The Labyrinth of my Mind

Wandering through the labyrinth of my mind, savouring the
emotions of yesterdays journeys.
Looking back at times passage, wondering how it escaped me.
A silent assassin, its flow eluding my notice, while carelessly,
I spent my youth.

The past is not my future, but I will remember it well, while
wandering down the road to the rest of my life.
Now it'��s onwards into the land, where new memories are forged
on the anvil of life, "��Welcomed, like long lost friends."��

R

Brown Spots

Brown the spots long in the making, come to hand.
Quietly remembered the like on another. Strange the
familiarity of that hand, a boy sitting at the side of his
Gran; now an old man, see its replica. Smiles and
eases his aching bones.

R

Peter Pan

I knew you were going to ask me, what I remembered of my
dreams.
Well, I know I want to live in one of them, you are welcome
too, but, please don'��t ask me which.

I know this will frustrate you; but you know I am totally
random; and you did ask me. I don'��t know, should I ?

My not knowing worries me. Perhaps we should dream
again.
I can fly in mine. I know you'��re afraid of heights, but if you
took my hand; maybe, just maybe, you could fly too.

Who Tolls the Bell Calls the Tune


A fierce sun dipped down from the zenith. Headlong it dives beneath the waves.
I reluctant to see its back; feel the ache of it'��s loss.
Brown the spots of the incurable come to hand, quietly without haste I will succumb.
Forced to bend the cracking knee. I will go the way of all.
I plot and scheme to fill the life, but the spilled years do not feel the loss, or mourn their passing.
The light has fallen as it must; weariness eases the way.
Dawn and dew the twilight comes, the call unbidden must be met.
Vibrations weaken, another must pluck the string; ripples made anew.

A murder of raucous crows, chaos'd the stand
of leafless trees.
Stark boughs creaking, groaning; told winter was upon us.
A blinding, low setting sun; a prelude to stars
twinkling in deep purple skies,
transiting that infinite stygian wilderness.

I kicked the dirt with well worn boot, no give there,
non expected.
Frost hits hard this time of year; biting at nails, steaming breath.
Dripping nose ceased its sporadic dribbling.
Eyes seeking a homely light, gave rise to thoughts of log fires.

Sheila'��s Dad

I'��m here he whispers
And I feel a butterfly touch against my skin

His cobwebbed hat hangs forgotten on the wall
Decaying boots expectant by the door
Spade and hoe tumbled by the chair

Through the handkerchief panes I glimpse
The memory of my father
Taking one last stroll around his beloved garden

R

Ragnarok

A plethora of stars gleamed and winked in the black lacquered sky. An unheard mesmeric voice whispered to me of legend and ancient dreams. Of bulls and swans and mighty deeds,
of bears and ploughs, beasts and men, and strange things, the like of these.
Heavens, the Hades, of warring Gods. The stars the campfires of great hosts. An archer knocks his bow. The tormented one rattles his chains. The Asa the Vana sunder the night. Ragnarok, doom of the gods. Runes are cast; fates have spoken. Men will die; "��Ever was
it so."��
Empty benches in doom laden halls, silent, waiting; mead to flow cup and horn.
Dogs whine and slaver, bite at their wounds, wolves howl and snarl at a bleeding moon. Swordslain sing death'��s song, wailing, gnashing their teeth. Maidens rend their flesh.
Bards lamenting the fallen, chant dirges to the dead. Burning pyres, entrance to the halls.
But there in the void, the stygian darkness, a malevolence, an ancient foe; "��Cast down at last,"�� flees from the my frenzied gaze; I the "��All seeing, Odin one eye."��
Let the Battledead approach my hall for I have spent their lives; even in great need, but none fell unseen, none unmarked. They have been tempered in fire. Let them feast and sup as is the wont of those who come sword in hand. They, and they only shall sit at my benches.
The mead to flow cup and horn, for the shieldwall is thirsty work, and drinks men greedily.
Of those who fled, let them vie with the dogs and wolves for meat and drink, till their shame drives them from this place of warriors, and mortal men forget their names, and sing no songs of them.
But what of the foe skulking in the void? let not Gods or men forget them. There they wait licking their wounds, festering their hatred. Aye, be warned lest warriors of great renown cease to be vigilant and the foe come upon us again, out of the stygian darkness.

No I'm Aries.

R

Wild Magic

Ribbons in the hair,
this quintessential flight of fancy;
purveyed her wares with an outrageously vibrant,
"��Joy of life."��

St Nicks, the old Black Gate and Castle Keep;
"�� The stage, where her infectious laughter,
became an intoxicating spell."��

"��The enchanted"�� bought her flowers,
trying to capture that elusive magic.
Little did they know, never did they guess;
"��Wondrous wild magic, lay not in the flowers,
but in the seller."��

R

I Wonder

I wonder, words that make the world go round. I
could never stand still and do like to jump about
a bit, so my plough hardly busts the sod

Sometimes wish it were not so, but then I would
be someone else.

I wanted to know everything but found out I knew
nothing, but wisdom begins in wonder so that'��s a
decent place to start. Maybe I'��ll study, but probably
not. I'��ll walk around and take it in without even knowing,
tumbleweed style.

I do admire these studiers but I want a game of golf.

I'��ll have my little diversion, then start to follow my
nose again. Wish I could make my mind up but
know I never will. I do like to wander or think about
the new. Change I embrace gladly with fingers often
burnt. I do things naturally but well wishers want me
to study.

Bless their academic souls .

I'��m like a bloody electron I want to be everywhere all
at once, but when I get there I find I'��m nowhere.
Confusing? Yeah. I'��m good at some things but not
a master, just won'��t do the work they want me to do

Still its not their fault its mine!.

My mind jumps about like a grasshopper with his arse
on fire, so what chance have they got?
Don'��t look at me, I'��m not going to give them one and
maybe it just doesn't matter!

Perhaps the wonder of wondering is...

R

A Child

A child has much to learn, but infinitely more to teach.
To learn their lessons, become a child again, I mean
we are not young enough to know everything. So I often
ask my grandson for advice, and I do find the benefit
of his inexperience helpful.

R

The Puits de Mons

Exploring picturesque rural lanes in France, I occasionally came across the Cure'��s goat.
He always looked at home, taking his ease in the shade of an old well. Now I'��m good at
acting the goat, as well as being an old one, so naturally we got on well, "��No pun intended."��
His English was pretty good and we soon fell to talking. He said his name was Billy and I
thought, what a coincidence. Then he started to tell me about the "��Puits de Mons."��
A "��Magic well" by his account and that "��barmicide"�� goat Billy said, that if I placed a silver
coin into its mystical waters I would be granted a wish. I thought he was "��Kidding, butt,"��
you never know with goats, and who am I to argue with a Frenchman in his own land. It
was then I spied a corpulent cleric approaching. I guessed it to be the Cure'��, after all Billy
was his goat. I greeted the cleric; told him what had been said and asked if it were true.
A strange look came over his face, and in a heavily accented English; not as good as
Billy'��s, he asked how on earth I could have had a conversation with a goat? Well I must
admit when you think about it, it is hard to believe, and I felt fool and totally embarrassed.
So in for a penny in for a pound, I quick as a flash I threw a silver coin into the well...!

Now that I'��m home I must admit I do miss that goat and our conversations?

Riley

Mo, L.L'A's book taught me to speak of what I'd seen, which in this
case was rural France.

" M" thank you very much. Where you live would have helped you
understand exactly what I was writing about. I am continually trying
to live in the , "moment" and hear, see etc., what is going on around
me.

Bill

Who am I

Perhaps the gentle breeze;
a zephyr carrying the smell of woodsmoke
on a winter'��s morn. The whisper of tyres on a distant road.

The crack of dawn;
bringing first light, gently awakening you from sleep;
rushing meltwater tumbling down a mountain side.

Tyrrhenian blue skies;
echoing with the greeting cries of aerial hunters;
gladdening your ears, smiling your lips, lighting your eyes.

Maybe that distant,
indistinct figure who raises a friendly hand
as we, ploughing our lonely furrow, pass like ships at sea.

A taste of red,
enjoyed while being fascinated by mesmeric
dancing flames of a log fire, in a grande Maison. Ah, "�� La Belle."��

I may not be,
any of these things, but I have; tasted felt, seen,
all of them; they are part of me, and you are welcome to share them with me.

R

That is a classic of the mans wisdom, nearly each line a notable
quotation.

Thank you Mo and Taz. I've tinkered with it again but not by
much. By the way I'm not 6'1".

My latest is a compilation of the pearls of wisdom written by
a man I greatly admire: L L'Amour, who strangely did not think
of doing so himself. They easily join together, which is great.
His Biography ;Education of a wandering man, is a constant companion.

Riley

The unwritten poem of the Wandering Man

"��Too often I have heard men boast of the miles covered
in a day, rarely of what they had seen.
The trail is the thing, not the end of the trail."��

"��Travel too fast, and you miss all you are traveling for.
All men look, but so few can see. It'��s all there, hidden in
plain sight, just waiting for any passerby to take note of."��

"��Few of us ever live in the present. We are forever anticipating
what is to come or remembering what has gone."
"��Today is all we have, tomorrow is a mirage that may
never become reality."��

"��We are, finally, all wanderers in search of knowledge.
Most of us hold the dream of becoming something better
than we are, something larger, richer, in some way more
important to the world and ourselves."��

"��The roads to knowledge are many and winding and sadly,
to some, time only brings age not wisdom. Too often, the
way taken, is the wrong way, with too much emphasis on
what we want to have, rather than what we wish to become."��

R
P.P. Louis L'��Amour

Little Eddie'��s Diary

Eddie was four feet eleven in his highest heels. That did not
mean that he was not a big man. No, nothing about him was
small, a character and larger than life was our "��Little Eddie."��
"��The caretaker,"�� of the Literary & Philosophical Society, after
all.
The Soc. was founded in 1793 by influential men of the City
as a discussion chamber, which ran smoothly with not too
many disagreements or fights. Not that Eddie would have
allowed any of that, "�� in his Lit & Phil."��
Later the library came into being, which made it the perfect
haven to have a quiet chat, a read; escape cares and woes,
or just to get away from the wife.
Eddie was truly at home in the Lit & Phil., he really loved the
place, which was just as well because it was a big job.
Brasses shone like mirrors, woodwork polished to perfection.
Yes, Eddie could have been a Regimental Sergeant Major,
if he were to be judged by the quality, and attention to detail of
his work, and perhaps his strict-ish demeanour.
He had a big heart, and a big diary, in which he recorded the
days events religiously.
Talking of religion. Twice a week, without fail, Eddie would
go for lunch with the Nuns, who doted on him, and he them.
Birthday, Xmas pressies were exchanged till his death; "��but
that'��s another story."��
The comings and goings of the Lit & Phil'��s; "��Hoi Polloi,"�� and
of course "��Senatorial class."�� All came under Eddie"��s scrutiny;
with not much escaping him, and his meticulously kept diary.
The eccentrics and their foibles seemed to fascinate him.
Like the elderly lady he called, "��Little Miss Field Mouse."
Ever watchful, "��little Miss,"�� darted about, seemingly fearfully,
flitting from bookcase to bookcase, peeking into various books;
specs miraculously perched on the tip of her nose.
Kenneth Graham eat your heart out.
"��Ah,"�� the tales of the Riverbank that diary could tell.
The characters that would be revealed. But all kept secret;
except in colourful, amusing anecdotes, told by Eddie'��s great
friend and confident, our lovely gregarious tea lady, Pauline.
Who Eddie incidentally, tongue in cheek, often called, "��Little un."��
Then there'��s me of course, all six foot one of me, who apart
from wolfing down the exquisite ginger snaps, remains the;
unashamed, villainous, "��full member,"�� who stole the diary after
little Eddies death!

Riley

The old ones are the best, but a good tail

Hi Mo, I meant I stole the diary (in the story which I did not.)
And another slight ambiguity is the "little Un," who
is in fact is our lovely tea lady. She is a fountain of past
information, who told me about Eddie and other characters,
hence the story.

R
P.S I wonder too where his Diary ended up