From 'The Diamond's Mine' to 'White Room Verses'

[Pete]

icicles, icicles
bicycles, bicycles
icicles, icicles
cycle on ice.

bicycles, bicycles
tricycles, tricycles
bicycles, bicycles
cycle by twice.

tricycles, tricycles
icicles, icicles
tricycles, tricycles
cycle by thrice.

cyclical, cyclical
cyclic and cyclical
icicle, icicle
ice by ice.

“Good grief! He’s losing the plot!” Bobbles was rightly concerned.
‘I quite like that’ thought Handy. He didn’t share this judgement with Bobbles though, he preferred that she retained her first impression.
One cuckoo tried to cuckoo as midnight arrived but an icicle on its beak resulted in a muffled sound of 'oooooo'. The other cuckoos didn't even try - their doors were frozen.
The fire in the grate was still struggling. An occasional flame offered occasional hope but the room was now decidedly cold.

[Pete]

I had a little brain cell
it liked to be alone
which wasn't very difficult
it was the only one at home.

“He’s definitely lost it. Sounds like he needs to get out more...... but it is funny, though,” laughed Bobbles.
Handy turned to Bobbles and cupped his hands around her smiling face.
“I love every single one of your brain cells.”
Bobbles gratefully accepted this compliment. She had never had her brain cells loved before.


The room warmed.

[Pete]

I can't hit the keys
I'm down on my knees
No printing of queues
Got them scroll bar blues.

I've searched and I've surfed
But nothing's unearthed
There's only old news
Got them scroll bar blues.

These scroll bar blues
They keep me amused
They freeze on the screen
The cursing stays mean.

The inbox lies bare
Sent items nowhere
I've paid all my dues
Got them scroll bar blues.

Tired of scrolling
Fingers not rolling
I've blown the last fuse
Got them scroll bar blues.

These scroll bar blues
They keep me amused
I prompt a delete
Sincerely
Yours
Pete.
“Hey! He’s singing dem blues!!” Bobbles started to sing along and bounce on the sofa. Handy joined in. Together they presented a melodic image of contentment and rapture...... although it might have been ‘rupture’...... the bouncing got a little bit out of hand.

[Pete]

With all the bouncing, coupled with the absence of icy poems, the room had warmed and the cuckoos had thawed. The fire was now flaming majestically as the two of them stopped their bouncing and re-snuggled on the sofa.

So many lines to take on board
To welcome and to greet
These sentences and captive words
Expensive and dirt cheap.

And now I find I'm looking back
At ones signed with a 'Pete'
Too many posts to keep on track
A thousand postings deep.

The aim is true, the aim is high
To contribute and reap
To be composed and not too shy
To laugh, to smile, to weep.

I haven't always joined the fray
And sometimes press delete
And frequently lose my way
A thousand postings deep.

And sometimes when I may be slow
And days turn into weeks
I trust that I can always show
A thousand postings deep.

But I'm still here to age some more
A millenium of posts to keep
Never needing to restore
This unassuming feat.

But if the 1000 doesn't move
Awake me from my sleep
And put me back into my groove
Another thousand deep.

And sometimes when I may be slow
And days turn into weeks
I trust that I can always show
A thousand postings deep.

“Hey, that sounds familiar,” prompted Handy.
“I prefer Leonard’s version. Kisses are better than postings,” teased Bobbles. And this tease worked very well indeed. Handy and Bobbles commenced their thousand kisses and, twelve minutes later, they lay exhausted. Handy looked at the cuckoo clocks.
“We were three minutes quicker than Jody and Johnny.”
Bobbles could not summon any energy reserves...... she was truly spent. “Next time we do a thousand kisses can we take it a bit slower?”
Handy make a mental note of this worthwhile criticism but vowed, one day, to break the ten minute barrier.

[Pete]

Take me down
take me down
take me down
to the night of the chords
to the lounging of verse
to the sirens above
no better, no worse
from the boat to the stalls
to the shelter and threat
from a nothing, a no-one
idling his bet
from the journey on high
racing hikers and strays
from the comforts and wise
to the platforms and haze
from the green and the blues
to the brick and the spires
the duplicate cars
the terraced male choirs.

take me down
take me down
take me down
to the girl and the grey
the court and the dance
to the folk and the stage
the gradient romance
from the top of the deck
a petticoat low
to the chef and his feast
to the hall and the quo
to my room, to my room
with an idol insane
scars on a portrait
one eye on the cane
the matchbox verandahs
counting their screams
of passion and music
of teachers in dreams

take me down from this mount
take me down from this view
take me down to the edge
of a life I once knew.

“I sense he experienced all of that.”
“I think you may be right.” Handy’s pensive front aligned itself to the poem.

[Pete]

I need to hold on
to my memories
before they go
before they are too slow
to surface.

I need to remember
the good times
and the bad
before they show
no signs
of aiding my past.

I need to return
to who I was
whilst I remember
who I was
and who I am.

I need to revisit
the experiences long gone
the episodes
and the scenes
and all in between.

I need to
before I am too old
and the lights grow dim
and the strain is too much

I need to hold on
to my memory
and tell those who care
and tell those who will care
for me.

I need to
otherwise
I will only mirror
the pity shown
and give nothing
in return.

I need to
remember.

This poem made Bobbles very sad and she shed a solitary tear...... a tear which froze as it trickled down her cheek.
“I’d better put that one with the other,” offered Handy. We might need it for later.
“Don’t mix it up with the other one. This is a sad tear...... the other one was a happy tear.”
“Maybe we should only keep the happy one?” Handy suggested.
“Maybe we keep it safe...... you never know.” Bobbles was being rightly cautious.
“There’s still one poem, Bobbles.”

[Pete]

I try to capture
the words for these lines
but there are no guarantees
that they are stolen
from a man
who has sentenced me
to forty years
of longing
I hear the master sing
but I try to leave
before he goes clear.
Sincerely,
P Needham.

“I wonder who influenced that poem?” asked Bobbles.
“You know very well it was Leonard. You can’t keep him out of a good book.”
Bobbles smiled sweetly.
“I wonder what’s he doing now he’s rid of his splinters?” Bobbles’ curiosity couldn’t be tempered.
“I expect he’s singing songs of love, hate and go-betweens.”
“It’s been a long day and an even longer evening, Handy. Let’s go to bed....... pleeeease!”
“Bobbles?”
“Yes, Handy?”
“There’s another book appeared on the bookshelf.”
Bobbles and Handy simultaeously squinted at the spine of the book.
“I’m too tired to get up. Can you see the title?” enquired Bobbles.
Handy added more squint.
“Between the Snowman and the Train.”
“Who’s it by?”
“That’s a silly question, Bobbles.”
“Let’s save it for a rainy day.”
“There’s lots of rainy days here in Scotland. Let’s save it for a sunny day.”
And they waited for a sunny day...... and they waited...... and they waited......


……and e v e n t u a l l y
…….a sunny day arrived.

Bobbles and Handy returned to the sofa and opened 'Between the Snowman and the Train'. The sun’s rays hit the first page at a shallow angle ....... the day was young. The illuminated words blossomed as anticipation heightened. Handy and Bobbles took the same deep breath. The continuation of the trilogy was about to commence.



...to be continued