Sea Of Dead Ships
A light from heaven flickers gently on the waves.
As a boat rocks merrily, above a sea of dead men’s graves.
Colours of the rainbows, spread fingers from the shore.
The sea is filled with beauty; it is also filled with lore.
Waves of blue, waves of green cause white waters on a rocky shore.
While the warming sun’s silvery gleam, heals any wanton sore.
Fishing boats, sails afloat, challenge the sparkling foam.
While everyman with heart lured by the sea, tries desperately not to roam.
The sea is my mistress, the sea is my light.
On a cold day’s darkness, the moon must guide me by night.
A sea full of temptation, a sea full of woe.
I set my sails a flight, to meet my friend or foe.
Dark storm clouds gather overhead, waves pound at my wooden boat.
I feel the cold salty shower, fighting wind and tide to keep afloat.
Rigging is now tangled, mast breaks leaving gnarled stump.
Oh, I curse you west wind and my broken water pump.
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poem by David Harris
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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 3
(It is advisable you read parts 1 and 2 first)
Grace watched him for a few minutes, and then moved to the back of the shop. “He is going to come around at six tonight. I do hop Mr Potter like him.”
“I’m sure he will. Grace.”
“I can’t help feeling bit concerned after Mr Armad.”
“It was the curry Mr Armad insisted on making. Revolting stuff. I felt queasy as Mr Potter afterwards. Anyway Mr Potter always prefers Englishmen, even when Aunty had him staying with her.”
Charles checked his watch, and then knocked the door. The lights appeared in the shop and the silhouette of one of the sisters grew large in the glass panel of the door. Charlotte smiled.
“Do come in Mr Latimer.”
Charles entered and followed Charlotte through to the back of the shop. As they entered the room, Grace turned from the oven with a tray of freshly baked scones. She smiled.
“Please have a seat, Mr Latimer. Tea is ready.”
“Call me Charles, Mr Latimer seems so formal.” he replied as he sat where Charlotte directed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but where is Mr Potter going to sit? ”
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poem by David Harris
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Early Works - The Spirit Of Christmas
The December wind howled outside
rattling the windows,
the children played on the floor
as the crimson glow of the fire
warmed the heart of the room.
In the corner stood a Christmas tree
sparingly decorated with tinsel and lights
but beneath were no presents in sight.
Jason watched his children
with sadness tinting his eyes
he knew how important
Christmas was to young lives.
He had tried to save through the year,
but there was always something needed
from the money he tried to save
clothes, food and shoes to wear.
Oh how he would have loved to see
them smile from ear to ear
instead of sadness in their eyes
for toys that wouldn’t be there.
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poem by David Harris
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The Hogarth Experiment Part 5
Peter levelled the shotgun
at the insect as big as a sheep
and pulled the trigger and again.
The blast knocked
the beast away from his father.
He quickly reloaded
as another giant insect
came close to his father.
The creature spun sideways
as the shot hit it.
Both creatures rose to their feet.
His father picked up the pitchfork
and jammed it deep
into the first insects head.
The insect wobbled on its legs
before collapsing dead.
The other moved giant insect
towards the fallen insect.
Peter had reloaded the shotgun
and fired both barrels at the head
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poem by David Harris
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The Hogarth Experiment Part 6
It is strongly recommended you read Parts 1- 5 before reading this.
Professor Hogarth watched in horror,
at the returning insects
and what they were carrying.
He questioned himself
about what he had done.
His experiment had gone
well beyond what he dreamt.
It had created a horror unimaginable.
Somehow, they had to be stopped
before it went too far,
if it had not happened all ready.
He had to inform the authorities
and tell them everything.
The monstrous creations
had to be destroyed
or the world would be in peril.
Hogarth picked up the telephone,
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poem by David Harris
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The Hogarth Experiment Part 7
The first streaks for dawn
broke across the Wye Valley.
The Armoured Flamethrowers were poised
around the giant wasps nest.
Just as the sky began to lighten,
pushing away the darkness of the night
the first wasp climbed from the nest.
Long spouts of flame poured over it.
As its body was engulfed in flame
out of the nest, more wasps swarmed.
Suddenly the sky darkened again.
Several RAF bases were scrambled.
Spitfires and Hurricanes crowded the skies.
This time the enemy
was not the Luftwaffe, but insects.
The pilots where not sure what tactics
they were to use
or how the insects were going to react.
They swooped low down the valley
just skimming the treetops.
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poem by David Harris
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 4)
(It is suggested that the reader reads Part 1,2 and 3 first)
I stepped back slightly in amazement,
and then I smiled to myself.
Originally, the mystery of the ghost fire
had poised several questions in my mind.
Question of how, why and by who.
Normal phenomena was generally erratic,
in that you could not predict
when it when it would happen again.
However, the ghost fires were the opposite.
The first three were attention grabbers for the Burning Bush,
which now could be timed
at what time it would start
and at what time it would finish.
It was a very clever illusion
thought out by a very clever person.
I knew now how it was done,
but the remaining questions
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poem by David Harris
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A Journey And Back Again
Introduction:
I live a life full of incidents
especially whenever I go away.
As the years tumble by
and as I look at them,
they seem quite amusing now
than on the day they happened.
The following records a journey
my wife and I took many years ago
to The Viking Hotel then owned
by Irish singer Daniel O’Donnell.
My wife is a great fan of his
and I have to confess
I have met him a few times myself.
Day One:
We arrived at the coach station early
with overnight bags packed, waited,
and waited until finally
our coach turned up a half an hour late.
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poem by David Harris
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