Category Archives: political

THE BOND POETIC SERIES (VOL 1 S.C.)

THE FIRST IN THE SERIES (COVERING THE BOND MOVIES), my own poetic version starting the the first movie… more to come..

 

 

  1. NO Way…

 

 

It was an EON ago when it began

Nineteen sixty-two I believe

Broccoli and Saltzman had a plan

And there he was Mr. Sean Connery

 

From the pen of Mr. Fleming

Films that set the spy world alight

Cinema goers followed the sparkle like lemmings

Off the cliff of entertainment, into the night

 

In Jamaica an inspired Fleming wrote

They filmed Dr. No there

The exotic location was worthy of note

The choice, like Bond, was a dare

 

Bond fought ‘the hand’ of crime

Used the tricks of the trade

Ursula shone like a coin, a dime

Beauty met beauty; in Jamaica it was made

 

With action, pace and the one liner

Delivered to the enemy and the viewer

Followed by the baddie with a shiner

As Bond sat in a bow tie, eating from a skewer

 

With a nod and a wink

Good triumphs over evil

Facing the barrel of a Walther also makes one think

About not reneging on paying your bill

 

The bill for SPECTRE is a high one

Only 007 can guarantee payment

Supported by Ryder their work is done 

Now it’s time to send the statement

 

With Dr No. dead in the pool

Bond can get his hand on;

Cuddling Honey Rider as calm and as cool

Then sail away to safety; to the Bond theme song…

 

JW Nelson©

One Page Novels by – J.W. Nelson Volume 1

       train-1635038_1280    The Dream Journey by Train

Samuel Peterson, a frantic, stubborn man, leapt forward in huge strides, as he targeted the 1615 from St. Pancras station. The tannoyed voice ricocheted violently across the air, entering Peterson’s ears presumptuously. A female, high pitched tone droned on about the train he was about to catch, so he hoped. His legs moved swiftly now, like a greyhound chasing that ever moving plastic rabbit.

Sweating profusely, panting heavily, his 13 stone out of shape body, lumbered towards the train, sitting noisily on platform 3.  Entering the cabin, exhaling for moment to draw breath, Peterson scanned the seats from his bespectled view.  Cabin H, first class, yes that’s the one, seat number 13a. Fourteen pair of eyes drilled his. His stature. His demeanour. Decisions about Samuel permeated their minds. A tall, scruffy looking, male with no discernible instant appearance to determine his ancestry, perplexed the other passengers.

A large, untidy beard, covered his facial skin, as did his baseball cap for his head. An expensive pinstriped suit, finished off with white tatty trainers, sounded alarm bells in already prejudiced views. Without completely recoiling, as Peterson shifted towards his seat, eyes averted his as he drew near, as though Peterson was a storm or a hurricane heading in their direction. Then the moment of truth, seat 13a. There with her head down in 13b, sat a lady, about forty years old, auburn hair, glued to her electronic device. She didn’t look up once, as Peterson, fumbled with his bag in the overhead space. He spied her, eying her over, from her head to her feet. Deliberately taking his time to address his bag, compensating for the being intently watched by two men in seat 16a & b. This pragmatic opportunity delivered itself like a gift.

Finally slumping unceremoniously into his seat, Sarah White looked across at Peterson. ‘Hello Sarah. We were wandering when we’d have this meeting. You know what I mean don’t you?’

‘Don’t start Sammie. Drop the bullshit and give it to me straight for once’, Sarah fired back again turning to face the window she sat against.

‘I’d love to give it to you straight, you know that right’, Peterson desperately wanted to smile, yet his professionalism didn’t allow that sort of emotion or frivolity. His voice even, no discernible accent.

Sighing, shaking her head, Sarah White’s beautiful, cosmetically manicured face, bright emotionless eyes, began losing some of  colour, vibrancy and sparkle.

‘You lot better understand something’, she started, her voice low, yet determined. ‘If anything happens to me…’ Peterson and Sarah were interrupted by the attendant serving drinks. Peterson ordered two white tea’s with one sugar.

‘You were threatening something’, Peterson continued Sarah’s last repost, as she anxiously stirred her one sugared tea.

‘It doesn’t’ matter anyway’, Sarah reacted sharply, sipping her tepid beverage, ‘ your organisation will find out soon enough’.

‘Umm I see’, Peterson, muttered to himself, something he rarely did. Then he turned to face Sarah, rather seductively, knowing she despised him and his intentions. ‘My secret love, oh how my heart is saddened, as thou’s last journey on a train, leads to your final resting place’. His words faded as the sun does at around 840pm in the summertime. Sarah’s body relaxed, her eyes closing gently, settling into her seat, she drifted into a never ending cycle of sleep.

Peterson sat upright, nonchalant, calm, normal. Chirping could be heard from his right hand jacket pocket, the Mission Impossible theme tune by Lalo Schifrin. Peterson extracted his phone an answered. ‘Is it done’?, was the question. ‘What do you think? Peterson bounced his rhetorical question at his caller. ‘Of course, she’s sleeping’.

That morning, Samuel Peterson, awoke snuggled up in bed with his wife Sarah, who didn’t know about his murderous intentions to divorce her..

(c) Copyright J W Nelson 2017

My Political Map…

 

The countdown begins in earnest

As May holds the main seat

A stuttering ‘Laboured’ approach

Has already left them facing defeat?


What about those from the ‘Kip’?

Are they back to square one?

Or will the Liberal crew rise up

And make us forget what partnership has done


Where’s Monster Raving what’s itsname?

I know the Greens are still here?

Our Scottish neighbours don’t want to be

The future uncertain and full of fear?


 

The unknown is the clouded view

Brexit with a myriad of permutations sorted that

Which way to turn is anyone’s guess

Maybe; ideas out of a hat?


 

Who can we trust with our Crown Jewels ?

Rail, Utilities the foreboding NHS?

Is nationalising the answer?

What would you the people suggest?


 

The June date is on the horizon

Our fate and security in Westminster’s hands

Think we’ll now and for the future

To ensure we’ve chosen the right plan


 

A crucial step is now ready

Where will you ‘X’ your box?

The political equivalent could rein

When the hens are seized by the fox?


 

Do our utmost is all we can do

Making our own well informed choice

Can each of our votes really make a difference?

Do nothing and they’ll never hear your voice…

 

J.W. Nelson

June 2017


whats the time mr Wolf

Symbol…