Hot House Flowers…


Can a ‘bad’ man turn ‘good’?

Or the sinner become a saint?

The annals of religious science are littered with such ‘miracles’.

Yet the capacity to fast and feast…

Seek solitude or egregore…

To abstain and fully participate…

Are common to us all.

That we choose to focus our intent upon one or the other

does not alter the fact that in a seasonal cycle

each and all, at one time, or another, are perfectly natural states.


Born under punches?…


Could the Norse ever let go of Thunder?

Given that quality leads in and quantity leads out…

Can Man relinquish sex as a value system?

Unike those spirited ‘barbarians’ of the extreme northern climes,

primitive faith has never clung to its Gods…

Primitive faith is sacrifice, pure and simple: a heiratic exchange.

Unfortunately, Modern man lacks both the finesse of mind and the depth of humour to apprecite the ‘Gesta Romanorum’ of presenting to the world this idea as a ‘God of the Cross’.

Such fearsome boldness sailed over the heads of the masses whose mentality saw only the gruesome suffering and had no real tongue for the inevitable triumph of light.

 But, what might this language of light look and sound like?

Well, it would be painless, certainly…



The Human Soul…


…No mere forest this, but a jungle!

Foolish to venture in alone.


One would be eaten alive.

Far safer to mount an expedition.

An advertisement should suffice…

‘Only the bravest adventurers need apply.’

What, no takers?

Non whatsoever…

In which case, alone, it’ll have to be,

It’s as well you’re the curious sort….

On these days

Sun in Gemini

On Days thisAAFinal

On this day

A meagre seven years ago

I woke to find you gone

A day premature

Just the nursing angel in your hand

The phone receiver in mine

Now, at these times

I picture you in your old shop

Happy to leave your kitchen

For shop’s bell, whose call

To seek but not always to find

Mattered little, but sharing chat did

Then, happier, returning to your TV

On these days

I miss you most

The simple routine of your day

Grown golden in my mind

Only seven years ago

And a million miles away

©Copyright Stephen Tanham

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One size fits all?

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

Breaking the Mould, by sculptor Andrew Mckeown Breaking the Mould, by sculptor Andrew Mckeown

I had to chuckle at the emotions that flitted across my son’s face. He even managed to continue his sentence without a blink, yet the whole internal ‘did she just say that?’ conversation was written in a millisecond across his face

Have you ever noticed how it is with children, no matter what their age, when a subject comes up that they really, really do not want to associate with their parents? Sex is a good one, as parents have, quite obviously never indulged in ‘that type of thing’ and, according to my eldest son, his was an immaculate conception. Anything else cannot be contemplated. He was actually born of roses, but that is a whole other story….

We had been talking about talent and sculptors and he’d mentioned artists working from life. I repeated what I’d said…

“I did some life modelling.”

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Spring cleaning the bookshelf…

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

Quite where any adventure really begins is a matter for debate. When you are writing a story, it begins with that ‘once upon a time’ moment and the first words on the page. In ‘real life’, you can trace it back, and yet further back, looking at the chain of events that bring you to a given moment… but you can never go back and change a thing. Thankfully, with a book, you can do just that.

A few years ago, Stuart France and I began an adventure. It had taken a lifetime to bring us to that moment where everything began to get weird enough to fall into place. Like the scattered pieces of a jigsaw, the experiences and things we had learned throughout our lives only started to reveal their hidden story when we put them together and became, ourselves, pieces of the picture. Even so, without the…

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