The Tales of Doc Baroque (Part 2)

Sister Fister (or Lady Cecilia Fitzroy-Herbert), Doc’s partner and sidekick (and the original wild-child of the British aristocracy).

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The Second Act

The following is a transcript of a conversation with Sister Fister held on the morning of February 7th 2014:

“Good morning. I trust you slept well. I’m afraid Doc Baroque has already left this morning. He is an early riser. He will have gone for a long walk and is not normally back before the afternoon. Please, can I get you some breakfast? We have eggs and bacon, it won’t take too long. And tea? Please. Help yourself, there is Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Assam.

I understand your conversation went well last night. I imagine, he described me as an aristocratic wild child. Tsk. Let me tell you a little and perhaps you can make your own mind up. Yes, it is true I was born into a very minor British aristocratic family although the Fitzroy-Herberts’ were not as wealthy, as you’d normally asociate with the words, British & Aristocracy – the family fortune had been all but squandered by my grand-father with poor investments and gambling. The family home was still in my father’s name, although mortgaged up to the hilt. As children though my brother and two sisters were blissfully unaware of this. I was the second to youngest, after Emily and Frances, then myself followed by our younger brother, Gideon. My mother had had a number of miscarriages too, and another son who died in infancy before Emily. To be honest, my mother suffered from melancholy, depression I think you call it nowadays. So we saw little of her, and would content ourselves playing with one another or the children of the staff. Emily and Frances, especially Frances were always looking for ways to get me into trouble, and I spent an inordinate amount of time outside of my father study for punishment. I admit, yes I was mischievous but not to extent that Frances made out or my father believed. Nowadays, I would have been labelled a Tomboy, I even preferred to wear boys’ britches – so much easier to ride or play, but back then I was “unruly & unladylike”.

My Father was never a patient man, and had a terrible temper, by the time I was 7, his patience had worn thin, and the day after my 8th birthday, I was packed off to St Flora’s convent in Colchester to “learn some discipline & how to become a young lady, like Emily”. Nothing could have been a greater contrast to the home I was leaving. Gone were the open fields of Herfordshire, the countryside of my father estates, the horses we would ride – I loved to ride, and rode “like a boy” – another thing that infuriated my father. Instead were the cold grey stone walls of St Flora’s the rigid, disciplined, joyless life in the convent. It was sheer misery. And that was when my rebellion was truly sparked. The irony of it, is this “unruly” girl sent away to be “tamed”, it was in sending me away actually further created this “wild child” they were trying to tame. By the time I was 14, I had run away from there on many occasions, only to be packed off again by my father the minute I got home. Each time the discipline from the nuns became more severe, I was a “Wicked & Godless child”. I began to hate my father for it, and my mother for letting him.

So, the last time I ran away, I decided not to go home. Instead in the spring of my 14th year, not long after midnight I left & headed straight for London. From there I knew I needed somewhere to go quickly, England & France were again at war, so I cut off my hair, stole some boys britches and shirt and signed up for Wellingtons’ army. I learned to fight with both sword & gun. I know Gaylord likes to tell people I was a nurse, during this time. I think he feels a little uncomfortable with the truth. I was in fact in a field hospital just before I was abducted, but had been shot, rather than “doing my bit as Florence Nightingale”! Of course this time in the hospital meant my little deception was discovered, so as soon as I gained enough strength, again in the dead of night, I slipped out & deserted.

So there I was, alone in a hostile France, for a few days & nights I found an old abandoned barn where I rested & recuperated. I tended to my injuries as best I could,  living off of the land, hiding from locals, stealing poultry from farms or vegetables from the fields, this went on for only a matter of weeks, when it happened.

These days, with your modern cinematography and television it has become somewhat clichéd, but it was exactly how it happened – the abduction. Late at night in my barn I heard a noise from outside. I peered out of knot hole & could only see an incredibly bright light, that hurt my eyes, it was mesmerising. I couldn’t help myself, and without a thought of the risk I was taking crept outside to see what on Earth it was. & there, above my barn was a silver metal disc just hovering in the sky, a load humming noise coming from it. I should have been terrified, but wasn’t, I was overwhelmed by curiosity. So I stepped forward for a closer look, into the blinding light, & was immediately pulled up into this craft by some unknown force.

I don’t know how long I was held captive alone, day & night became meaningless in this machine, it certainly must have been a number of months before I first  became acquainted with Gaylord (he detests that name by the way, you’d do well to simply call him Doc, I’m still the only one he tolerates to use it). But it must have been a month or two. During that time I discovered these visitors, these invaders were from a distant galaxy. I’m sure Gaylord has told you, but these vile creatures, were like insects from space – the Zigonians. They were here to find out firstly as to where we here on Earth were a threat, but secondly, their Empire was expanding under their new Queen Kemma Axonix & they were looking to humanity as a potential army they could engineer. I learnt all this from a young officer, Quazar, I believe. I’ve since learnt he has gone on to become quite powerful in the empire but I remember him as a young lieutenant.

They kept the ship well hidden in a remote part of the French Alps, & would from time to time go out on abduction forays. Most of these test subjects died from the experiments they were being subjected to, I imagine with them, the extrapolation of our genes was taken a little too far, & they died. Although I also witnessed several being deliberately killed – taken beyond the threshold of their endurance. Then one day, a young man – a sailor judging by his uniform was unceremoniously dumped into my cell. & that was when Gaylord & I first met.

I know he must have told of our escape, it was a combination of the spring thaw, & the constant humming of the crafts engines that ultimately caused an avalanche. In spite of our genetic enhancements we were lucky to escape alive. If it hadn’t been for Gaylord, I’m not certain I would have. His arm was crushed in that accident. Because we had no access to proper medical help, his arm didn’t heal properly. Originally I fashioned a splint of sorts that sufficed.

Immediately after the crash though, there were other survivors, although none of them human. Perhaps a dozen or so of the crew survived. Over the next few decades we took it upon ourselves to hunt them down one by one. They had scattered across the whole globe, & for perhaps 100 years or so we busied ourselves hunting them down to extract our revenge.

Until there was one left, young lieutenant Quasar – we had intelligence that he had made his way to the America’s. It was here, we happened upon a young inventor, a brilliant Austrian. Nikola Tesla I remember, & he fashioned the Doc’s arm strap he still wears today, to support his “gimpy arm” as he calls it. But that diversion cost us, Quasar had salvaged a beacon from the wreckage of their craft, & had periodically been sending out distress signals. Tesla had isolated these signals, & Gaylord & I went off to kill the final Earth bound Zigonian. But that, alas was not to be, we did track him down to a farm in Wisconsin, ironically he was hiding in a barn just as I had been all those years before when they’d first abducted me. Gaylord & I had him cornered & were ready to go in to finish him off, when in “the nick of time” from Quasars point of view another craft from Zigonia materialised & he was whisked away, exactly how I had been.

& that was how Gaylord & my little career began as Bounty Hunters of the Exotic. That wasn’t the last visit of those vile insects, nor will it be the last no doubt. We have taken on many varied jobs for people over the years, but that, my friend is where our hearts lie, Zigonian Hunting each time they return. I understand from one insect we captured, that Quasar has gone on in the Empire to become quite powerful leader. Had we not let him escape, then perhaps not they’d not have returned so often.”

With that Cecilia led me back into the study, where Doc Baroque & I had talked the night before. Without a word, she pulled down a  large, dusty, leather bound book.

“I’m over 200 years old now, old enough to be your great, great, great many times over grand mother. I’ve made a note of the things we have done over the centuries”

I opened the first of the books, in beautiful hand written script, the first page, read, “The Journals of Lady Cecilia Fitzroy-Herbert”. Clearly many of the books in here we all her meticulous records of her & Doc’s adventures. And I had one of them in my hands.

I turned the first page, in the same exquisite script, capitalised, were two titles,  “The Taming of The Malevolence” and “The Salvation of The Zomborg”. I looked up at Cecilia uncertain of what she meant. She nodded her silent ascent for me to continue reading, so I settled down in the same seat I’d so intently listed to The Doc the night before.

As she left the room, she looked over her shoulder, “oh Yes, “Sister Fister”. Where that comes from is no doubt something that puzzles you. Well many assume that the Sister is from my time at the convent, but no, the whole name came from much earlier than that – it was Gideon, when he was very small, barely one, he could say Cecilia Fitzroy-Herbert properly, in his little mouth it came out “Sister Fister” – Emily, Frances & myself thought it was so funny, it stuck”.

With that she smiled, closed the door behind her, & there, in the quiet of the study, save for the clock ticking on the wall, I settled down to read, The Journals of “Sister Fister”…


The Tales of Doc Baroque (Part 1)

A couple of years ago, I dabbled with online gaming. I wasn’t that impressed as I found the communities around them quite bitchy and cliquey, and often a bit of a time sink. There was one, however, that was different, sadly now defunct Superhero City, was on the face of it, a simple do-the-prescribed-adventure-grow-your character kind of thing, but it did have a very active, vibrant and for the most part, positive community and forums around it, and that was perhaps the attraction more so than the game itself. Part of that community was dedicated to Role Playing, which essentially involved developing back stories for characters. It was pure unadulterated escapism, at times very silly, and to be honest, gave a group of adults that probably should have known better, the chance to kick back and be kids again. My main character was called “Doc Baroque” and was a “Victorian English Adventurer” based around Steam Punk mythos. As the Doc stories increased, I did play with the idea of a graphic novel.

You probably had to “be there” and be part of it to get it and appreciate it, but I’m including his early adventures here, if only to keep stuff I’ve written all in one place. Having said that, one day I might go back, finish and tidy them up, and write down the other ones that I have in my head too.


The Tales of Doc Baroque

The beginning.

The following is a transcript of an interview with Doc Baroque, held on February 6th 2014.

“Good Evening. Thank you for joining me. Can I get you a drink? Brandy? Excellent. My father would neither have appreciated nor approved of it. Here. Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. You found your way then. Well obviously, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?  My…. Retreat…. Can be a little um, hard to find, or so I’m told I am off the beaten track here, certainly. But not to worry, that’s how I like it. And you’re here.

Now let me see, if I recall correctly, you were making enquiries about me, yes? Well where shall I begin? Well I’ve already mentioned my father, so why not there.

I was born in the late 1700’s, in a small but thriving coastal market town in the west country of England, its primary form of employment was either as a fisherman or a farm labourer on the local estates. My father, a rather stern and sombre man was the local Baptist minister, Reverend Bertrand Barecock. I was Christened Gaylord – a name which over the years has given rise to much ridicule, hence my preferred nom de plume – Doc Baroque, but more of that later. While we were by no means wealthy, we as a family, were afforded some status in our local town, and for certain, were better off than most. He was a devout and stern man, but for myself and my mother was quite distant. I have very few fond memories of him. My mother, on the other hand couldn’t have been a greater contrast, she was bright, cheerful, in those days we would have called her gay, but I understand in your modern parlance, which has come to mean… something else! My father certainly wouldn’t have approved!

So I was lucky although at the time didn’t really appreciate it. I was well educated, well for those days. My parents ensured I was tutored in many of the new and more modern subjects, botany and science, as well as mathematics as well as the more traditional classics.

By the time I was fourteen though, I was bored. I see that now of course. But I was restless. Market day would come and go, which was the real highlight of the week. All the local farmers would come to town to sell their wool or grain. And in the summer, more exotic traders and entertainers would come to the fayre. I lived for that time in the summer. I would seek out these strange and wonderful people, hanging on their every word for the tales they would tell of their travels. I’m sure now most were embellished at the least, if not down right utter fabrication, but to a fourteen year old boy, blessed with more than his share of imagination, they were enthralling.

It was about this time I became more aware of the doings of adults, and without my father’s knowing I would frequent “The Black Swan”, one of a number of coaching Inns in the town. The Black Swan had much lower tariffs and as a consequence attracted the seedier side of our community. Consequently I found its clientele far more interesting. And soon became acquainted with a close circle of ne’er do wells, & was slowly drawn into their entrepreneurial venture.

Time is short, so I won’t beat about the bush, but they were wreckers and smugglers. I’m sure you’re familiar with the practice as time has somewhat romanticised their trade, but believe me, to a boy of fourteen they were brutal, the deliberate wrecking of ships on the rocks and theft of their cargoes. To me though, it provided the adventure I longed for. Throughout that summer I enjoyed running with these brigands, much to my mother and fathers consternation.

Throughout that summer, we became bolder and our little venture seemed to be going well, but as the nights drew in our fortunes began to turn, Lord Culshaw, the local land owner and member of parliament, unknown to us, became more and disconcerted with the apparent lawlessness of our area, and called in the excise men. And this was when my life really turned around.

It was one night in late October as I recall that it happened. It was moonless, and a storm was blowing in from the sea – perfect wrecking weather. We went out to the cliff’s and set our lanterns to create a fake guiding light to the trade ships that followed the coast, and like Sirens, lure them onto the rocks, where the survivors would usually be killed and the ships loot taken. In my defense, I was too young to be involved in the murderous side of things, that was left to the older members of our gang, but in the taking of the contents of a ships hold, I was most certainly up to my neck in it.

Anyway, I digress, we lured our target onto the rocks as normal, and it was then we discovered what was waiting for us, instead of the usual booty we found the ships hold full of perhaps a dozen well-armed troopers, from the garrison. They immediately opened fire upon us and a bloody melee ensued. But I was terrified, I got off of the ship as quickly as I could and fled up the cliff path, only to spot in time Constable Brownlow of the excise waiting with another group of six soldiers. That night the fortunes smiled upon me and I hid. They were more intent in getting down to the ship and as the remainder of my cohorts tried to flee, they were waiting. I dared not move and eventually the noise of the fighting died down and I listened intently. It was apparent that all but three of our little band had been killed there and then and the three that remained alive were arrested and taken to the town jail. Later to be hanged.

Their voices all eventually died down, and I assumed they’d left, but I waited until the sun was rising and the storm had all but calmed, before I left the safety of my hiding place in the rocks. I knew returning home would be out of the question, so there was nothing left but to flee. And that I did.

As a child my father would on occasion visit Bristol, and from time to time I had been allowed to accompany him, so that was where I decided to head for. I had no plan as such at the time, it was merely a place I’d visited so headed that way. I don’t recall how long it took, I traveled mostly at night stealing food when I came across a dwelling or another unfortunate traveler. Perhaps it was a week maybe two. But I eventually arrived. I slept rough for a few days in the city itself down by the Docks, until hunger drove me out. I found work doing this and that for a few pennies, and took lodgings, in an Inn, the cheapest I could find, and the days and nights all blurred into one.  Much could be said of my time then, but let me move on, after all it’s what you came here for.

You seem to have finished your brandy, a little more perhaps? There help yourself. You’ll find cigars in the box beside it too. Please help yourself. I will have on too.

Now, where were we? Ahh yes, Bristol. I was there for more than a year, perhaps two, I’d found regular work in a assisting a local apothecary. Mr Roberts I recall him, a kindly gentlemen. It was mostly cleaning or tidying up his little premises  but from time to time I was called on to assist him with preparing a medicine or mixing the compounds for his pills, and I learnt a little about the treatment of sickness. Happy times, & perhaps if the events that ensued had not arisen, then I would perhaps have remained there and lived a natural life.

But that was not to be, no. One evening in my lodging I was eating, when a group of men entered into the bar. They were rather loud but jovial and were buying drinks for all the patrons, such generosity had never been witnessed in this establishment, so of course we took full advantage of it. We drank ourselves into a stupor, so forgive me if my recollection even now is somewhat hazy. The following morning however, I awoke to find myself aboard a ship. The HMS Unicorn of his Majesties Navy – I’d been press ganged into service. England at the time was at war once again with France and I was going to war!

Because of my learning of Botany as a child, and the time spent with Mr Roberts, I quickly came to assist the ships surgeon. Although a surgeon now wouldn’t recognise what went on. Ships butcher would perhaps be more appropriate. In any case, it was my time aboard the Unicorn where I also learned to handle a sword and gun properly. I was involved in many a battle. And could perhaps fill a novel of the time I spent there alone, but that’s not what you came to hear is it? But it was my time aboard where I became known as “Doc Baroque” – the Doc part is self-evident I was working for the ships surgeon after all, but Baroque? Well, the ships Boatswain, had an unfortunate speech impediment and couldn’t say my surname properly and Barecock became Baroque, and so my legend was born. Nothing more than that!

It was however the time where my story does become much more interesting and had I not lived it, and were to hear the tale told to me, would be where I would start to not believe any of it. But I tell you, not a word of this is a lie.

But we’d been in a particularly bloody fight when the Unicorn took a full broadside, and was crippled. We abandoned ship. Fortunately we were not far too far from the coast and headed for land. I crawled onto the beach exhausted, and collapsed. The next thing I knew when I came too I was no longer on a beach, but in a white room, so strongly lit I’d never witnessed brightness like that before. Now much is told in these modern times of beings from other worlds, stories a rife on your internet, but nothing of the sort was remotely considered possible in those days, and would be dismissed as the work of demons. But in actual fact. That is precisely what had happened. My apparent lifeless corpse had been taken by visitors from another world with hostile intent. I later discovered this was an early reconnoiter of our world, and were interested in the dominant species on the planet. As my strength over the following days returned to me. I was taken out of the confines of the bright white room, & put to sleep, when I came round I found I was much stronger

It was then I was put into confines with someone who has become very dear to me, Lady Cecilia Fitzroy-Herbert, you will perhaps know her better as “Sister Fister”,  the original wild child of the British aristocracy, she’d had a convent education, but the nuns could not assert discipline to her so she left, and she’d ended up working in a field hospital on the land front of the war, as of all things a nurse. She too had been abducted.

Over the coming days the experiments continued, but Cecilia would inform me of precisely what they were actually doing, although how she came to know is still a mystery to me. They were changing the very make up of my body, engineering my DNA in your modern terminology. They wanted to extrapolate how strong human potential was, with view to creating their own army to fight their wars on some distant star. So I was rebuilt from the inside out as it were. This was also where my and Cecilia’s extraordinary longevity has come from too. The bright lights did however do irreparable damage to our eyes, and to this day is why she & I both have to wear these shaded spectacles in all but the dimmest of lighting.

We were kept prisoners for a number of months until the opportunity arose for our escape – the craft we were being kept on was hidden in the alps. The thaw came early and an avalanche destroyed the ship. The irony is that we too would have died had it not been for the experiments we’d been subjected to. We had the strength to firstly survive and secondly escape from the crashed vessel.

And so she & I fled, and this is was the beginning of the adventure that is the lives of myself & Cecilia. We made our way across the world as adventurers, earning a living as we may as Bounty Hunters, Treasure seekers and the like. We settled here in India during the time of the Raj, and as you can see, we have amassed a modest fortune that keeps us comfortable, this has come with our extraordinary longevity, and our somewhat specialised services. With the advent of the aircraft Cecilia learned to fly and so she is our pilot too, she still even has “Betsy” her first ‘plane, but of course we travel in much more modern machines nowadays. We still travel the world and we are still called upon even now by people with only the most interesting of assignments.

And so that, my friend is really how it all began, that is after all what brought you here.

Another Brandy? And what is it you’d like us to undertake for you?”


In Memoriam

302850_10150263538550566_1520295_nHere a couple I’ve written in memory of people passing.

The first is about a beautiful soul and friend who passed away very recently (at the time of writing). He lived in Avebury with his partner Helen & their daughter, Gracie, was an accomplished healer & Gong Master, Adrian Mieras.

He touched so many peoples lives and was adored by all those that knew him.

The sun, the moon and stars, no longer seem quite so bright,
Because there’s a you shaped hole, in the Henge tonight.
The gongs sound slightly different, across a ring of stones,
Bowls resonations shift, without you to make them tone.
But the world feels more love tonight, through your gentle healing grace,
Perpetually echoes around the cove, never destined to cease.
And there’s a little more understanding, as we let judgements slip away,
Anchored in a sarsen ring, and across the world today.
So thank you for the peace, and joy you shared and brought,
And may your love burn on eternally, forever in our hearts.

28th May 2016.

NanaThe next, is about my Grandmother, Flora. I’m not completely satisfied with this if I’m completely honest, but was urged to write something by my wider family for her funeral.

I’ve just noticed these two were written exactly seventeen years apart. Spooky.


I promise this will be the way, I’ll remember you:

Unconditionally loved us all,
Forever understanding.
Always had a gentle word,
And infinitely forgiving.

You shared our joys and victories,
As if they were your own.
And shared our burdens, when we despaired,
Feeling lost and all alone.

A smile to warm the darkest mood,
Still brings me eternal comfort.
And loving eyes smile on me still,
Smile on forever in my heart.

I miss you.
28th May 1999.

This next one, isn’t “In Memoriam”, in quite the same way as the first two, in as much it was something I wrote to me when I’d not long turned 30. In my head at least, it serves a similar purpose, hence it’s inclusion here, to a me that I was walking away from, and a new one I was walking into. I can’t pretend the journey I outline is anywhere near over, but serves as a “point in time snapshot” of where I was at then.


It’s taken thirty years,
To find the lesson,
I have chosen,
For this life cycle:

To learn to love me,
Like I’d love another,
To share with myself,
As if I was my own brother.

To accept my faults,
Like I accept yours,
To stop denying,
My infinite flaws.

To make happiness the path,
And not the goal.
To open to someone,
And share my soul.

To stop punishing me,
Like I’ve punished you all,
To be loving and humble,
And no longer the fool.

To relish and share,
The gifts given to me.
To love all mankind,
So it can love me.

17th December 1998

It’s really in our Genes

download (1)Another couple of Un-Newsletter’s, this time from February & March ’05.

It Really is in our Gene’s

Have you noticed a phenomenon with internet searches in that whatever you are looking for, you always find something else as well, which isn’t quite what you were originally after, but somehow infinitely more interesting? I’m sure there must be some mathematical inverted correlation around the likelihood of finding what you searched for and what you actually click on. Either that, or the internet simply allows us to indulge in that all too common human pass time of procrastination to levels never experienced by our forebears.

It was after having one of these search experiences that I stumbled across something about the Physicist, Dr Erwin Schrödinger (the cat-in-a-box man). Apparently, a while before the discovery of DNA, he was addressing a group of Biologists and theorised that, the building blocks of life would need to have both some sort of blueprint which defined how a body should be structured, and also have the means from which to build it. In other words – something that is both the foreman and the builder in the factory of our bodies. It seems he was right – when DNA was discovered and later decoded, that’s exactly what they found.

It dawned on me that it really is embedded in our make-up to not only be the architects and designers of our lives, but the constructors of them as well. Our inclination to look to teachers, managers, parents, partners, politicians, priests or Uncle Tom Cobbly and all to give us guidance and direction is just us copping out and allowing others to run our lives for us. An easier way to live perhaps, but it’s going against the grain. The reality is that we are built to be the pilots of our own lives, not have them steered for us.

So, where in your life do you let your “DNA” choose your path? Who do you allow to “genetically engineer” you? Where do you take control, creating your own structures? And where do you allow others to dictate how your life should look?

Hmmmn, I wonder if he was around now, Schrödinger would be able to resolve the internet search engine thing too…

It’s Still in our Gene’s

Last months Un-Newsletter generated probably the most feedback I’ve received to date; in terms of both quantity and diversity. So following on from last month I want to expand a little more.

One reply in particular from a personal acquaintance (who was playing devils advocate with me), implied I was inciting social anarchy with the things I’d written and conclusions I’d alluded to.

The implication was basically, that if we all go off and do what we want, how we want and when we want, then how do we live together? In a society we need structures which has leaders and followers, and a hierarchy with a set of rules to follow. Without this we’d quickly regress into a state of chaos where ‘might is right’ and every man (and woman and child) was out for themselves.

I can certainly see from my friends’ perspective, that this may appear to be the case, but continuing the theme from last month, there already is a set of rules that healthy genes follow. Within the natural order of life, our cells, and consequently genes and DNA are programmed to reproduce life – that is their purpose, not to destroy it. There are times, I accept, when those cells can ‘go bad’ and become destructive (cancerous ones for example). But when healthy and working properly, their purpose is built in to sustain and maintain life. What’s more, within that system, there are specialist cells which help us digest, protect us from invaders, or take oxygen into our blood stream for example – what is in fact a hierarchy of diverse and specialist cells, all working together for the good of our body.

The selfish ‘might is right’ mentality, from my point of view at least, is one of the destructive patterns as it simply isn’t sustainable.

But it leads me to ask myself, and also put the question to you, what choices and actions do you make in your life that are sustaining, and give life? And which ones do you make that are self destructive and ‘cancerous’?


Stood the test of Time

antique-clock-wallpaper-mobile-whj.jpgAt the risk of getting a bit sentimental & cheesy…! (OK, so there’s nothing wrong with a bit of sentiment & cheese, really, but shhh, we’ll keep it our secret, OK?)

This was one that Mike started. Certainly most of the first verse & at least half the chorus, although I can’t be exact – he already had a nice, acoustic folky melody for it, but had got stuck lyrically & wanted to write something for his wife for their anniversary. So who wouldAll I did was play with the weather theme really.

Stood the Test of Time.

Have you seen the sun?
Shining in the sky,
Have you ever wondered?
Asked the reason why?
Have you seen the rain?
Beating on the glass,
Unlike the way I feel for you,
I know it’s sure to pass.

No matter what’s outside,
Rain or wind or shine,
I know you’re always there,
We’ve stood the test of time.

Have you seen the snow?
Glistening on the ground.
Lasts for such a short time,
Melts without a sound.
But all I have to do,
When we’re far apart,
Remember the way you love me so,
And you still melt my heart.

Have you seen the mist?
Hiding in the trees,
Haunting forest spirit,
Carried by the breeze.
And when I lay me down,
I can see your eyes,
Pierce me like a ghostly spear,
And all my worries die.

No matter what’s outside,
Rain or wind or shine,
I know you’re always there,
We’ve stood the test of time.

Have you heard the wind?
Whipping up the sea,
Howling round the crows’ nest,
Tearing canvas free,
If you should ever leave me,
Forget to call or never ‘phone,
‘Cause the thought of loosing you,
Chills me to the bone.

April 2000


Not Today

semicolonLoss. Grief. Depression.

All of the above really. (And, if I’m totally honest, that nasty S word that’s still a taboo).

Another oldie with a melody I vaguely remember…

Not Today

Dropped a stone into the abyss,
Now waiting for the sound,
Of the echo to come back to me,
When the stone has hit the ground.
But not today,
No, not today.

Peered into the jaws of death,
With a blade against my wrist,
Waiting for Beelzebub,
To take away his gift.
But, not today,
No, not today.

When your mind is somehow frozen,
Your soul lost in the darkest night.
Your heart may keep on beating,
But it’s impossible to write.
Not today,
No, not today.

Looked the devil in the eye,
And locked, and held his gaze,
But the image of his icy stare,
I still just can’t erase.
But, not today,
No, not today.

Haemorrhaging emotions,
‘Til the hurting’s washed away.
There’s no words, dreams, or feelings,
And nothing left to say.
No, not today.
Not today…

20th August 1999



All Too Hard

Well, seeing as I’m back to posting, (at least for now 😉 ) thought I’d strike while the iron is hot and add another. This is another oldie, not so much about unrequited love, more about when you just get all tongue tied around someone you really, really like (or is that just me? 😉 )

Again, this one has a melody, so leaving the chorusy bit out:

All Too Hard.

So hard to find the words,
And make them sound sincere,
Mists absorb emotions,
Turn them all unclear.

So hard to find expressions,
To say what’s in my heart,
Overwhelming feelings,
Means I don’t know how to start.

Too hard to find the courage,
To say what you mean to me.
Your shinning eyes so piecing,
Paralyse me helplessly.

Too hard to find the phrasing,
They all sound so clichéd.
But your smile so disarming,
Leave me all but crushed and slayed.

Too hard to find moment,
It never feels OK,
To open up my heart to you,
So I’ll bite my tongue again today.

Too hard to ask the question,
It just twists and turns inside.
To ask it would be too greater a risk,
Of fatal damage to my pride.
25th May 1999