How do muckers?
Well, things here at St Moribunds are a bit quiet, so I thought I'd stick a bit of a yarn on this competitition site. As you know, ALL my tales are true, always have been, to every last detail. Now, I also knows that many of you folk are better yarn spinners than the increasingly aged Artificer, what with me Penile Dementia and all, so I expects to see you help this Hitalian chap with his competition.
Get scribbling muckers
See yer soon
Arti
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arthur__again
Over 90 days ago
Straight Male, 67
Forum
My Great Grandads fought in the trenches: Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, the KSLI that took so many farm boys to their deaths from these tranquil parts. My Grandad John was a huge , scary man: a steel plate in his head and medals in rows on his tunic. No one ever argued with Grandad John. He never spoke about what he went through-but cried every year on November 11th. How can we spoon-fed, spoiled and unappreciative weaklings ever know what those men-no, boys-went through. I grew up on Wilfred Owen, a local boy, and have taken members of this site to see his memorial in Shrewsbury. Glorifying war? No, glorifying the memory of men who gave their lives for that which they thought was right. I remember them every year, and pray that the nation never forgets them.
Dulce et decorum est,pro patria mori?
My arse!!!!!
A poem I wrote last year:
Dulce
Monday was heavy on my mind:
Deadlines and meetings looming large as pain in age,
I needed something Antipodean and strong:
The grape to calm my inward rage.
I scurried as a rabbit to its heated mate
The concrete path I was born to tread,
Trembling with the growing pain of need
Once more toward the grape I sped.
I saw two old and crooked men
Their steps short and manner slow,
I cursed their crumbling limbs and said
'Come on chaps, some of us have somewhere to go.'
They turned as one and gave a look
That held me as a fox in snare,
My eyes were stung by the wasp of truth
And at the medals I could only stare.
Their scarlet poppies stood proud and said
Things their dying bodies could not say,
Their eyes as bright as battle's heat
I wished, oh Lord, to crawl away.
For there before me, hurt and stung
I saw the men I'd never be,
The pain of fighting unto death
Focused on the shit that is me.
'i'm so sorry', the greyest one declaimed,
'My legs don't work as they once were able.'
He stopped, and bowed, a curious bow,
That only humility can enable.
I gagged on the stench of my own hubris
And I met the tigers in those aged eyes,
Knowing that death had supped with these frail ghosts
And ridiculed my world of temporal lies.
Something made me salute them
My arms rising in military style,
They smiled, and nodded, and held out liver-spotted hands:
We shared the clasp of brothers for too short a while.
Then slowly they turned and bereted heads descended
Seeking brothers who by smiling death were kissed,
Their shining medals guarantees that I
Might spend Remembrance Sunday getting pissed.
Arti
Dulce et decorum est,pro patria mori?
My arse!!!!!
A poem I wrote last year:
Dulce
Monday was heavy on my mind:
Deadlines and meetings looming large as pain in age,
I needed something Antipodean and strong:
The grape to calm my inward rage.
I scurried as a rabbit to its heated mate
The concrete path I was born to tread,
Trembling with the growing pain of need
Once more toward the grape I sped.
I saw two old and crooked men
Their steps short and manner slow,
I cursed their crumbling limbs and said
'Come on chaps, some of us have somewhere to go.'
They turned as one and gave a look
That held me as a fox in snare,
My eyes were stung by the wasp of truth
And at the medals I could only stare.
Their scarlet poppies stood proud and said
Things their dying bodies could not say,
Their eyes as bright as battle's heat
I wished, oh Lord, to crawl away.
For there before me, hurt and stung
I saw the men I'd never be,
The pain of fighting unto death
Focused on the shit that is me.
'i'm so sorry', the greyest one declaimed,
'My legs don't work as they once were able.'
He stopped, and bowed, a curious bow,
That only humility can enable.
I gagged on the stench of my own hubris
And I met the tigers in those aged eyes,
Knowing that death had supped with these frail ghosts
And ridiculed my world of temporal lies.
Something made me salute them
My arms rising in military style,
They smiled, and nodded, and held out liver-spotted hands:
We shared the clasp of brothers for too short a while.
Then slowly they turned and bereted heads descended
Seeking brothers who by smiling death were kissed,
Their shining medals guarantees that I
Might spend Remembrance Sunday getting pissed.
Arti
Hello muckers,
Just thought I'd pop by and say hello: I hear one or two were asking about me.
Well, I'm still around-much to the annoyance of those that have to look after me. I have occasionally popped up to SH Towers and had a peek through the windows. Lots of new folk-didn't recognise many-but it was nice to wander around the old place. I'm 's Home for the Bewildered, here in Shropshire, but miss the old farm. I occasionally get let out, and I popped into Shrewsbury the other week to visit young Agricola in the 'House of Many Windows'-daft young bugger got banged up for some incident he caused while chasing after that Alex. I wonder how she is? Sirree, what a woman! She could soften your cough alright-made no allowance for me advancing years or me surgical appliances. I still get parcels from that Mrs FC-cakes usually-and boxes of educational material from that nice (Very heducated and sophisticated gentleman that: rumour is he changes his socks every week!)
The doctors won't let me stay long so I'd better make tracks back: must admit, it's a bit lonely at St. Moribunds. I look forward to tuesdays when Dr comes in to give us Psychsomethingorother. He does a good job, really makes people feel better about themselves, especially when they realise that believing in Unicorns, Pixies and Goldfish that Iron is actually quite normal-according to Doctor anyway. But they do have a bit of entertainment put on for us old gits occasionally: last week they had a very nice 'family act'-Will and the Sapphonettes. Lovely family they were-and talented.-looks and voice of an Angel...and Sappho was good too. We've got film club tonight-'Far from the Madding Crowd': I think they are taking the piss.
Don't expect they'll let me visit again: Matron isn't known for her moderation. I think I'll call at the Bull and Dog on the way home and see how many acres of flesh the barmaid, Sweaty Betty, is revealing tonight. By me Granny's Garters I'll swear that girl carries the industrial output of several small countries around her person: good job she wasn't around when Newton was a young chap-he'd never have believed in gravity. Mind you, I can't get a look in with her-she's keen on these squaddies these days. The Army are pleased as it allows their lads to undertake extreme PT, unarmed combat and post- traumatic stress training all in one night.
So, cheerio muckers, remember, if cows had bollocks then Ramblers would drive cars....
Best wishes from here in the country...don't expect they'll let me in again, so, all the best
Arti
PS I never did find that bugger of a sheepdog
Just thought I'd pop by and say hello: I hear one or two were asking about me.
Well, I'm still around-much to the annoyance of those that have to look after me. I have occasionally popped up to SH Towers and had a peek through the windows. Lots of new folk-didn't recognise many-but it was nice to wander around the old place. I'm 's Home for the Bewildered, here in Shropshire, but miss the old farm. I occasionally get let out, and I popped into Shrewsbury the other week to visit young Agricola in the 'House of Many Windows'-daft young bugger got banged up for some incident he caused while chasing after that Alex. I wonder how she is? Sirree, what a woman! She could soften your cough alright-made no allowance for me advancing years or me surgical appliances. I still get parcels from that Mrs FC-cakes usually-and boxes of educational material from that nice (Very heducated and sophisticated gentleman that: rumour is he changes his socks every week!)
The doctors won't let me stay long so I'd better make tracks back: must admit, it's a bit lonely at St. Moribunds. I look forward to tuesdays when Dr comes in to give us Psychsomethingorother. He does a good job, really makes people feel better about themselves, especially when they realise that believing in Unicorns, Pixies and Goldfish that Iron is actually quite normal-according to Doctor anyway. But they do have a bit of entertainment put on for us old gits occasionally: last week they had a very nice 'family act'-Will and the Sapphonettes. Lovely family they were-and talented.-looks and voice of an Angel...and Sappho was good too. We've got film club tonight-'Far from the Madding Crowd': I think they are taking the piss.
Don't expect they'll let me visit again: Matron isn't known for her moderation. I think I'll call at the Bull and Dog on the way home and see how many acres of flesh the barmaid, Sweaty Betty, is revealing tonight. By me Granny's Garters I'll swear that girl carries the industrial output of several small countries around her person: good job she wasn't around when Newton was a young chap-he'd never have believed in gravity. Mind you, I can't get a look in with her-she's keen on these squaddies these days. The Army are pleased as it allows their lads to undertake extreme PT, unarmed combat and post- traumatic stress training all in one night.
So, cheerio muckers, remember, if cows had bollocks then Ramblers would drive cars....
Best wishes from here in the country...don't expect they'll let me in again, so, all the best
Arti
PS I never did find that bugger of a sheepdog
