Little Eddie'��s Diary

Eddie was four feet eleven in his biggest heels. That did not
mean that Eddie was not a big man. No, nothing about Eddie
was small.
Eddie was the caretaker of the Literary & Philosophical Society
and 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 perfection, and attention to detail
of his work.
He had a big heart, and a big diary, which he filled in religiously
every day of his life.
And talking of religion, Eddie did love to go for his lunch twice
a week, without fail, 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, "��Hoi Polloi,"�� and of course the top
men. All came under Eddie'��s scrutiny, with not much escaping
him, and even less his diary.
The eccentrics and their foibles were of special interest. Like
"��Little Miss Field Mouse,"�� he called her; who darted fearfully,
or it would seem, from bookcase to bookcase, peeking into
various books, with specs miraculously perched on the tip of
her nose.
"��Ah,"�� the tales that diary could tell. The characters that could
have been revealed. But, all kept secret accept in amusing
colourful anecdotes, told by the, "��Little un,"�� and me of course,
the still unknown member, who stole the diary after his death!

R

Mr Wilson & Miss Adidas

Mr Wilson and Miss Adidas got together in a strange old way.
A careless kick, a misplaced throw, neither of which was their
fault. Some would say; "��bounce of the ball or rub of the green."��

It was the river actually, well that was after they'��d gone through
a net with a hole in it, over a hedge, and of course everything
runs down to the sea, even rivers.

Both of them often got caught up in the life of the river. Toing and
froing, or just plain meandering. It has to be said that this was not
entirely their fault. In fact a lot of hot air has been talked about
this, when in fact, hot air was to blame in the first place, so to
speak.

I was sitting upstairs in a riverside cafe, which was a great vantage
point, when I first saw Mr Wilson. Flashing upriver on a high tide,
he raced past like a jet skier. I thought, "��show off,"�� but then he is
a film star, and I really envied his pace; nice tan too.

Miss Adidas I'��d seen often. She liked to take her time, looking at
shops and peering into cafes. Don'��t think she'��d seen me, or maybe
she just ignored my stares. Anyway this day she had not been looking
where she was going, and there she was; snagged up in the woodwork
of the high Level bridge.

There was nothing I could do, but seeing Mr Wilson rapidly approaching;
It was apparent that he had every intention of rescuing the damsel in
distress. Not that Miss Adidas looked at all concerned. Sure enough
Mr Wilson arrived, and I have to say, "��did not stand on ceremony."��
Bong, he crashed into Miss Adidas, bing, and they were both free.

I had to admire that Wilson's style. Just back from his adventures in
the south seas, and here he was bobbing away with the local sports
star, Miss Adidas. Well who would have believed it, and I wonder if
Mr Ashley knows?

R

And Coffee is only a Euro

In the sandy Pueblo of El Rocio,
there'��s a little cafe from where you can see wild
horses roaming freely on a marshy estuary.

An ancient arboreal colossus
dominates a medieval courtyard, providing a
shady ambiance, cooled by gentle zephyrs from the Ocean.

A place where two pilgrims
in life'��s rich pageant, could shoot the breeze
while enjoying a little of what they fancy.

The sun setting over the estuary,
is the prelude to the evenings deep purple skies,
twinkling, with the lights from stars and galaxies.

The "��Universe,"�� a sight to touch anyone'��s "��Butterfly."��

R

Me, my Son and Pop

Often I dreamt of meeting my father under the boughs
of an old gnarled oak.
We would sit, talk things over, often disagreeing.

Perhaps he was trying to make up for leaving;
I was still young when he left. Looking back I'��m glad
he did, sad to say, but the truth will out, and there'��s no point trying to lie.

He told me of things he regretted, I understand now
and I'��m glad I can say that. I won'��t stand in
judgement of the "��Old man,"�� he is perfectly capable of doing that himself.

I'��m getting on now and I'��ve tried to be a good father. I'��ve
told my sons about their Grandad and of course about the
tree, so if they ever want to talk things over, that'��s where me and pop will be.

R

Clearing the Garden Shed

"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

S.N.

Sitting and waiting for some vague happening;
thoughts occurred that a lifetime could be day
dreamed away.
Finding tomorrow was yesterday; would shake
the dust, make you jump about a bit.
Failure is an option, but to fail to try;
"��Who knows."��
Perhaps happiness is all a bit of luck, "��A fair wind,
calm seas."��
Maybe if you think you can; or think you can'��t;
"��you'��d probably be right."��

R

Yes I know all of that, and may I say all you have said is pretty obvious to most of us on here. Notwithstanding that. I wish you
"Bon voyage" on your single handed travels
R

The sweet cool of the morning, hidden in the mist till the gleam of
dawn heralds the rising sun.
Rays burning aside the last vapors, shares warmth and joy.

Concealed, the sun at its zenith caresses our bodies,
but allows no shadow.
Trees give dappled shade, shimmering, confusing the senses.

Evening shadows reach out, searching the stillness.
Lengthening sunlight flares a red sky.
Time to rest to dream, and wait for the return of the light.

R

Anyone can make enemies,
and easily.
But the worst kind
are those that masquerade as your friend.

R

The time has come the Walrus said...
The past is not your future; so when you look back,
put a smile on it all and look forward.
R

Liked it, seemed to resonate. Well done

R

Cheers Tazz

I wrote a book to help grandma/grandpa answer the questions children
ask. Here are a couple to help you out.

Q Why is the sky blue?
A No you can't have an ice-cream.

Q where was I before I was born?
A You should have gone while you were there.

Hope this helps out, and here's a little poem to help you with your writing


A Bad Liar?

I'��m the worst kind of liar you could imagine.
I mean half the lies I tell aren'��t true. To give you an
example my grandson asked me, "��Grandad why is
the sky blue?"�� I said in reply, "�� No you can'��t have an
ice cream."�� He seemed happy with that, so I changed
my mind and bought an ice cream. It was really tasty.

R

Cheers Tazz

Ragnarok

I saw a mesmeric of stars gleaming in the night sky.
An unheard voice whispered to me of legends and ancient
dreams.
Of bulls and swans and mighty deeds, of bears and
ploughs, beasts and men. Many strange things, the like
of these.
The 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 are sealed. Men will die;
"��Will of the gods."��
Empty benches in great halls, silent, waiting; mead to flow
cup and horn. Dogs whine and slaver, wolves howl at the
reddening moon.
Ranks of swordslain sing death'��s song, wailing, gnashing of
teeth. 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 by the "��All seeing, Odin one eye,"��
his frenzy replete.

An old and Ancient God

I saw a mesmeric of stars gleaming in the night sky.
An unheard voice whispered to me stories of ancient
dreams.
Of bulls and swans and mighty deeds, of bears and
ploughs, and all such things as these.
The heavens, the Hades of warring Gods, the stars
the campfires of their hosts.
A tortured spirit tossed and turned; an aerial hunter
knocked his bow. The Asa and Vana sundered the
night.
Many seats would be filled in great halls, mead to flow
cup and horn. Dogs bark at their passing,
wolves howled at the moon.
Fields of slain to fill the bards songs. Crows hop and
peck at gutted corpse, heads roll on blood slicked
grass.
Maids weep as many passed, but there in the void,
an old and ancient god, Odin One eye on his seat,
gorged with souls, his frenzy replete.

The little gray Car

I saw an empty car parked on a high bridge;
patrol cars cluttered around it. Men in black
peered down to the below, while the traffic
backed up increasingly.

A queue jumper, and a bridge jumper or just
some simpleton gone for a walk? But I think
not. The little gray car stood still and forlorn,
a bit player in a tragedy.

I said a prayer for the poor unfortunate man
or woman; the sadness felt, a story I would
never know. Then I thought of the little gray
car; ignored, still and forlorn.

R

Ditto to you both.

Thank you both. I like to try different ideas
R

Take the mask Away

There are parts of the madness masquerading as people.
Self at their centre; "�Legends in their own minds?"��
We blink in and out of their existence, as we carousel to
nowhere, and sometimes back again.

A flicker on their periphery, a smudge on a windowed sky.
Perhaps a bit of road kill; a plain old biodegradable cost cut,
to fit the overall plan. Now do you get the picture, yes the
one that you'��re not in?

I know this is not going to please you, but how can you say
they'��re wrong? You realise there'��s no place for you, well
maybe on the downsize plan. But that's�� not going to feed you,
and anyway, "who are you?"

R