Memoirs In Verse

 Listen to: No Kiss Goodnight I sat beside my father's old arm chair, As he read Treasure Island aloud to me; Each page he turned was like a lapping wave, Each chapter read, a flood or ebbing tide. The library book smelled as old books do; I smelled Flint’s hapless shipmate, Billy Bones, Awash in Widow Hawkins' untaxed rum, And tasted gun smoke on the salt-laced air. The rain dripped on the windowpane outside, I held my breath in mortal dread with Jim, As Blind Pew tapped along the cobbled lane, Steeped in menace, searching for old Flint's map. He closed the book with a resounding thud, Like cannon shot that barely passed me by, I stood up from the floor beside his chair, And leaned toward him to kiss him goodnight. For what fault of mine did he push me away? "You're too old for kisses now, child, to bed!" The room turned as cold as a Channel fog, And grief held fast this troubled boy’s heart. My bewildered child’s mind churned with doubt, Would I know my s

This free verse poem is the second in the ‘Bothnia Star’ series. Listen to: The Insured The Greek sipped at his bitter black coffee, Perhaps hoping to find cash in the dregs. He sighed, gazing past me at the window, and the dreary London rain that softly patterned the glass with melancholy. His gaze returned to the BBC news, his voice tinged with disdain. ‘I have to say,’ growled the bullish old Greek, ‘They did a first rate job saving the ship,' I allowed his fulsome praise to wash over me, for I saw the 'but' roll in like the swell, ‘but,’ he glowered, ‘don't let ‘em do it again.’ ‘She’s worth six and you insured her for nine, Next time, just let the bloody thing sink!’

 Listen to: A Sonnet On Reunion This free verse poem in sonnet form was written following my reunion with three of the seven other cadets with whom I first went to sea in 1975. I left life's fuss outside, like muddied shoes, And stoked the embers of my memory To spark with laughter at our meeting, How bittersweet it was to greet old friends. Barely familiar were those life-lived faces, And yet, by smile or turn of phrase or look, I swiftly sped through fifty fleeting years, To find those men the decent friends they were. We lived hard lives and lived so brightly then, Yet though I've lived more full and vibrant since, Those friends gave meaning to my restless youth, Far more than anyone or place I’d known. We went to sea as boys and they remain As men, the friends I knew and know once more.

Listen to:  The Horse Chestnut Tree Oh, horse chestnut tree, friend of my tender years, By autumn's sunlight how sublime you seem. Unspoiled by time or bleeding canker’s lesions, You stand in perfect mellow beauty poised, Amid this season’s early falling leaves. Do you remember me—the guiltless child, Who played each endless-seeming summer's day, Beneath your broad, full-leafed and rounded crown, Awaiting autumn's amber-turning leaves, To gather your gift to life—your spiny husks? In waking, stirring breezes, I tossed sticks At your low boughs that bent toward the earth, To cause your pricking, bright green fruit to fall For birds and creatures small to feed, and me  To peel, and hoard the shining seeds within. Now, as I stand beneath your boughs, once more Among your rustling leaves, I hear your voice: I remember your lonely childhood games; I’d smile at each affronted pigeon’s call, And the wise, plump brown tawny owl stayed hid; I welcomed you and your gambolling dog, An

Listen to: Portrait of a Ship's Captain There’s a strong breeze blowing from the west, Bringing salt air laden with the smells of fuel oil, Pollution and cooking across Victoria Harbour. I can see the barges rolling heavily beside the anchored ships, Their loads swinging wildly beneath the slewing derricks. I’ve dragged him from the bar in the seamen’s mission, And we're waiting for a launch back to the ship, He’s greeting evening strollers like long-lost friends, And banging on about me being a 'bloody farmer', I like him, he's a good seaman, but he's hard work. Now he’s sobering up, I can stand and watch him. He runs a hand over his shaven, close-cropped head, His bleary-eyes and face mottled by years of alcohol, Make his squat features look pig-ugly and brutish, His nose is as red as a ship's port side-light. He’s an old Asia hand, and once-vibrant coloured Blue and red dragon tattoos curl around his thick arms, With fading Chinese characters on his fore

Listen to: A Sonnet to Sleep I yearn to lie with longed-for Sleep at dawn, Her gentle hands to shade my eyes from light, And hear her sing her sweet enchanting song, To soothe and calm the turmoil of my mind. Oh, weary night, allow me rest by day, To lie in perfect, peaceful ease with Sleep, Let her pillowed breast hide my secret tears, Her arms to hold my looming conscious cares. For when my mind does spin like autumn leaves, My wakeful conscience with fatigue conspires, To deny my hearing Sleep’s lulling call, And she ignores my aching soul’s desires. Shush—What siren's lullaby is this I hear? Oh, blessed Sleep, come close, and close my eyes.

Listen to: The Beauty of the Sea Your flawless beauty wears a timeless gift, Of grace unchanged by fair or sullen mood, As nature's whims do veer or back the winds That soothe or rage upon your naked breast. Though splendour lies upon your face unspoiled, More perfect beauty lies within your depths, For there the source of life on Earth does dwell, No beauty found in nature betters yours. How sad so many men your trove ignore, For as women bear tender life to live, This life, all beauty here on Earth is yours And you give life to every living thing. How corrupt are they whom we must compel To understand and mind your beauty well.

This poem is a portrait of an Australian stevedore I once met as we both watched cargo being loaded onboard my ship for Papua New Guinea. New Guinea was a vicious and bloody theatre of the Second World War where ANZACs and Americans fought, often hand-to-hand, against their ferocious Japanese enemy.  Listen to: Portrait of an ANZAC The foreman stood beside the slewing crane; As he watched our cargo stowed below, Within the vessel's deep and gaping maw. His weathered face was deeply lined and tanned,  With once-bright grey eyes, now ageing and dimmed. 'You're loading for New Guinea, Mister Mate? We went up there in forty-two and three, To bloody Kokoda, Milne Bay and Lae.'  He raised his calloused hands for me to see  The cruel scars that bound his sinewed arms.  'I still succumb to vivid, hellish dreams; Sweat-soaked in fear and swallowed by the bush, I hack and hack and hack the kunai grass, That swishes, slashes and slices my skin, Then wade neck-deep through bloo

This sonnet is for Beverley and Peter and all those giving shelter to  refugees. Listen to:  A Sonnet on Kindness What shadowed fate or terrors hide, unseen By gentle people driven from their homes? What storming waves break hard upon the hulls, Of those amid the sea's uncharted shoals? The unknown shore may be a hostile shore, Scoured by wild, unreasoned winds of fate That back or veer with careless favour, And absent the loom of Compassion's light. Your kindness offers a welcome landfall For those whose course remains uncertain yet. Your care is the salvor of their dignity, Your shelter, the safe harbour of their hope. What greater gift than life may kindness give? For by your lesson so will others live.

Listen to:  Autumn Takes My Hand Autumn takes my hand to meet grim winter, Northward, far from where the sultry tropics lie; Winds stir and wake the grey, slumbering sea, For now, their foul temper holds sweet and fair. At sea no turning leaves or autumn fruits Gild my way to a looming twilight hearth; No playful seeming nuthatch hides a hoard, But sunset draws her sullen shadows in. Like summer now, my life at sea is done, Though loath to leave I shall not linger long As winter’s night is loath to leave the day, And shall leave this ship before winter bites. With luck to watch migrating birds fly south, And to sleep without danger’s gnawing doubt.

Listen to: Portrait of a Shipowner The old Greek added sugar to his cup and stirred, and tapped his spoon against the rim; his keen mind turning like the Cuban coffee that purled, fragrant, dark and rich before him. He'd lunched with English merchants who despised 'the Pleb from Chios', yet winced as he carved fine slices from the rump of their fleets, and devoured their post-war prosperity. He mused the English must be deluded, and sipped, in contemplation, from his cup. He pulled his last Karelia from the pack, thumbed his lighter, drew deeply and sighed. Their folly was their reliance on cargo to haul from port to port and ballast back; But the Greek used cargo to pay down loans, buy ships cheaply and sell them on the rise. They knew little of nothing, thought the Greek. He drained his cup and pushed his filter hard into the ashtray. He pitied the English, adrift like flotsam on an ebbing tide.

This free verse poem is written in the form of a letter to my two young children who were on holiday and in the UK without me. Listen to: A Game of Golf Dear James and Thomas, There’s an upside to being here alone, I have time to learn to play golf, but there’s a twist to the local game that’s born of poverty and culture too. Tribespeople are drifting from villages in the central highlands to the coastal plains, looking for work and a place to live. For want of anywhere to stay they’re building ramshackle settlements on open land, and one such camp runs parallel to the fifth fairway. The sun is harsh. By mid-morning it’s stinking hot, there’s little shade, no services and no water, even the greens are brown. The men have made primitive firearms, and roam in vicious gangs to attack and rob other tribes—of which we are one. They do it as a means of survival, but I’m sure they’ve a good sense of fun as well. When I tee-off at the fifth, I’m joined by a pair of security guards who accompa

Listen to: Last Train from St.Pancras You sit chattering brightly beside me, In the damp and warmth of the empty train, While rhythm and rhyme of the railway track Pass in rubato with the tumbling rain. Familiar stations passing stop-start by; You rummage a half-bottle from your bag, And with a smile offer some pinot noir, But pause, like raindrops on a window pane. You speak a hidden truth we seldom hear, “I only drink to feel like I belong, To be the girl my friends expect,” Gently, I decline and quietly listen. I watch your tears run and gild your skin, And hope you'll find the strength you need within.

Listen to: After Surgery Like stranded Gulliver I stir, held fast By moorings, helpless on a foreign shore. Kind voices flutter by with gentle hands, That whisper words I know yet can't arrange. An unseen soul tends the ties that bind me, As the gardener tends the wayward rose. She takes her careful turns and turns about, To lift the weeds and mind this wilted bloom. The monitor's songbird sings a simple call, As pain prowls at the borders of my dreams. One pricking press of the gardener's thorn, And lovers loom to stand before my eyes! The mirror’s image returns a ghastly man, Whose ill-found features grieve my wounded pride. A kindly woman claims her God will help, My Faith?—My surgeon holds my faith complete.