Norse Inferno

Converting frozen ice, Into molten lava, Requires a wizard’s wand, Or mere tricks of your camera. Alpine glaciers, dirty white, Be Pacific’s ring of fire. Clicks of adobe genius, Creates hell to admire. — Philip Wood

Precious Moments

Precious moments we can but borrow, Remember today is purely yesterday’s tomorrow. Hoped aspirations are memories yet to be hewn. We all return to mere stardust far too soon. — Philip Wood

Papuan Struggle

Through Third World eyes, First World lies. Tormented cries, Humanity dies! — Philip Wood

Out of Season

Travelling during winter brings its own memorable rewards, In addition to evading the sun-seeking hordes. Blood red, oceanic sunsets which otherwise you’d miss. Great bridges of the world emerge from their February dawn mists. Barren, windswept beaches, refreshingly healthy. Migratory bird flocks maintaining nature’s balanced harmony. Moorland and mountains where only the hardened tramp, No fair weather tourists who daren’t risk a little damp. Exploring empty cathedrals, chateaus and forts. No need to pre-book at all the must see resorts. Parking’s never a problem, simply stop where you want. There’s always an available table at your chosen restaurant. Witness seasoned fisherman at their wharfs, free of ice cream stands. Local folk doing normal business, supplying local demands. Merge into the background, minimise your alien impact. Leave the place as you found it; its integrity intact. — Philip Wood

Photo Lisbon, Portugal.

Writer’s Block

Its so annoying to capture a great photo shot, Winning competitions and awards it fills a top spot, But no matter how hard I stare and try to be inspired, Words fail to fill my head; my poetic thoughts have expired. Unable to gain insight into the great natural reflections, Still autumn waters refuse to conjure up literary connections. Three arches rounded off like tunnels burrowing into the earth, Brown and golden leaves fall sadly, trees awaiting spring’s rebirth. Visions of past locals crossing these arches; farmers droving their cattle, Soldiers, newly recruited, marching to defend their nation’s honour in battle, Young lovers rendezvous secretly, savour their passionate tryst, All of these characters my writer’s block forces me to miss. Trout swim below observing their unique fish eye view, Otters construct their holts and coypu prosper too, So I study this photo, my attention on it’s poured, Hang on a moment! All my poetry above means my writer’s block is now cured. — Philip Wood

Photo: Savignac Ledrier, Dordogne, France.

A Part of Me

My first book, Phrotose, is now published, Available in good bookshops and the internet. Overall its been well received, Although no vast royalties yet. At first, I was truly afraid, That I had left myself exposed and bare. Opened up too much about yours truly, That few readers would really give a care. Perhaps I’d been a little too self indulgent, Prose of my life, my values, my thoughts. Will folk readily identify with these musings, Or just regret the volume they’d bought? Then one morning listening to Phil Collins, Pondering, “who’s really interested in his nuptial woes?” Realised that worldwide millions are devoted, Heart on his sleeve fills all of his shows. Any artist of true sincerity, Be it script, music or sculptured craft, Must sacrifice a fragment of their core as a gift, Embedded to their creation they graft. Failing to meet this prerequisite, Doomed bland, uninspired and soulless. Mass produced as being market driven. So be strong, believe in your naked uniqueness. To conclude: I make no apology, For my sentiments that follow in this book. I trust you are amused and contemplative, As introvertly you are persuaded to look. — Philip Wood

You can purchase my book either by googling' "Phrotose" or going to this link

Referendum

Easy to bait, Highly strung wire, Red blooded passion, Temper ready to fire. Which lever points best, When tugged really hard? Signals your mood, Lowering your guard. Manipulated by others, Against our own will. Subconscious programming, Their camouflaged goals to fulfill. Other options kept blurred, By fake news, cheating and statistical lies, Focusing solely on our betters’ destination, Believing what the poster bearer’s cries. We lions must be aware, Of being led by donkeys down the wrong track. For once we leave the secure station, There is no turning back. — Philip Wood

East Anglican Railway Museum, Wakes Colne, Essex, England.

Gardening Motto

Relaxing in our garden, Soaking up comforting solar rays, Lawn mown, today’s task completed. So now to practice my garden motto, “Gardens are to be enjoyed not endured”. Let the bee do all its work, Allured by the enticing nectar of golden honeysuckle. Ants scurry to keep our garden regenerated. I ape the common wall lizard, Basking on his rockery, Snatching an occasional passing meal. Espy the red-capped woodpecker, Tapping out grubs from our expiring walnut tree. Jays strut across the yellowing mown grass. Striped sunflower seeds teased free by a chaffinch pair. Orange crested hoopoe manipulating its long probing bill, Aerates the soil in worm detection. Our proud blackbird; territory secured, Feasts on the ripe hedgerow brambles. Soaring honey buzzards circle the adjacent paddock, As settling tractor dust reveals fleeing mice, voles and an occasional hare. Distant woodland birds call; the Limousin sun warms. Saint Emilion’s finest takes its inevitable effect. I lounge; I snooze…. — Philip Wood

Biblical Housekeeping Limerick

Legends tell the quest for the lost Holy Grail, Having formed the plot of many a medieval folktale, After the goblet was sanctified, It was simply washed up and dried, And, still to this day, sits safe on its upper-room grail-rail. — Philip Wood

Photo: Chateau de Montségur, Ariege, France.

About time

Here are some words telling about time. It’s about time this story was laid into rhyme. About a time when life was not so precise. About time simple folk enjoyed paradise. The dial now says the time is about quarter to eleven, About reading time off shadows cast by a sun lit heaven. These medieval times were all about to change, Navigators set the time to explore about their unchartered range. Many of us wish we could turn time about, But the laws about time are not so easy to flout. Time moves about in a singular direction, One way to travel about time’s fourth dimension. How many times about climate change have we been warned? Now time’s about the environmental disaster we have spawned. We are living on borrowed time about which we’ve lost control, About time we accepted our generation’s legacy role. Read in The Times about daily news, About time honoured features and editorial views. This traveller in time is now about to go, Just ask your watch if about time you wish more to know. — Philip Wood

15th C, Clock Tower, Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy.

Getting In Focus

I’m sitting at my keyboard, typing these lines, About the photos I’ve taken. Thoughts fill my heart, that I need to impart, Your mind to stir, not shaken. Composed for you, Focused for you, To you be true, Inspire too. Contemplative view! My prose; your clue, The why, the who! I’m looking through my lens, at the joy in the world, And the beauty we’ve created. The future is bright, it’s for to you to decide, Not pre-destined, nor fated. Future for you, Canvas for you, Decide what’s true, Inspire others too. Relate your view, Even to just a few. Get on and do! Stretching my vocab; my brain’s thesaurus, Encountering concepts from my deep subconscious. Where I’ll end up, who can tell. Accepted conventions can go to hell!  I’m sitting at my keyboard, stroking these keys, Photos surround me. Colours leap off the page, into my soul. Their patterns crowd me. In focus now, Composing now, Viewing now, Lost in the now! — Philip Wood

Minimalism

Minimalism! The Least said, The best. — Philip Wood

Digging up History

History’s shrouded by the passage of years, Sifting through time a dark silhouette appears. To enlighten this facade; acknowledge our past, We excavate our roots to reveal shadows they’ve cast. Often we’re unsettled by evidence we find, Our shared dogmas and values begin to unwind. Myths and legends have corrupted the truth. Our knowledge is rewritten by the archeological sleuth. — Philip Wood

Abbaye Notre-Dame de Nanteuil-en-Vallée, Charente.

Embracing The Light

Photography; Sculpturing light. Dual polarising filters, Splitting sun-balanced white. As snowflake’s uniqueness, No image replication. Diffracting plastic stresses, Complete spectrum generation. Solely via viewfinder, Capture psychedelic events. Human vision restricted, Hence imagination invents. — Philip Wood

Role Play

Society’s contemporary stage, Concealed characters, Performing numerous life roles, Jumbled parts for countless scenes, Do we, life’s thespians, secreting behind our assumed masks encourage audience inspection? Provision a backstage pass to access our overprotected ego’s sanctum? Can we even distinguish ourselves from our alias’s confusing disguises? Writers of own scripts? Who are we truly? — Philip Wood

Venice silver masks

Leather Work

Overpowering stench, Sweat laden grime, Putrid ponds of sulphate, Peeling flesh with slime. Sun-scorching labour, Scant reward, Sinews screaming, Leather cured. — Philip Wood

Tannerie Ennakhla, Marrakesh, Morocco

Wake-up Call

Snow in our Limousin February is the expected winter norm. This week’s twenty-four degrees C is alarmingly warm. Southerly warm desert winds the TV weatherman terms, "fine". When really for all of us it’s an ominous sign. Nature awakens prematurely, swings out of balance. Seasons have shifted, too late for our nonchalance. If spring is this early how oppressive will the coming summer be? Devastating drought, scant harvest; even forest fires maybe. Of all the flora and fauna with season timing wrong, It’s the human race that must sing the guilt ridden song, We have really screwed up this planet that we self-appointingly steward, Our short-sighted greed has reaped this apocalyptic reward — Philip Wood

Seventy Five Year Silence

Have you ever experienced a dark place that seized a slice of your soul? Unsettling, a meager dozen miles distant, my modern, peaceful home. Refused to return that piece to me, unrecovered to this day. In my head six hundred and forty two enfants de la république, Screaming through the eerie quiet of their Glane valley sanctuary. Tormented by the woe of capitulation's aftermath. Numbed, muted, I fall contemplative. My silent witness of global shock. Horror des rues of shell pocked ruins. My condemnation progress spied by innocent, pathetic ghosts. Suppressed villagers; D-Day news, rumours and ceded hope, Angels of Limousin; sleep unforgotten. Massacred! Senseless, demoniac Schutstaffel. Furnace church, smelted bell, Dante’s foreseen Nazi hell. Abandoned, untouched since that abhorrent summer’s day. The sands of time pass slow. Struggle through my lens to capture this wretched atmosphere. How would Pran or Conroy relate their story had they shot it then? Such absolute evil now outlawed to prevent phoenix rise again. But we, mere humans, never learn from history’s text, Doomed to repeat. It has and will….. — Philip Wood

Oradour sur Glane

Forever Green

Sparkling blue planet, Struggling to live green, Squandering Goldilocks’s good fortune, Forfeiting Eden’s paradise pristine. Killing our golden goose, What horrors then let loose? Tolerances so tight, Survival’s not our God-given birthright. Solution’s obvious, Involving each of us, Cleaning-up our act, Carbon footprint we must contract. Grandchild’s image on your bin, Their future’s poison lies within, Grant them a second thought, Recycle refuse as you ought. Greenhouse gases will scorch us all, Leaders, please, accept Attenborough’s call, Tempest floods; drought ravaged farms burn, Soon Earth’s past the point of no return. — Philip Wood

Photo: Le Hohwald, Alsace, France

Lost in the Vatican

Visited the Vatican, wandered the corridors of power, In and out of art laden rooms, up and down the Pope’s tower, Blinded by culture, lost in a maze of Catholic history, What’s through this door? Oh! It’s St Peters Basilica balcony. — Philip Wood

St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.