Archive for June, 2016

#Brexit : 1 week on

Posted: 30/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in music, political

There’s a chap who regularly comes into my Library and over the years we’ve discussed a lot of politics. In the last few months he’s asked me on a few occasions what I thought the Referendum result would be and I’ve answered every time that Leave would win. Why such prescience?  It’s not really rocket science,  sadly, it was just a sense that the English wanted their identity back and they have felt somehow aggrieved at the EU for diluting that.
But that didn’t make me hope any less for a Remain win, and it didn’t make the shock of Friday morning any less. I’ve been in a miserable, twitter addicted,  fog ever since. It’s all too much to take in, all too much to write coherently about in essay form, so here’s my more emotionally complete response in song.

Listen to So Far To Go on #SoundCloud


Waking up

Posted: 16/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in Dark Tales, poetry

Another poem from my wee poetry book.

Waking Up

Shapely Mountains
White as Icebergs
Cut across the Blue Sky
Like giant, soft pillows
Rising above the bed of land
Life is stirring
Beneath a heavy blanket
Of Snow
The sunlight tugs back
The covers
Birds sing a wake-up call
And Suddenly
Lambs Spring up
Across the fields
Crocuses, Daffodils
And Early rising Snowdrops
Lift their pretty heads
Blades of grass stretch
Up to the sun
A world awake
And drowsy
Until the sun
Warms it’s bones.

The Bride

Posted: 10/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in poetry, writing

It’s June, wedding season I have been told.

The Bride

The bedraggled bride
Blood stains on virgin white
her head hangs, her hair drips
just like she
was on their
wedding night.
The astonished
Mouth gaping in shocked surprise
His hand shakes, the gun rattles
He can see
murder in her cold, dead
bullet flies
Then another
, and once more
While she advances, unrelenting
His hand goes limp,
the gun hits the floor
Such cold hands
Clutch his
face, pull it near
He is choking at her necrotic stench
Staring in her eyes, paralysed with fear
He hears her
A gurgling whisper, a half-formed rasp
“You may kiss the bride,”
Icy lips touch his,
he hears his
own gasp
Pain flowers in his chest
Bone spliters and
blood explodes
He feels the wrench,
a staggering agony
Then she
rips his heart free and his chest implodes
It beats in her fist
She lifts it to her
rotten maw
And bites deeply as his vision
His last sight, his
blood dripping from her jaw.


Posted: 07/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in poetry, writing

Many years ago we went to Southern Portugal to help a friend build a dyke at his mother’s little eco friendly holiday home in the Totenique valley. There were a group of us there, all mutual friends, and we had a very nice time with lots of late night, outdoor  meals, rabbling conversations and games of Settlers of Catan. There was a guest book, so I scribbled this into it and copied it down to preserve the memories.

Sun sets softly
Behind green cloaked slopes
Olive groves whisper
Their susurrus
Caressing the ears
While fragrant smoke drifts
Leaving an impression
A peaceful place in the mind
November sunshine

More tumblr, more Surviving

Posted: 07/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in writing

Do you want to know what’s up those stairs?

Check out #2 of Surviving here on Tumblr.  #3 is coming……


Posted: 05/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in writing

I’m venturing onto Tumblr to get a bit of my geek on and to share bitesize chunks of some of my fiction.  Starting with Surviving to celebrate publishing the eBook! The link to my blog there is on the sidebar
<——– !

Oh my God, What did I do?

Posted: 04/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in Self Published, surviving, writing
Tags: , ,

I only went and made an ebook out of Surviving
This is my new baby, with characters that speak loudly to me and a storyline that is still surprising me.
Cat, who is the main character in the ebook first started talking to me during a gluttish rewatch of the first 5 seasons of Supernatural  (my guilty pleasure and favourite tv series.  Oh Dean!) She’s a very strong woman with one weakness;  Finn MacCool.  They grew up together during the Apocalypse, and spend their lives fighting Demons while trying to find books that have occult knowledge in them. They also have to look after Cat’s kid brother,  Adair,  who is psychically gifted and resentful. 
It’s as cheap as Lulu would let me make it, because I really want to share this with folk. If anyone wants to make a more inspiring cover, feel free  as my art skills lack somewhat!


If you want a wee sample, you can find it here.

The Secret Colour of Crows

Posted: 03/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in poetry, Self Published, writing

Last one for now! If you like these poems and also like photography,  my partner and I put together a book of my poems with his beautiful pictures which you can buy here at Lulu. It’s a glossy coffee table book, but I feel it’s worth the price.

The Secret Colour of Crows

A wing shapes across a sky
Black as night
Obscuring day
Feathers spanning, light leaks through
Flying closer
Sunlight sparkles on the black
Rainbows spark
Dancing from it’s flight
Hues deeper and richer
Inviting inspection
Inviting enthralment
It wheels, spinning against blue
So stark
Bright and Dark
Day and Night

Still confusion is invited
When the light strikes
Blackness fractures
Defracts to dance along
The length of a wing tip
And from the black
Comes a myriad
A milieu
A cacophony of brilliance
That steals my eye
Oilslick purple and green
White that burns in the sun
Blue that hides beneath it all
Subtle and blinding
Hidden beneath the sinister
Beauty few perceive
Beauty few acknowledge
The secret colour
Of crows

Monday Morning, Dumfries

Posted: 03/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in poetry, writing

I’ve found a motherlode of old poetry. This is one of my favourites.

Monday Morning, Dumfries

Walking up the cobbled street
As the town is waking up
My heels clack loudly, echoing
As I pass by shuttered shops
A door opens, an alarm beeps
Words are exchanged across the Vennel
As for once today Neighbouring shopkeepers meet and speak
While they’ve time enough to greet
They’ll soon be ensconced
Behind their separate big windows,
Time only for the drip-drip stream
Of customers.
In the cafe,
In Costa,
With it’s soft leather sofas
And hardbacked wooden chairs
Vacant faces stare
Monday morning stares
While the Barista splashes
Coffee and milk
On the counter.
It’s still early
Still too early
To be doing this for her.
The bin lorry skulks
Along the pedestrian precinct
Filling up on white bags
Blue bags and the nameless contents
Of giant wheely bins
From which it scoffs
Scooped up with it’s great metal jaw
Then tossing back into it’s cavernous maw
With mechanical abandon
How many times does it chew?
25, Like they tell us to?
Almost 9am
Strong black Coffee and a pen
Wake me up
At least I hope.
It’s Monday morning in Dumfries
At least the sun is shining

Dulce et decorum est pro patria sacrificare

Posted: 02/06/2016 by Alternate Celt in poetry, political, writing

Was looking for something else and found this quite old poem. Plus ça change!

Dulce et decorum est pro patria sacrificare

Or so they tell the soldier they send
into their “theatre of operation”,
Or to the police officer they equip
with riot shields and guns
Or to working man whose job
falls to austerity
Or to the disabled child whose support
dwindles as the bills rise
Or to the homeless woman whose shelter
is closed because of other priorities
Or to the broken family that grieve
after a case of mistaken identity

Sacrifice is necessary, they preach to the poor
the disposessed
the weak
the sick
the hungry

Dulce et decorum est pro patria avi

As they have never said to the banker
who gambled away millions
Or to the politician who fiddled the books
to claim their ‘fair’ share of expenses
Or to the businessman who juggled his accounts
to avoid their ‘fair’ share of taxes
Or to the journalist who scooped
an exclusive from a murdered child’s phone
Or to Cabinet Minister who with the stroke of a pen
let the blood of his compatriots
Or to the General who with a word sent
the flower of our youth to their deaths

Sacrifice is never made by the elites
the ruling classes
the rich
the powerful
the deserving
So my friend, don’t believe them when they repeat the old lie:
Dulce et decorum est pro patria sacrificare
(It is sweet and honourable to sacrifice for one’s country)