Showing posts from July, 2012

The Sunday Posts 2012/Be glad your nose

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!

Jack Prelutsky
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2012/Grain of sand

A Grain Of Sand If starry space no limit knows
And sun succeeds to sun,
There is no reason to suppose
Our earth the only one.
'Mid countless constellations cast
A million worlds may be,
With each a God to bless or blast
And steer to destiny.

Just think! A million gods or so
To guide each vital stream,
With over all to boss the show
A Deity supreme.
Such magnitudes oppress my mind;
From cosmic space it swings;
So ultimately glad to find
Relief in little things.

For look! Within my hollow hand,
While round the earth careens,
I hold a single grain of sand
And wonder what it means.
Ah! If I had the eyes to see,
And brain to understand,
I think Life's mystery might be
Solved in this grain of sand.
Robert William Service Photo by Alistair.

Wishful Drinking.....

My father and I sat in the corner of the long lounge bar of the Cherry Tree Inn, each nursing three-quarters of dark beer topped with the remains of the foaming head that showed it had been expertly poured by the barman now leaning his elbow sociably on the bar as he chatted with a couple of regulars. Dad and I sometimes dropped in here from the next village where I’d been brought up and he and Mum still lived. Not often enough to be considered regulars but often enough that the barman would greet us with a “Hello again” and ask how we’d been since our last visit while he poured. Normally we would have gone to Dad's favourite place, a lovely little pub out in the rolling countryside, but tonight he’d wanted to stay closer to home.

We were probably talking about something fairly inconsequential: like why the beer was called 80/- {eighty shilling} as that’s how much a barrel of it would have cost when the beer originally came on the market. There were various beers named like that …

Train-ing Day.......

Today I find I’ve got the time for writing a blog as I’ve been down to Liverpool for a training course on writing and reviewing fire risk assessments. This means I’ve a few hours to kill on the train and for once I’ve brought the laptop with me so I’m sitting at a table as I whizz backwards through the countryside in the gloom of a Scottish summer at 70 or 80 miles an hour, typing away and listening to some great music pouring out of my headphones.I’m not sure but from some of the glances that have come my way I may have been singing along. It’s not a pretty thought, so if you’re reading this and have just spent three hours beside a nutter singing out loud on the train from Preston to Edinburgh then I sincerely apologise

It’s not like me to be organised but for once, after just 53 years of practicing, I have my act well and truly in order, at least in one tiny way. I’ve made use of some odd bits of time here and there to organise scheduling of ‘The Sunday Post’ poem blogs right throu…

The Sunday Posts 2012 / We are the music makers

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy Photo by Alistair

Birthdays are such a scream

As it's The Lovely G's birthday today - don't ask, I'm a gentleman and a coward - I've taken the day off and we're braving the forecast torrential rain to go to Edinburgh Gallery of Modern Art to look at the Edvard Munch exhibition and then going out for something to eat.

Some pampering has already taken place and much more to come. I seem to have hit a goldmine of brownie points by arranging a microlight flight for her main present.

Don't be so surprised sweetheart - I'm still trying to justify that telephoto lens.........

And you are very well insured.

Have a brilliant day!

And thank you for your permission to finally post a photo of you.

Listening to:

The Sunday Posts 2012/ A Prouder Man

A Prouder Man Than You
If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine,
If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by a sign,
If you're proud because of fortune or the clever things you do --
Then I'll play no second fiddle: I'm a prouder man than you!

If you think that your profession has the more gentility,
And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;
If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and new --
You have only got to hint it: I'm a prouder man than you!

If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,
And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet,
So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your view --
Then be blind to me for ever: I'm a prouder man than you!

If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean,
While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been,
Do not risk contamination, save your name whate'e…

Those magnificent men in their flying machines

This week saw the unveiling of the memorial to RAF Bomber Command take place in London.

During WWII men from all parts of Britain, from allied and occupied nations and from around the world volunteered to become aircrew in RAF Bomber Command and took part in the most consistently dangerous operations against the Nazi regime. Of the 125,000 who served almost 60%, over 73,500 men, would be killed or wounded, a figure that in percentage terms far surpassed the losses of men in the trenches of WWI and the highest losses sustained by any armed forces in WWII. The dangerous nature of their missions meant the aircraft they flew had an average lifespan of just four weeks and six missions while operational aircrew, who's average age was twenty two, were expected to complete a minimum of thirty operations to earn a temporary posting to less dangerous activities - a posting that many chose to forego to keep fighting.

 For a large part of the war, losses of 5% per mission were so high that …

The Sunday Posts 2012/Remember me

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of the future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

By Christina Rosetti.

Photo by Alistair