About the Author

There I was, leaving school without a single qualification to boast of and nothing to look forward to besides working in jobs that did not inspire. Later I got married, two children and a mortgage and I struggled like most other husbands and fathers. After a sudden illness and advice from a doctor telling me to change my life style.  So I resumed my education at a local college at the age of forty one, and then onto university here in the UK and also the in USA where I studied Contemporary American History and the Spanish language and Culture, successfully gaining an honours degree.  Later after volunteering at a local school I furthered my education when I undertook a teaching degree, next working with Special Needs students for over ten years.   I’ve always enjoyed being creative in some way in all its categories such as writing, sculpting, painting, sketching and many other facets of the arts, but I began writing in 1974 outlining a recurring dream I had over several nights.  Trying my hand at song writing and poetry, then short stories before writing my first book for children called Pachelbel’s Sister.  Days of Quiet Thunder is my first attempt at a full length novel, inspired by several nights discussing possible scenarios with likeminded friends over several pints to lubricate the creative parts of the mind?

 

Examples of Work 

 

The Armour of My Youth

It is with no surprise that you realise while young and growing, that you are almost impervious to general emotional harm.

It bore you well through much trepidation and trial by your peers, those who looked on or jeered mockingly.

Yet, this cauldron of beliefs gave resistance and its protection became ever more obvious and needed as time passed.

It conjoined with other souls that wore it too, protected as chain mail covers an arm or chausses for a leg.

They too shared in its invulnerability and prospered well; though some suffered from its abuse.

Hardening and showing patina after time, making cautious words from others almost insignificant and meaningless.

But they too have their armour, and the clashes were repeated loud and bloodied through their imagined halcyon days.

Wearing it was like a statement, but it brought weaknesses which we could never see.

My breastplate which I’d hardened and polished over time became no more use to me than a smear of butter.

A boy can grow in many directions, and in all this time unknowingly I had been carrying an Achilles heel.

Ladies fair, though they were different to us, we knew one day that we would have to meet one or two.

As Cupid’s arrows in loves battle were drawn and fired you could feel the holes appearing in your armour, no arrow could be stopped.

Arrows passed through as if rice paper were employed to prevent fire and rain, let alone love’s first tender kiss.

Just as an arrow would cause a bleed, so it did with our emotions, seeping red from the heart through chain mail and doublet.

What pain did we endure and what fools we became, each one of us to the confession box of our friends visited willingly or not.

Where do you take a suit of armour riddled with holes as if made by the strongest acid to be repaired?

Some of these holes and dents are too big to restore, it may take years for the work to be done, if ever!

Now worn with much less shine, but scratched and scoured it has become over the years giving the wearer skill at avoiding sullied arrows.

It makes the wearer not disparaging or rueful, but yet wary that injury is ever close to hand.

And we are forever wishing for our hearts to become a shining target for those arrows with true flight to reach its mark.

Some pierce with strong intent, giving hope and fortitude in fertilizing the imagined years ahead.

Short lived are these arrows as they fall by the wayside, covering the battle field like stalks of corn.

Where breastplate was struck emotions now wear the hole, and loves experience grows ever greater.

As time slowly tortures my weary soul I pray for its swift end, and to be at peace from a fatal blow.

To ascend from this plane with sword at rest in my hand; to unsheathe it only in defence of being parted from love, or besmirched by insult or deed.

The armour of my youth how well thou hast served me, even if I did not use you at all well.

I’ve unbuckled this chastely garment, and cast it aside along the path I now tread, never to look back with anger or remorse.

I accept and take the wound of love, hoping that infection sets and grows devouring me completely.

No need now of this armour laying at my feet, as I walk hand in hand I see armour strewn around and abandoned, and my soul is forever heartened.    

 

Bar Keep

“Hang on there fella’s I’ll be with you real soon

Just trying to clear the dust from this room

What’ll ya have, or should I aim at a guess?

God, no matter how I try this place is always a mess

I got plenty ‘o’ beer that’s really not too cold

I got some new whiskey, and they say that it’s old

If it’s a long drink to quench the hard driven route

Or something stronger to cut the dust from the throat?

If a game of chance is what you really had in mind

You have a choice of many if you look behind

Got Cuban cigars if you have good taste

Not cheap like the others, full of paper ‘n’ paste

If you’re fresh from driving cattle to these here parts

A hot tub and a shave give’s you all a fresh start

The barkeep leans and gives a knowing wink

Some of these here gals don’t care for the stink

Could be your hungry all empty and hollow

We’ve a fine juicy stake that’s easy to swallow

Ya got any place to rest for the night?

Or will the jail house do just after the fight?

Can’t help but notice that fine gun on your hip

You after someone who gave you the slip?

There’s a fine corral at the edge of the town

Tends your horse real well for a dollar down

Gets cold of a night now some frost in the air

Go sit by the fire and pull up a chair

Don’t say much do ya, been a long time a walking?

Gun leaves leather, coin hits the bar now no ones talking”

Barkeeps eyes look down over barrel and chin

Into the face that’s wearing a grin

“Thanks barkeep we value the help and the drink

Guess your right about the mud and the stink”

 

Molly’s Green Eyes 

And Molly’s green eyes were shining, as her head hung back in the dance.

Her poor heart was now cruelly broken, and her mind was off in a trance.

She was spun on the floor by her partner, who clutched both her bodice and hand.

He leaned forward and spoke in her soft ear, “you’re the finest whore in the land.”

But she hadn’t the strength to fight him, or reject the words that he spoke.

And what he really wanted much later; amounted to more than a smoke.

The evening wore on with much drinking, as Molly assessed her poor plight.

Said “Lover let’s see what you’re made of, and how long you’ll last through the night.”

A quiet room was found with a candle and bed; ‘twas quickly entered like home.

“Oh lover please make your self cosy, while I tend to my hair with my comb.”

With the morning sunlight through the window, the man lay still and fulfilled.

But his throat lay wide and gaping, for this last night of passion had killed.

Now Molly’s green eyes were smiling, and with her anger and rage all spent.

Never more will I hear those dark words, no matter how spoken or meant.

I’ll save my green eyes for the next man, and hope his small measures are true.

You could have had these green eyes forever, now it’s time for me to forget you.