The humble horse so revered in Central Asia,
transport, play mate, friend, and food.
So much more than just an animal,
worth more than just it’s bill of goods.
A life style and life giver,
for those who make their living on the steppe.
A rugged brutal country,
which can break the will of man,
Without the humble horse,
so much harder to survive…
Beshbermak, a carb and protein attack,
made for hard living horsemen,
working hard out on the steppe.
Each family their own version,
handed down through generations,
lamb, horse even venison,
all made with love and affection.
The first true taste of Kazakhstan,
that wonderful country on the Silk Road,
which stands so tall and proud,
in the heart of Eurasia…
The humble salty herring,
silver darling of the sea,
caught in net and barrel,
Served fresh to you and me.
Seafood provided by the ocean,
is good if fished sustainably.
Lessons learned, mistakes not repeated,
the modern fisherman believes,
so we eat the seafood harvest,
fresh and tasty on our plate.
And thanks’ to all of the fisherman,
working hard to feed the mouths,
of men women and children,
of those brave souls,
we should be proud…
The Khan of Khan’s out riding the steppe,
in fear for their lives his rivals wept.
Fierce and determined he mowed them down,
world domination the aim, his jewel and crown.
A fearsome empire stretched half the globe,
powered by the silk road if truth be told.
From central Asia he ruled the world,
outwardly his view point turned.
Onwards and upwards to greater things,
today if you are central Asian you must be related to him.
The Khan of Khan’s Genghis is his name,
millennia later his name still brings fame.
The industry I love is slowly dying,
my dream since boyhood is wasting away,
a rusted out hulk seen its share of better days.
Still an honor to be there in its dying days,
working to preserve the shell thats left,
the burning embers, which we might save yet.
An industry with not quite one foot in the grave,
times change and technology moves us forward,
nothing can keep up with the slow march of time.
To think that we saw the glory days,
the champagne and starlight,
the money and fame.
Gives something to hold onto,
stories to tell to a younger generation,
of an industries fame,
where the fires burned brightly,
then cooled to a simmer.
Not so long ago we all thought,
we were onto a winner,
for years the predictions had been of the end,
but the old girl kept going,
another road, another bend,
till instead of the tunnel,
there’s just a wall at the end.
Writing for thought - expanding creativity through the joy of writing 