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

[Pete]

She dreamed of stars
of moons and stars
shooting stars
and dreams.
She reached for skies
for clouds and skies
cloudless skies
and beams
of light so bright
ambitions bright
giving light
and streams
of dashing hope
undying hope
dying hope
it seems.

‘He’s reaching out for me!’ thought Bobbles....... quietly...... in her head...... all silent and hopeful.
‘He’s reaching out for her!’ thought Handy...... quietly, yet loud, in his head...... all troubled and desperate.
“Time for bed, Zebedee,” suggested Handy, with a hint of forced humour.
“Just one more poem....... pleeeeease.”
Handy had heard a long pleeeeease before, but that was in The Diamond’s Mine and that was only a book and this was for real. But just like Tryme succumbing to Paula at the bingo, Handy also succumbed...... but this wasn’t bingo, it was his future he was gambling with...... and at this moment in time the future looked dodgy.

[Pete]

The long pleeeease was abruptly interrupted by the cuckoos - all in perfect synchronisation with slightly distorted harmonies. Handy, with some trepidation, started to read the next poem.

The faith that surrounds
your beauty and my pleasure
it shines
it prescribes
the mercy of your measure.

The hope that emerges
from the contours of your smile
it soothes
it endures
the posture of your style.

The chastity of the moment
lies hidden from my touch
it blisters
it belies
the fragrance of your clutch.

“Right!...we’re going to bed!!!” Handy rose from the sofa, holding tight to Bobbles’ hand.
“Just one more!!” pleaded Bobbles. I won’t be able to sleep if we stop here.
Handy gambled with his emotions. He couldn’t risk losing his one true love to this old whippersnapper of a poet but, then again, one more poem might be Pete's undoing. He toppled back onto the sofa.

[Pete]

The silver tongued lady
pronounced her love to me
I did not hear
I moved to kiss her
"No tongues", she lisped
"No fear."
I asked her to hold me
she mouthed a reply
but the stud of the silver tongued lady
blinded my eye.

Handy knew that Bobbles did not have a silver stud in her tongue...... he had been there.
Bobbles knew, in that one short poem, that it was impossible to have more than one true love.
They embraced each amongst tears of joy and happiness and laughter.
“That was a funny poem! We’ve found a funny poem! I knew he wouldn’t let us down!” Handy rejoiced and turned immediately to the next offering.

[Pete]

The lady from Verona
spies my activity.
She fans the flames
of my hunger.
My appetite
erupts into a desire
to bequeath
what I have withheld.
This lady from Verona
demands the verse
that is mine.
I oblige.
I gladly oblige
for that is the option
that I choose for her.

“The lady from Verona??” Bobbles’ bliss was blissful. She knew, in that one poem, that this poet was just a common ladies’ man angling his poetry like a worm on a hook.
Handy smiled sweetly.

[Pete]

'Hey, Jo'
where are you?
A flickering screen
the bed unmade
Hendrix plays
Hendrix fades
'Hey, Jo'
where are you?
Have you fallen
from your grace?
no reflections
in your face
waiting for
incoming calls
writing prompts
upon the wall
'Hey, Jo'
where are you?
Mel Gibson
demanding time
a friend waits by
his ignored line
waiting for
the sculptured dance
waiting for
his only chance
to say
'Hey, Jo'
why are you
upside down
so far away?
'Hey, Jo'

“I wonder who Jo is?” asked Bobbles.
Handy dredged his conundrumical reserves. “It might be Jody...... she’s far far away and upside down. She’ll be too busy to answer him now she’s with Johnny.”
“But Jody’s a character in a book!! Pete can’t distinguish between fictiony and factualy.”
“Maybe Pete is just fictiony anyway,” added Handy, whose added comments were beginning to multiply.
Bobbles and Handy simultaneously questioned their respective existences...... but left their options open.

[Pete]

She leans to the window
her laptop on edge
searching for signals
precarious on ledge.

Equine and canine
sporting the field
images imprinted
visions appealed.

Inverted meadows
echo the waves
energies tranmitted
awaken the slaves.

Contact established
a balancing act
she's standing on tip toes
a briefly drawn pact.

“How many ladies does he have??”
“I think they’re all in his head, Bobbles.”
“I’m wide awake now, let’s keep going.”
And keep going they did. The cuckoos cuckooed. Bobbles and Handy kissed and cooed...... something that is difficult to describe yet easy to imagine. Back to the poems......

[Pete]

She hides her demur
evades every question
constructs her collusion
reforms her direction
engages no mercy
tirades the high stance
pleads her compassion
accepts no last chance
she counters displeasure with
satin and stain
invoking insistence
overtly no pain
no secrets, no passion, (no gain).

“It’s all going pear shaped,” rejoiced Bobbles.
“There’s a secret passion hidden in that poem, Bobbles.”
“I can’t see it. Where should I look?”
“Secret passions always start at the beginnings.”

[Pete]

Don't look at me with pity
Don't talk when I'm not there
Don't cry for your salvation
Don't say that I don't care.

The time you left
without your guilt
was not the route to take
no words were crossed
no arrows drawn
your honesty was fake.

Why did you boast
of sated acts?
Why did you tease my calls?
Why did you shout
of conquest highs
that echoed through my walls?

Don't look at me with pity now
Don't talk when I'm not there
Don't cry for your salvation
Don't say that I don't care.

You sensed suspicion
through my eyes
It mirrored the deceit
I judged your ego, tossing coins
to reason how to cheat.

What did you mean?
You played my scene
then ran from mock applause.
What did you hear?
I tried to clear
the moment with my straws.

You chose the long
I drew the short
I asked for best of three
The smile you screened
was a smile not seen since
I became you became me.

I chose the long
left you the short
one more for third of three
and the smile you gleamed
was a smile not seen since
I became you became me.

The final straw that you seduced
was long, so long, so free
and the smile I shared
showed how I once cared when
I became you became me.

“Does this one have a happy ending?” Bobbles always liked happy endings.
“I’m not sure. I think he’s just moving on. It sounds like his ladies have turned away.”
Bobbles and Handy were now fully immersed in the book. They were starting to interpret the poems cohesively and jointly - this was comforting, yet slightly perturbing. The poems were infiltrating their senses and surrounding. Closing the book now was not an option.

[Pete]

This prayer that I bring
to those who deceive
is one I won't sing
is one I won't leave.

This prayer that I speak
to those who incite
is one for the meek
surrendering the fight.

This prayer that I offer
to those who betray
their numberless lovers
all losing their way.

This prayer that I give
to those who are blind
is one that will live
in temples of kind.

This prayer that I write
whilst canvessing souls
turns dark into night
and tears into coals.

This prayer on my wing
it carries me through
to those who will bring
this prayer that is you.

This prayer that is you
salvation it brings
it carries me through
it strengthens my wing.

“He’s resorting to prayer now. I wonder who he’s praying to?” Bobbles was rightly inquisitive.
Handy had already prayed silently. His prayers had been answered.

[lizzytysh]

You're writing beautifully, again, Pete.
Your sequel progresses well .


~ Lizzy

[Pete]

"What did you say?"
"I said that he's resorting to prayer," replied Bobbles.
"No - you said something after that. Something about the sequel progressing well."
"You're hearing things, Handy."
Handy was sure that he was not mistaken, but then again he did notice that the gentle breeze outside was gentle no more. The door, although locked to the outside world, was becoming restless in its frame. The window catches were tapping random harmonies. The open fire spat it's dancing embers. Maybe the room had spoken to him. He didn't want Bobbles to think that he was going all cuckoo.
"Let's read the next poem," Handy quickly suggested.
Bobbles rested her head on Handy's shoulder - listening to the poem whilst also keeping an ear out for the voices in his head.

The chains that link
these words and rhymes
are chains that can resist
the lure of easy offerings
of verses that persist.
Those who read,
and read once more,
the maladies that transpire
from a poet who meanders
between egos
and midnight choirs.

“He’s having maladies now.” Bobbles’ sympathetic stance did not go unnoticed.
“.....and he’s meandering,” added Handy.

[Pete]

I'd gamble with
many a soap opera
that came to mind
but I'm not the kind
to let free
these real-life fantasies
for they may find
an eating place
within me.

“Oh,Oh. He’s gambling with his mind,” Bobbles and Handy both said synchronisatically. This poetry book was cementing their union.

[Pete]

sounds like
sounds
like sounds
like
echoes like
echoes
like echoes
that
sound
alike
that sound
alike
that echo
like
echoes
that
echo
alike
and sound
and sound
resound
and sound
like
sounds
and sounds
and sounds
like
echoes

“I can hear those echoes.”
“So can I,” said Handy.
“So can I,” echoed Bobbles.
“So can I,” echoed Handy.

[Pete]

Eternal winter
fossil souls
dormant hope
ancient tolls
seasons fall
landscapes white
landscape bleak
horizon blight.

Eternal winter
frosted pains
brittle chambers
echoed stains
hollow graves
bodies still
lying promise
blanket chill.

Eternal winter
gasping snow
drifting sun
lunar flow
creaking water
tired wars
empty breeds
dying cores.

Eternal winter
splintered cross
wafer ice
hallowed loss
god absconds
jesus weeps
mandate prayer
eternal sleep.

Handy gazed around the room. He noticed a thin, wispy icy mist swirling around the cuckoo clocks. He blinked, in case his vitreous floaters were on the move again - but the icy mist continued to swirl. Bobbles shivered. The temperature in the room had dropped. Handy placed more logs on the open fire.

[Pete]

Tell me that you feel the cold
shiver just for me
tell me that the blackened flesh
is frostbite that I see
tell me that the icy wind
penetrates your skin
tell me that the frost inside
is permanent within
tell me that the driving snow
engulfs your shallow heart
tell me that your blood runs cold
tell me from the start
look into my eyes once more
tell me that you'll try
to freeze the untold memory
of the moment when you die.

The shiver cascaded down Bobble’s back, which permeated through to Handy. The cuckoos fell silent as they froze on their perches. The open fire struggled in its quest to offer flames and warmth.
“This must have been his dark period,” suggested Bobbles.
“Or his cold period.”