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I've written a sort of interlude which sort of 'follows on' from 'The Diamond's Mine' in readiness for a possible sequel to 'The Diamond's Mine'.
I'll post it in stages leading up to Christmas....... here goes.....


Pete

“Bobbles?”
“Yes, Handy?”
“I think everyone thinks the book has finished.”
“Well, it has, hasn’t it?”
“I think it has, but you have a frozen solitary tear trickling down your cheek.”
“Oh dear.”
“Oh dear. Oh dear.”
“Tell you what; I’ll place it safely inside the crowing cuckoo clock.”
“Why there?”
“We may need it for emergencies. The crowing cuckoo brought us together and it will be safe there.”
And Handy leant towards Bobbles and gently brushed the frozen solitary tear into his palm. He then placed a gentle kiss on her cheek and smiled sweetly. The ‘smiling sweetly’, at which Bobbles was very adept, was now infectious. Handy walked over to the cuckoo clock that crowed, opened the door to the innards, and placed the frozen solitary tear on a safe ledge.
“Thank you, Handy.” Bobbles smiled even more sweetly...... not sickly...... just more sweetly. Bobbles had always vowed never to smile sickly, ever since the aborted, second incident with the maple syrup.
Handy stepped back from the cuckoo clock that crowed and he stared quizzically at the wall, adjacent to the clock.
“Bobbles?”
“Yes, Handy?” Bobbles was patient with her reply.
“I didn’t realise that I actually had a bookshelf!”
“You mean the bookshelf next to the clock with the crowing cuckoo?”
“Yes, that one there!” Handy pointed inquisitively at the aforementioned bookshelf. “The Diamond’s Mine fell from that bookshelf and I didn’t have a bookshelf there before The Diamond’s Mine fell from it. Come to think of it, I didn’t have a book called The Diamond’s Mine.”
“This is all very, very strange. You’re scaring me now,” trembled Bobbles, her more sweetly smile now eroding.
Handy needed to feel brave. His previously fluttering heart was now starting to splutter. “I’m getting a little confused. The book appeared out of nowhere and we were both in it.”
“You’re getting confused? What about me?” Bobbles started to shed a few fearful tears...... not solitary tears, as there were more than one...... and they didn’t freeze.
Handy returned to the sofa and cuddled Bobbles. He grabbed the hem of his kilt and reached upwards to dry her eyes.
“Don’t do that!” warned Bobbles. “I’ll use my own hankie, thank you very much.”
Handy quickly realised the error of his action. His blushing helped warm his southerly parts.
“Bobbles?”
“Yes, Handy?” sighed Bobbles.
“There’s another book on the bookshelf!”
Bobbles screamed, and screamed some more.
“How long has that one been there?”
Handy scratched the back of his head with one hand and smoothed his kilt with the other.
“It wasn’t there when I returned The Diamond’s Mine.”
Bobbles screamed and screamed some more, more.
“Now I’m going to wet myself!”
Handy grabbed the hem of his kilt, but fortunately the scratching of the back of his head had prompted a little voice to whisper, “are you sure you ought to follow your instinct?” Handy had heard this little voice before. Sometimes his instinct had been louder than this little voice but, on this occasion, the little voice triumphed. Handy’s southerly parts remained warm.
The screams slowly diminished before drying up. Bobbles didn’t wet herself. It was just a cry for help....... phew!
“I’m OK now. Go get the book, Handy.”
Handy walked tentatively to the bookshelf...... the one that wasn’t there before...... and reached for the book...... the one that wasn’t there before. He returned to his place, next to his one true love...... the one that wasn’t there before.
“What’s it called?” asked Bobbles, now calm and smiling a little sweetly.
“White Room Verses.”
“That sounds like a poetry book.” Bobbles was now becoming intrigued. Her woolly jumper tingled with apprehension.
“It’s not a hefty book at all. In fact, it looks like we could read this together now and still get a good night’s sleep.” Handy’s kilt remained calm.
“Who’s it by?”
“You won’t believe this. It’s by the same bloke who wrote The Diamond’s Mine!”
“Pete? He gets everywhere. Not only did he write The Diamond’s Mine, he was in it as well!! And he sent me to taxi Paula back home after the bingo!”
“So it looks like he’s written some poetry...... hope it’s got some funny bits in it!”
The cuckoo clocks all stood to attention. The room was bathed in a warm glow of anticipation. Bobbles and Handy snuggled up even more and slowly turned the first pages of White Room Verses.

White Room Verses

This white room
is all I have
tonight.
It reflects.
It contains.
It echoes the remains
of my poetic attempts
tonight.
This white room
is all I have
is all I have.

“Is that it?” Bobbles looked puzzled.
“That’s the first poem. It wasn’t very funny.”
“Not sure what the white room was all about. Maybe he wrote his poems in a white room. Some poets write in dark rooms. Pete probably preferred a white room.”
“Maybe his mind had been whitewashed!” giggled Bobbles.
“Let’s read some more before we make assumptions.” Handy’s caution held firm.

Handy turned the page. Bobbles snuggled. She was very good at snuggling - something she had mastered when the heating bills outgrew than her feeding bills. Handy's voice was comforting, soothing and patient. He embraced the snuggle.

Graffiti on my pillow
interrogates my dreams.
Graffiti on the mirror
condenses and forms streams
of graffiti flowing freely
down the wall
and to the floor
where I stand on ceremony
eclipsing all before.
Graffiti on my skin
delays the age of time
so that everyone can read
the graffiti that is mine.
Graffiti in my eyes
refracts the truth from lies.
Graffiti in my mind
absolves me from these lines.

“Was he still in the white room?” asked Bobbles.
“There seems to be quite a lot in his head. All that graffiti must be good for creativity......I quite liked that. Not very funny though.”

be the one
be the one
be the one
who accepts the appraise
who milks the applause
who basks in the limelight
who takes to the floor
who gives in return
the favours
the praise
of one who ventures
from out of the maze.

be the one
be the one
be the one
who enlightens the blur
who directs all who hear
who creates a diversion
from the sweet smell of fear
who stands at the edge
who watches the light
increasing in brightness
awakening the sight
be the one
be the one
be the one.

Bobbles quite liked this one. She rested her head on Handy’s shoulder.
“I don’t care if there are no funny poems. This one is inspirational..... I think it would make a good song.”
“I prefer the graffiti one. That is a song in the making.”
“Can you sing it to me, Handy?”
“Not tonight, Bobbles, it would wake the cuckoos.”

Handy wasn't going to sing anyway. His last choral rendition of
'Bobbles, I've been waiting
I've been waiting day and night
I didn't see the time
The cuckoo had a fright'.
was the pinnacle of his sickly serenading. He had successfully enticed Bobbles into his life and he wasn't going to lose her with any mistimed melodies.
He turned the page.

He carried the burden
of a poet in flight
from an army of quills
persuing their rights
and he wept at the door
of the author of shame
who whispered his fate
who bloodied his name
and the chorus of song
that scripted the light
it shone through the bars
with parallel fright
and the beckoning crowd
demanded their scene
and carried him high
all filthy and clean
but the readers who paused
not knowing the end
all tried to imagine
some image to send.

“He sounds a bit troubled there. Do you think someone didn’t like his poems?”
“I’m not sure,” thought Handy. “Maybe he just threw some lines together.”
“Don’t be silly, poets don’t do that...... do they?” Bobbles had to think about this. She repositioned her literary stance.

Should I write
to say
that I am alone
or should I embrace
this sanctuary
that offers creativity
with no parole?

“Sounds like he was looking for an escape,” deduced Bobbles.
“A bit short, that. I guess he found the sanctuary then ran out of lines.”
“You are funny, Handy. I’m so glad I left my taxi in London.”
“And how, exactly, did you manage to leave it in London?”
“You know something?...... I don’t know!”

Handy peered at the next poem - but had to blink. Either there was still too much whisky in his blood stream or the words were declining the opportunity to verse themselves. After the fifteenth blink of one eye he tried the other eye. This actually made it worse - the words were jumping off the page. He dived in and started to read:

s t m o k n a r e h y a no men amen no one to meet too hot to say to stay no one at home no home a token to make thy maker they say a reason so mean meant to take meant to make so near no torment mother make the name the theme the monk the mat the key to mate to make the keys a reason to thank the monk thank them the keys are near the keys are on stream thank the monk thank them the keys are on the keys are on the monkeys are on the monkeys are on the keys are on the monkeys are on the keys the monkeys are on the keys

“Hoots mon, the noo! What in carnation was that all about??” shouted Handy.
“Handy? I promised not to talk Yankee and you promised not to talk all Scotty...... remember?”
“Sorry, Bobbles. It won’t happen again.”
“Handy? You said ‘carnation’. Didn’t you mean ‘darnation’?”
“No, Bobbles. I wanted to inject some humour...... there’s none happening in these poems.”
“It was going alright until that last one. Monkeys on keys? I think he was having a writer’s block and just hitting the keys in Shakespearean hope.”
“I think you’re right, Bobbles. That’s very astute of you. I love you more than ever now.”
Bobbles smiled sweetly, whilst at the same wondering how much love Handy had had for her before ‘more than ever’. Probably he loved her ‘just for ever’ before.

The year is out
out of time
out of breath.
The year evaporates
it dies a death.
Each day has gone
never to repeat
the trials and trends
of those who cheat.
This judgement is unfair
perception is flawed
when memories conflict
with those I adored.
The new year beckons
the uncertainty of truth.
A new year continues
to diminish my youth.

“He sounds troubled.”
“It’s making me troubled as well. I think we ought to go to bed, Bobbles.”
Bobbles saw the kilt stirring.
“No, Handy, let’s persevere. There must be some funny ones somewhere.”

Handy waited for his kilt to calm. The rippled pleats smoothed themselves as he turned the page.
Bobbles kept one eye on the kilt and one ear on the poem.

Sleek and sound
black that lightens the ground
pounce and be found
wanting.

Vulnerable and weak
white that darkens the meek
surprise that is bleak
and wanting.

Dominant and wise
grey that loosens the ties
embrace and chastise
the wanting.

Welcome and muse
landscapes deficient of blues
lie down and then choose
your wanting.

Bobbles and Handy were now feeling a little more comfortable. The poems were starting to flow and the cuckoos were refraining from untimely (or even, timely) interruptions. The sofa wrapped itself around the two of them as they snuggled more.

Steal these letters
and polish each curve
caress and let go.
Skim the marble water.

Take these words
of yellows and golds
of brushes and trees.
Days that grow shorter.

Borrow these lines
of laughter and streams
from hills that demist.
Walls with no mortar.

The sentence that bars
the author's parole
carries his best.
Rejoice in your quarter.

“I think he’s come through his mental block. I enjoyed that.”
“There's some interesting rhymes there. I think I’ll have some of what he’s on,” smiled Handy.
“Probably Ovaltine.”
“Is that better than whisky?”
Bobbles had to think about that.

I stake a claim
on someone
who eludes perception.
I stake my claim
before my audience
senses the rejection
I may endure
and cascade pity
in sympathy's disguise.
I stake a claim
on the candle
that illuminated the prize
that is ours.
I stake my claim
with the unknown certainty
of losing
to the highest bidder.

“I think he’s staking a claim,” quipped Bobbles.
“Not sure what he’s claiming though. I’m not going to bid anyway...... you never know what you might let yourself in for.”

The faded letter
is binding me
inviting me
engaging me
to its fragrance
to its fragrance
to its candid tapestry
of seduction
betrothal
betrayal
and weakness.
The waxed seal
is melting my resilience
exposing my veneer
breaking my scent
with its fragrance
with its fragrance
with its textured weave
of chastity
grandiose humility
and fulfilment.
The hidden sentences
lie dishonestly
questioning forgiveness
dividing acceptance
pursuing promises
of fragrance
of fragrance
and frailty
and destiny
unkempt
dissolved
and discarded.
The lost years
remain virgin
buried
and dusted
by fragrance
by fragrance
dispersing
my want
my curiosity
my courtesy
my love.

“Is this poem about love or rejection?” Bobbles felt uneasy. She thought she knew Pete from The Diamond’s Mine but this was a side of him she had not gleaned.
Handy turned and kissed Bobbles on the forehead...... a kiss that oozed unease and protection.

Handy needed to move on to the next poem. Any delay might agitate the bond that was starting to cement their union.

I saw in your eyes
that I knew you
your gaze
it gave it away.
I saw in your stance
that I knew you
but now there was nothing to say.
I saw in your smile
that you recognised
the guilt that will always relay
the key to this chance encounter
the hesitancy of the delay.

Handy squeezed Bobbles. She was his one true love and he wanted to keep it that way. But the lines of this poem were forming images in her head...... textured images of lost opportunities and secret liaisons.

If I consider
your obligations to my needs
I find a web of delight
that feeds the emotion.
If I consider
that your trust is genuine
I know that I can begin
a response.
If I believe
that all encounters
deliver the sincerity
of the doubters who pry
then I believe
that you care
to the limits
of where I belong.

Before Bobbles could say anything, Handy quickly turned the page to the next poem. An anxiety was starting to emerge.