Mourning Maggie Thatcher - A Reflection

Neil with Mrs Thatcher NJF Dinner Oct 2nd 1995 Century Plaza

I salute and mourn the passing of Margaret Thatcher:  Former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Margaret Hilda Thatcher, Baroness Thatcher, LG, OM, PC, FRS, née Roberts, a British politician, the longest-serving Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of the 20th century, and the only woman ever to have held the post. (Wikipedia)
Born: October 13, 1925, Grantham - Died: April 8, 2013, London

In relationship to her I have a story to tell.  You may remember that I rammed the Royal Yacht Britannia when a Sea Cadet while on a course in 1962. This is a true story about a boating accident during a Sea Cadet Training Course in Portsmouth. It was August in 1962, all the cadets got their Whaling License but mine was only Second Class, and here is the reason why was because of this accident.

That incident, endeared me to the Sheffield, she was a fine ship.  I strongly feel that had I pursued my original intent to apply to Dartmouth for entry as a Sea Cadet, I would have become a Naval officer, and in twenty years by 1982 I sincerely believe I would have succeeded to be master of my own vessel.  You can bet a shilling I would have tried for H.M.S. Sheffield.

Now the purist among my readers and those familiar with "Janes" will argue that Sheffield went into reserve in January 1959 and became flagship of the Home Fleet until September 1964, when she was placed on the disposal list. But I did not know all that, and any way, why spoil spoil a good story for the sake of the truth (as my grandfather used to say)

The new Sheffield, Type 42 Guided Missile Destroyer laid down by Vickers Shipbuilding and Engineering at Barrow-in-Furness on 15 January 1970, launched on 10 June 1971 and commissioned on 16 February 1975, was the actual vessel sunk during the Falklands campaign.

Enough said, here is the tail.

HMS Sheffield Struck by and Exocet

Walking On My Grave

It was Margaret Thatcher’s War
The final blast for glory,
Reflecting on it I might have been in service,
For had a different hand been played
This might have been my story
And thinking of it still can makes me nervous.

The Sheffield’s superstructure
Was of Aluminium
The idea was to make her strong and light,
The Exocet was inbound
Impacted and exploded
So hot it made the Sheffield’s top ignite

H.M.S. Sheffield was struck
And set to furious burning,
She quickly was to sink beneath the sea
I know that but for fortune
Had the influence been different
Her grave would have been my destiny.

When I was a Sea Cadet
I went to Portsmouth Harbor
To do the Southern Area Boatwork Course
My berth was on the Sheffield
The refitted Battle Cruiser
Whose Falkland-sinking caused me some remorse.

For had I joined the Navy
A decision that’s well as may be,
And had I been commissioned with a vote,
On where I might be serving
You could bet a shilling
That I would have tried complement that boat.

H.M.S. Sheffield was struck
And set to furious burning,
She quickly was to sink beneath the sea
I know that but for fortune
Had the influence been different
Her grave would have been my destiny.


I thank God I became a dentist!

You can review this poem on Poetry.com: http://poetry.com/poems/751673-Walking-On-My-Gravehttp://poetry.com/poems/751673-Walking-On-My-Grave

Kicked Off The Bus

Neil aged eleven on Table Mountain 1958

Kicked Off The Bus - An Apartheid Story

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

 In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. On the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor. It was done in such a disgusting and racist way.  The memory never softens the experience.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

If you visit Cape Town
There’s one thing you must do,
Take a trip up Table Mountain
And there admire the view.
You have to take the Cable Car
Which will swing and sway
Right to the top where you can see
Lion’s Head and Table Bay.

When we toured Table Mountain
We went up by bus,
We left from the Market Square
My Mum and three of us.
The conductor did the knuckle roll
When he gave us our ticket
And every time he passed us by
We asked him to repeat it.

But on the bus a policeman
Was clearly not amused,
He approached my mother
And let us know his views.
“You get off the bus right now!
Get off at the next stop.
Get off I have to talk to you.”
Said the Yarpie Cop.

We stood by the roadside,
Way above CapeTown
Half way up the mountainside
He dressed my mother down.           
We stood there dumbfounded
Just astonished plaintiffs,
“It is against the law” He said.
“To fraternize with the natives.”
                   
It’s not like that now in Cape Town
There’s still one thing you must do,
Take a trip up Table Mountain
And there admire the view.
You have to take the Cable Car
Which will swing and sway
Right to the top where you can see
Lion’s Head and Table Bay.

Three Clocks

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had them repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home.

The first and the oldest clock is an English bracket clock from the 18th Century. It is a Saunders, and was made between 1672 - 1780. The enameled face when laterally transilluminated shows C.J. Saunders
381 Oxford Street.  It was my Grandma Thomas's clock, and was given to me in pieces by my Aunt Joan when I first came to California.  I took the clock to the California Clockmakers' Guild where it was completely repaired by Cecil Crookshank, what a wonderful name for a clockmaker. He was wonderful at his work.  That clock has kept perfect time for thirty six year already.

Wanting a chimer and loving the Dutch cases, I spotted the Delph clock on Crookshank's shelves.  Well a few hundred dollars later it was mine. It pings away sweetly.

Our third clock, also a chimer, was my wife Nancy's Grandmother's clock. Interestingly enough we were visiting after Bud Neely's tragic and sudden demise, and the children were allocating their Dad's stuff.  The broken parts of the clock were in a box, and no one was interested in it.  I took my bride to one side and said "Look Nancy, I can get that clock properly repaired."  Well the long and the short of it is that we wound up with the clock.  It is an American copy of the type of clock that Saunder's made all those years earlier, it was a knock off with a paper face.  It has a lovely deep chime and of course keeps good time.

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

Three Clocks

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We’ve three old clocks in our house
And they all tick away,
Two of them are chimers
And ring the hours of day.
One of them, the oldest,
Only tells the time,
All of them are accurate
And worthy of my rhyme.

The smallest is of china
All blue and white from Delph
A classic Dutch, just wind it,
And it runs by itself.
The movement on the inside
Is brass and made in France,
You’ll like to hear it ping the hours
Should you get a chance.

The black American Thomas
Has pillars edged with gold,
It belonged to my wife’s Grand Mama
And really it’s quite old.
A leather padded hammer
Strikes on the coiled gong,
And the pendulum swings back and forth
To keep it ticking on.

The bracket clock, a Saunders,
Was made on Oxford Street,
A case inlaid with beaten brass
Makes its face complete.
Side rings make the handles
And brazen balls the feet,
Which came be turned to change the tilt
So it can keep it’s beat.

We have three children and three clocks
And they all tick together,
The hours have turned into an age
And I have thought whenever,
They leave to raise a family
They’ll take one for their own
To remind them of the passing years
Which speedily have flown.

The Wrist Watch of Flying Ace Mills

The Wrist Watch of Flying Ace Mills

A true story about a real American hero who flew an F4F Wildcat at Guadalcanal in1942

There are stories told by those who are bold
Who return from fighting a war,
There are lies that thrive as the myths survive
When no one remembers the score.
There are tales of skill in the grip of will
When your luck is all but run out,
And one worth a notch is "The Pilot’s Watch"
And that is what this is all about.

“Have I told you about where I lost my wrist watch?”
Said retired Colonel Mills as he gulped on his Scotch,
“No Millsy, I don’t think that you ever did!”
Said his pal at the bar as he took a big swig.
“Well it happened one day down in Guadalcanal,”
Went on Flying Ace Mills, looking straight at his pal.
“We were stationed you see on this God f’saken isle,
And there wasn’t a bar for a thousand mile.
I was with the Marines and true to their form
It was damn hot and buggy and the beer was warm.
But there were perks for being a pilot you see,
And one was the wrist watch they issued to me.”

“That wrist watch was big and it kept perfect time,
All pilots had one - I really loved mine.
I’d check it each morning when I saw the light
And be out on the runway to make the first flight.
Then up and away to the clouds and the blue
In a Wildcat to spot any Zeros in view.
But they rarely start early and there wasn’t much fear
So they’d filled my compartments with liquor and beer.
If I left at eight, I could be back by ten,
There rarely would be any Zeros till then,
For the Japs took their time, they had breakfast before,
They loaded their bombs and then flew off to war.”

“Now why?” said his pal, his attention complete,
“Did you have all that hootch tucked away ’neath your seat?”
“Ah well!” answered Millsy, “As I flew around
It was a lot cooler than down on the ground.
For two hours I’d watch for an enemy plane
Radio my position and come back again.
And they all ran to meet me when I landed on time,
And I never was late with that wrist watch of mine.
They’d empty the contents of my baggage hold,
For the beer and the liquor was by then freezing cold.
Just the way that we like it to slake a deep thirst,
We could do it because the Japs liked breakfast first.”

“There was just enough time for that once I got back
To re-fuel my plane and take off to attack.
The ten o’clock flights were not like the milk run,
With bombers and fighters it wasn’t much fun.”
We flew up to meet with the oncoming force
Of big Mitsubishis and Zeros of course,
Their pilots were good and those Zeros were fast
And a dog fight began so they couldn’t get past.
We started up high where the air was a frazin’
Screamed down on their cans with our Brownings a’blazin’
Their fighters turn nosed up and their cannon pop popped
And down to the sea the first casualty dropped.”

“We arch up and away to regain our height
Come round with a roar to get back in the fight.
The radio’s blarin’, that there’s guns on my rear,
I peel up through a cloud bank, they all disappear,
Up, up I keep climbing till out top I drone
To see four Bettys in diamond formation, alone.
Nose up to the first one I aimed for his turret
Spattered his rear and tail gunner in it,
Dipped down to aim for the wing frame connection
And lit that “cigar” in one flash conflagration,
Then rolling to make sure I just missed his wing,
Soared up and curved round to restart the whole thing.”

“This time as I drop I’m in three gunners sights
I see the gun’s flash so I swing to the right.
Ploughing back I descend on the right bomber’s flank
Squeezed on the trigger and blew up his tank.
Then falling away I banked up and turned
As that big Mitsubishi just curled down and burned.
I was climbing again to make the third run
When the tail gunner got me a bead with his gun.
I saw the guns flash and I heard the shells chatter
And about me cannon rounds rattle and clatter,
Then a clunk and a shudder I knew something was wrong,
I looked down at my arm and my wrist watch was gone.”

“Well that got my attention I was mad as can be
That gunner had taken my wrist watch from me.
My left arm felt broken but I carried on,
Determined to stop them from dropping a bomb.
I peeled down to the right, and curved back with a roar
Nosed up on his tale and to even the score,
As soon as I sighted him I just let go
Plastering his tail with just row upon row.
The turret just shattered as I made my pass
Pieces were falling out, metal and glass,
And then something happened that so bothered me
The gunner’s top half fell out down to the sea.”

Then his pal tried to swallow and clearing his throat
Said, “Wow, Millsy.” and stammered, “Well that ain’t no joke.”
“No it wasn’t.” said the Colonel, as he clutched at his glass.
“But I drained all my ammo as I made my last pass.
With no watch, and no timer I headed for home,
The wireless was dead I was there all alone.
They poured out to meet me when I came in to land
One with a beer, that was still cold, in hand.
When they asked how it went, “Oh, just easy I lied.”
They could see the great canon hole on my port side.
“It’s a miracle you made it now how can that be?”
“I was saved by the wrist watch they issued to me!”

There are stories told by those who are bold
Who return from fighting a war,
There are lies that thrive as the myths survive
When no one remembers the score.
There are tales of skill in the grip of will
When your luck is all but run out
And one worth a notch is "The Pilot’s Watch"
And that is what it's all about.



Betty - Mitsubishi G4M Bomber
Zero - Japanese Fighter plane
F4F Wildcat - Rugged American Fighter Plane

Browning - M2 12.7 mm (0.50 caliber) machine guns. Wild cats had four.

A Stone In The River - Eve Senn

For my dear friend Even Senn who passed away from Leukemia just days ago. A daughter of Colonial Kenya, born of European parents in a time and place that has vanished. She loved a flowing river, and named her daughters after two great rivers in Kenya, the Tana, and the Mara. For many years Eve and her family celebrated our mutual East African connection by having gatherings we called the Wajinga.  A group enthusiasts used to get together the share memories, sing songs and show movies and pictures. Her parents Lisa and Imre and Eve's bother and sister  Johnny and Julia were also firm friends.

A stone fell in the river           
Piercing the smooth dark glassy mirror
Plunging deep into its heart
Visible at first, then sinking
Absorbed down into the matted bed.
The water erupting at the point of entry
Rising out and up above the reflection
The reactionary spurt of excitement peaks,
Pauses and falls into ripples
Circling outward to the banks and grasses
Reverberating back in an eternity of entropy
Softening and never ending.

Eve is that stone,
Piercing our protective shells
Of awareness with exuberant enthusiasm,
Plunging into our hearts with warmth and affection,
Sinking into our psyches unnoticed
Lying there embedded,
Stirring reactions within us all
As her influence ripples out and around us forever,
Never ending, vibrating in all she touched

http://poetry.com/poems/688349-A-Stone-In-The-River

The Buffalo is the emblem of the Wajinga, a Swahili word for mad people.  We are mad about East Africa. The Swahili word for Buffalo is Niati

WAJINGA

 

Uffington Remembrance

At Uffington a white horse can be seen carved into the hillside above which once stood and ancient castle. It is an easy climb up the hill, and when the wind is stiff it make a perfect spot to fly kites, if you have the time.

Upon my back beneath clear sky
At Uffington I lay,
The wind was fresh and kites would fly
For many an hour that day.
The people came to see the mound
Where the castle used to be,
And the white horse cut out from the hill
To celebrate some victory.

While staring up into the air
I was made once more aware
Of the beauty nature brings,
Flowers and grass and wind that sings.
And how we in our city-rush
Can push and shove and make a fuss,
And miss the pleasure in our haste
Because we have no time to waste.


I visited Uffington a number of times when we lived in Oxford.  A pleasant spot to drive to, and there are some nice pubs in the area for a Sunday lunch.

Losing My Wheels

A picture of Alan Johnson and  Ian Urquhart.
Alan's father, Ernest William Johnson - at 93, asked his son if he was coming home to Australia for Christmas.  He used an expression to convey how his body was beginning to fail, he said "the wheels are falling off Son".  Well my friend, Alan Johnson, the Australian Hotelier, told me the tale and this poem is the result!

Are you coming home for Christmas Son?
Are you flying back to Auz?
The time is going by so fast
I thought I’d ask because,
I’d really like to see you,
I’m not down or in a trough,
It’s just that, well I have to say,
My wheels are falling off.

I’ve had a darn good run my Son,
I made it through the War,
Stood up for king and country
And the family I adore.               
There are those who might considering
Such values turn and scoff,
But I hope to see you soon because,
My wheels are falling off.

The carriage is getting shaky Son,
It rattles and it groans,
It takes more time to start it up
I feel it in my bones.
When you’re home we’ll raise a glass
Not down it with a quaff,
I pace myself these days because
My wheels are falling off!

You might soon have to take my place
In the Anzac Day Parade
And wear my salad on the right,
To show a price was paid,
And when you meet the other few
Your cap you’ll smartly doff
And tell them briefly ’bout you Pa
Whose wheels have fallen off.

I had shared the recent loss of my mother with Alan Johnson.  He told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

A friend of mine with whom I had shared the recent loss of my mother, told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

A friend of mine with whom I had shared the recent loss of my mother, told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

A friend of mine with whom I had shared the recent loss of my mother, told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

The poem is getting nice reviews on poetry.com, and you can see them on this link: Losing My Wheels