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Showing posts from December, 2012

Writes of Passage.

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                          The Bridge to Nowhere, Belhaven Bay.


So my friends, 2012 passes and despite adverse predictions we’ve made it to the end. Is it a time to look back or a time to look forward I wonder? I could certainly look back at a year filled with catastrophic natural phenomena and self-inflicted human disasters, yet another year of self-serving, lying, mendacious politicians, senseless celebrities, widening economic recession and more than a few needless tragedies, I would also need to take time to celebrate a year of creativity, compassion and human achievement, to welcome the potential of new generations and mourn the passing of old ones. But such things are better said in better places than this wee blog and by folk better at it than I, so let me keep it personal.

If I had to label the year I’d put it down as a year of change. When it started I was long term unemployed and despairing after many hundreds of job applications seemed to be getting me precisely nowhere. Th…

The Sunday Posts 2012/Silver

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Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Walter de la Mare
Photo 'Loch Rannoch' by Alistair

This is the last 'Sunday Post' of 2012. Thank you for coming along on the journey. I hope you've enjoyed the poems as much as I've enjoyed finding them for you. I hope you'll be glad to hear that there's even more to come in 2013.

Cheers,

Misery Bears Christmas.

A Bear is not just for Christmas.


As I raise a wee glass of something Scottish and take a bite of a mince pie - probably the first of many - I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas - unlike my wee pal Misery Bear above - and all the very best for a stupendous New Year from The Lovely G, Jess and I here in the house of Crivens Jings. Thanks for coming along with us in 2012. We hope to see you all again next year too.

Slainte!

Alistair.

The Christmas Sunday Post 2012

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Christmas Eve

On window panes, the icy frost
Leaves feathered patterns, crissed & crossed,
But in our house the Christmas tree
Is decorated festively
With tiny dots of colored light
That cozy up this winter night.
Christmas songs, familiar, slow,
Play softly on the radio.
Pops and hisses from the fire
Whistle with the bells and choir.
My tiger is now fast asleep
On his back and dreaming deep.
When the fire makes him hot,
He turns to warm whatever’s not.
Propped against him on the rug,
I give my friend a gentle hug.
Tomorrow’s what I’m waiting for,
But I can wait a little more.

Bill Watterson

The Sunday Posts 2012/Nothing Gold Can Stay

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Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Dedicated to the 27 souls lost at Sandy Hook Elementary School.

Poem by Robert Frost
Photo by Alistair

The Sunday Posts/There's a little green eyed idol

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The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigar…

Relieved to be home........

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Leaving work it’s sleeting heavily and some big wet flakes manage to get down the neck of my anorak and make me wince as I walk the few moments to the car. I’m shivering and rush the last few yards less than manfully, watching the lights flash as the car unlocks to let me in. Inside, hot breath hangs in the air and starts to mist the windows as I fumble keys to turn the ignition on, wincing again as previously set blowers hurl freezing cold air at me, adding further insult to injury already inflicted by the weather. The setting was fine when the engine was warm on the way to work but not welcome now so I turn it down and adjust to clear the front windscreen, wishing that the cars designers hadn’t decided that this model didn’t need heating in the front window for some small economy in price. Because of their laxity I have to sit and shiver for a few moments muttering invocations to myself to man up and not be such a wimp before I can switch on the lights and pull out to head home.
By…

The Sunday Posts 2012/When you are old

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When You Are Old WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Wiliam Butler Yeats
Photo by Alistair.