THE RACE
In a rural
country vale
Aylesbury's forgotten tale
a steeplechase
from memory long gone
the four mile hunt
from Waddesdon
Twenty
weighed in at the White Hart
the old windmill
.. the place to start
riders famous & the well-heeled
racing across
ditch &field.
each carrying
twelve stone seven
the starters flag
dropped at exactly eleven
across brook spinney &
the Thame
seeking the prize pot & fame
in long furlong field
the leaders showed
to the roars
from the turnpike road
the well backed grey
became the toast
winning
by a length
at
the red flagged post
Year Posted 2007
Categories:
spinney, history, memory, sports,
Form: Rhyme
This is my epitaph to my youth.
Should I live to be old?
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
Should I live to be old?
Pass my three score years and ten.
I wonder how long I will live.
Knowing I cannot be young again.
I cannot play in the Spinney.
Cowboys and Indians true.
As there are no cap pistols!
Or bows and arrows too.
No longer am I innocent.
About the ways of life!
As now I’ve been married fifty years.
And only had one wife.
I also have a daughter.
I worship and adore.
She has charmed me with a grandson.
With a computer and a Xbox, which he cannot ignore.
Oh to be young and innocent.
Just for another day.
To visit that old Spinney.
Where I learnt to play.
Categories:
spinney, daughter, farewell, feelings, grandchild,
Form: Epitaph
over the border
and across the line
best guess forward
as I follow behind
I travel the path
smell the roses with thorns
looking not touching
seeing red flags that worn
between blown tumbleweeds
and the spinney soul
in the depths of deception
and what used to be whole
all that remains
where the wheel has rolled
is tracks in smooth sand
from what's taken its toll
the hour grows early
the sun has not risen
the trail grows weary
as it breaks from tradition
handing down emptiness
I shake hands with what's given
it all looks so innocent
in this standard of living
arching my back
as I stretch and yawn
there in my consciousness
it seeps from the claws
inside the chambers
and this ditch of my mind
I remove my sunglasses
and I stare half blind
Categories:
spinney, introspection
Form: Verse
In a rural country vale
Aylesbury's forgotten tale;
A steeplechase from memory gone
The four mile hunt from Waddesdon.
Twenty weighed in at the White Hart,
The old windmill the place to start;
Riders,famous and well-heeled
Racing across ditch and field.
Each carrying twelve stone seven
The starters flag dropped on eleven;
Across brook,spinney and the Thame
Seeking the prize pot and fame.
In long furlong field the leaders showed
To the roars from the turnpike road;
The well backed grey became the toast
As he raced clear to the red flagged post.
Categories:
spinney, animals, nostalgia, sports,
Form: Narrative