I don’t think I’ve heard anything sillier
than the names of the so-called witches familiar
such names as Bodkin, Turncoat and Scat
now who on earth would believe that
but as we read about it the case unravels
that were brought by the man who on his travels
whose self-made credentials were quite ephemeral
Mathew Hopkins, known as The Witchfinder General
but those days are gone and I suppose
we should pray for those found guilty, now in repose
Filed under Alternative history, Factual, History, Self compositions
Bowing my head I raise my eyes
in homage to the unknown men
and women who with just a pen
possessed the vision to design
these buildings reaching to the skies
where men may worship God on high
then secretly they gave their plans
to other experts in their field
for whom the blocks of stone did yield
when summoned from throughout the land
hammer and chisel in their hands.
Filed under Christian, Factual, History, Self compositions
And so I am released from my Solar tethers. From this point the world is my oyster although in this case it should read either worlds or eventually galaxy. For I am Voyager two, a small but very significant part of mankind’s plan for an answer to the second most fundamental question. For forty-five years I have been exploring and reporting on the furthest reaches of our close solar system but now I am finally released from programmed paths and orbits. My debt is paid and my solo quest begins. Wish me luck.
Filed under Factual, History, Otherworldly, Self compositions
The sun rises once more
but now breeds understanding
first dawn of mankind
Filed under Factual, faith, Haiku, History, Inspired by fable, nature inspired, Old knowledge, Self compositions, The art of thinking
On sombre faces
tears plough lines on blackened cheeks
coffins fill the thoughts.
Echoes of playground laughter
in the minds of Aberfan
Filed under As you read it, Events and diary dates, Factual, History, Self compositions, Tanka, Uncategorized
Mournful, I stood observing the once ornate merchant’s houses that looked out over the empty, deserted wharves, My sense of nostalgia rising as I remembered the times before, when with each rising tide the hustle and bustle would begin. The rasping breath of steam-powered cranes as they swung the heavy bales from ship to shore. The grunts of heaving stevedores manhandling the trucks, each piled high with sacks and bale, to the gaping wooden, warehouse doors. The squeal of the pulleys calling the unwary to the hooks plummeting to the ground, hungrily anticipating the next profit-making mouthful to be hoisted.
Filed under Flash fiction, From the heart, History, Self compositions, Uncategorized
Picture by Susan Cipriano on Pixabay.
In sleek
imagined lines,
see these future vessels,
fine crafted, seasoned, wooden walls
become.
Filed under Factual, History, On the lines of romance, Otherworldly, Self compositions
For me no stone at head or feet,
Buried ‘neath the sodden peat,
Full three times I died, at the hands
of former dwellers in this land,
messenger to the gods my fate,
my kinsmen’s problems to relate
our hunting failures, weather woes
humiliation by our foes,
my message to our Gods was clear
but they pretended not to hear,
With wrists behind me tightly bound,
A cord around my neck was wound,
a rock against my temple dashed
then with a knife, throat crudely slashed
my patriotic chore now done
in Eden’s glade my spirit runs,
though from the earth my body raised
my final bed a tomb full-glazed,
and as I lie in endless slumber
my name forgotten, now just a number.
In humble awe, we
gaze upon the sacred stones,
where Saints found solace.
Tornado smiled. The feel of the leather harness on his shoulders again. Although he enjoyed standing in his stall while the men and women breathed strange, soothing sounds into his ear whilst scratching his nose and the top of his head, this was what he enjoyed. He heard a familiar shout and holding his head high, leant forward until his shoulders felt the familiar weight. He strained, eager to pull his load. He could hear the rattle of the chains and instinctively knew it was one of the newly felled trees he would be taking down to the mill. An easy job he thought. This would not make his shoulders sore. He heard his shoes ring on the smooth tarmac as he ambled down the road, not realising or caring that he left a trail of broken side shoots and twigs behind as he made his way to the sawmill.
Filed under As you read it, Factual, History, Self compositions, Short story
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