The old man sat on a boulder,
overlooking the river of words.
The great stream that flows
into the lake of lyrics and
on to the ocean of verse.

Looking out beyond the river
he could see his beloved garden.
The garden that had given him
inspiration to create the pictures
he painted with the river's  words.

As he looked out he saw
the bees among the flowers.
He watched the birds eat fruit
that grew abundantly on the trees
and gave shade to all the animals.

His gaze came back to the river.
He saw a girl child knitting melodies
from the words of the river.
Though many see the river of words
it is she to whom he gave the secret
of the source of the river.

For it is she who has the power
to weave the words into magic.
It is she who will pass the secret
to her children through the ages.
The old man smiles down upon her,
she is the child of the Ancient Poet.

© 19/12/2009

And so the girl child sat
knitting melodies beside
the great river of words.
Soon her songs were heard,
beyond the Lake of Lyrics
and the vast Sea of Verse.

The evening tide carried them
across oceans to foreign shores.
Field workers sang her songs
to children in their hovels.
They escaped the lips of scholars
in the great halls of learning.

The child became a woman,
and still she weaved the magic,
from the words of the river,
for the hearts of all who read them.
As she weaved she told the secret
to a child who knitted beside her.

Emerging from the womb of time
I heard her whisper to my heart.
I felt the great river in my being,
and I began to knit a melody.
I heard my soul sing with joy,
I am the child of an ancient poet.

© 30/12/2009

I try to grasp you,
I can but glimpse you,
hiding in the long shadows,
of a damaged mind.

For a fleeting second,
I feel I know you,
then I lose you again,
in the scramble.

I forage for a meaning,
a scrap of recognition,
a small fragment,
a piece of the gigsaw.

Each day more of you goes,
even though I struggle,
against the inevitable,
the spaces claim you.

Should the day come,
when I shall read this,
and sit there perplexed,
not knowing who wrote it.

(c) 5th October 2010

This is a story about Harry,
as told to me by his daughter.

Dad and I had spent the day in the park,
we had picniced and were packing our things up,
twilight had arrived and soon it would be dark,
Dad bent down and picked up his coat and hat,
he looked up at me and said "Look at that!"

I looked about but saw nothing strange,
"Poor blighter!" said Dad, in a quiet sort of way,
and the look in his eye, I saw Dad change.
A grubby old derilect was stummbling our way,
a life gone to waste, a soul gone astray.

Dad smiled at me, as the man stopped to seach in a bin,
"Have yer got any smokes?" He asked, with a grin.
"Why yes I have a full pack, bar one." I replied.
He took my full pack and emptied them out,
he repacked them, so there was only a dozen inside.

Dad took that packet of smokes and threw it into a bin.
We picked up our things and went on our way.
I glanced back and saw that derilect get his lottery win,
Saying to Dad "Why did you leave him the full pack?"
Dad said "Oh,  he would have known it was a 'set up'.
and I didn't want to embarrass him."

(c) 26th October 2010

He knew me when I was broken.
He steadied me when I stumbled,
He believed in me, he gave me hope,
when I had no belief and felt hopeless.

He stood me up when I fell down.
He was my friend when I was a stranger.
He held me together when I was falling apart.
He gave me the courage, to find my own courage.

As I was waiting to die, he gave me life,
He left me a better man than he found me.
He showed me the purpose for living was giving.
Each day I say a pray of thanksgiving.

For my mentor in life. A man called Harry!

(c) 26th October 2010