May 5, 2011
April 27, 2011
In Wray the pigeon is dead, long live the 30Meg symmetrical connection! #twicket
In Wray the pigeon is dead,
Martyred on a loop of fibre,
His old and inefficient ways,
Killed off by Doyle of cyber.
The ways of farmfolk perceived:
Rustic whirr of disaffection,
Dawned now the age of Internet,
Enlightening connection!
Oh city boys this killer,
Was 30 Meg symmetrical,
An epitaph, in words of rhyme
This last post, poetical.
For @cyberdoyle
April 25, 2011
PUSHING BACK THE TIDE – ISLAND DUET
Travelling hopefully
I was buried in the music,
old time stuff,
the same songs,
time again,
too loud,
random wanderings
the red sunset
added a touch of magic
to a seaborne pallet
totally calm
the island silhouette
unfamiliar, exotic
Sunday night and wide awake,
clear of mind, imagination fuelled
Arrived – day 1 – rocks at Peel castle
At the edge of the sea I sat, waiting, with expectations of the tide, almost full in. The soak of the bolder wave did not come.
Lands edge was final. There could be nowhere else, no other place, an ending.
I was completely alone though not companionless. My thoughts ran quiet amusements whilst around me the water swirled and pulsated; timeless beats of an incomprehensible song.
I asked no questions. There were no answers.
April 15, 2011
The Joke of the Dead Man Walking
Ridicule is most painful when
The joker and the joke are
One and the same.
Confessing a weakness
In every action:
This terrible self-parody,
An unintended act
By a clown who cannot cry.
Intaken air sometimes brings
The world in with it,
A punchline to the ribs
Released as a foolish whisper.
Death is full of ill-humour and,
No,
Even the jester will not die laughing.
If the gallows man knows this gag
He’s not letting on
As he tightens the tie at his neck.
The crowd knows what follows
And herein lies
The predictability of a limerick life.
Cartoon cats never catch the bird,
While the coyote detonates
Himself
Yet again;
Did they write the script?
Self-contained comic stripped
Of dignity by the second page,
Stapled and folded over
Upon itself;
Apparently quite popular
With the condemned.
Tragic comedy
Is the dead man’s gift;
An artistic sacrifice without reward
Except for the comfort
Of soliloquy.
April 8, 2011
The Bird Feeder Episode 3
The third in a series of exciting/mildly interesting/relaxing (delete as appropriate) videos showing birds feeding in our back garden. Action at around 4 minutes.
The Bird Feeder Episode 2
The second in a series of relaxing videos showing birds feeding in our back garden. Action at 6 and 14 minutes.
April 7, 2011
The Bird Feeder
Take some time out, relax, and watch the bird feeder. Don’t expect huge activity but patience is rewarded.
April 3, 2011
March 30, 2011
Revving it up
If the road is closed and we get to our destination
Did we need it in the first place?
If we didn’t need it, why was it built?
What came first, the road or the demand for the road?
March 29, 2011
No time – work in progress
No Time
I saw it, yesterday
a romantic, bloodshot, clearview eyeful
was good, strolling comfortably by,
fat bellies in life absorbing tall grass,
careless, laughter filled country lanes;
four seasons of mud, snow, pollen and dust
of footprints and wet feet,
open fires and steaming socks
open windows and breathless nights,
slow passing cow curious days,
of tireless church bells
and life and inevitably death
elusive, in my grasp, but then gone
A dwindling presence reduced to a dribble,
dried up torrent,
it’s here now
no time show time
stop time go time
live for the finger snapping moment
in a high speed shutter blink life time
no room for musty routine,
cobwebs of convention
blow open windows of change
rattle cupboard doors and
spill empty glasses of conformity
but no, time has gone,
I should have quit while I was ahead.
March 26, 2011
footsteps
Footsteps
Large decaff skinny latte please
Thank you
Cchhsshhwooosshh
2 65 please
Thank you
Sound of till opening and coins jangling
2 35 change
Thank you
There you go (hands over drink)
Spoons just at the end of the counter
Sound of footsteps walking out.
March 16, 2011
March 12, 2011
2nd poetical law of thermodynamics
The cosmos will die
A scientific certainty
I will die
The story of humanity
The ultimate question
A constant of futility
Temperature and pressure
Energy and entropy
Poetical expressions
Of irreversibility
March 4, 2011
The abandoned sandy shoe
The abandoned sandy shoe
Tells it’s own story
Though I never learnt
The language of leather
Cast off, lost
Confusing choice with
Carelessness and
Calamity it was
Washed up
Washed out
Wearerless and
Without a partner
The abandoned sandy shoe
inspired by a funkypancake photo
February 27, 2011
The Peugeot of four oh six
The Peugeot is dead, long live the Nissan Micra
It wasn’t the scratches (multiple and in the same place) down its side
Or the hole where the drivers side lock used to be that wasn’t too much of a problem until the remote control central locking stopped working so you always had to open the car using the passenger side lock (ie the one remaining)
Nor was it specifically the fact that the petrol gauge only worked when flicked with a finger and ditto speedo and the rev counter (who needs a rev counter?!)
Fortunately, of the two it was the window water jet on the driver’s side that remained functioning
And I didn’t mind the fact that to unlock the petrol cap you had to lift the lever in the foot well with your toe whilst stretching back to unhitch the lid because the spring mechanism didn’t work
The nailed in place rear driver side window (an over enthusiastic passenger looking for a ride home from a party) was not an issue to me
and the fact that you couldn’t see what channel the radio was tuned to because the light didn’t work – this of course was a problem when we had to re enter the radio security code but couldn’t actually see what we were entering – the volume button had fallen off the radio anyway and it was a different light to the clock illuminator – no we couldn’t see the time at night.
No, seeing as you ask, the battle scarred veteran of gate post knocks and pay and display machine bumps suffered from not a scrap or scintilla of rust. The engine was in good order and would have comfortably added 50,000 miles to the 250,000 it had already travelled.
The gaffer tape holding the wing mirror in place was not a problem and the MOT inspector seemed unconcerned with the permanently flashing airbag light that was covered in black tape so as not to annoy the driver.
In fact it was all of the above. The Peugeot 406, registration number N810NTL, colour dark blue had served its time.
We salute it, our faithful servant, “Tom’s car”, one we could happily leave overnight outside the pub and return to pick it up in the morning. A car I no longer bothered to lock much of the time. Who would take it?
The Peugeot was traded in for a £100 discount on a second hand Nissan Micra.
Our car now lies in a scrapyard, in what condition we know not. We shall not be making enquiries. We shall not be there at the end and our “Peugeot of four oh six” will finish its glorious days alone and friendless under the chilling shadow of the crusher.
It will not be forgotten, but the Peugeot is dead, long live the Nissan Micra.