students
before a felt lined wooden block
turned it to a cloud of dust.
The protestation from the back;
a voice asking 'what...'
cut off by a barked 'SHUT UP'
and a flying blackboard rubber.

John Carré Buchanan
09 June 2017
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