The Happy Wanderer

'Ere the wind is short of breath, Call me home. Call me to places you want me to see. Let us join forces, break our inertia, See new places. 'Ere the wind is short of breath, Call me home.

Look down, Look at the time. It's racing through the depths of its mane. Like the rustle of the leaves The gusts of wind sweep away the previous moment The streamlined breeze is a clairvoyant. The prized strings that the spindle wove Are slipping out of hand, Chasing granular data That lies embedded within them.

The young priest delivered his sermon at the local church. It was Christmas, a decidedly busy day for him, both at home and at work. At any rate, he should maintain the sanctity and quality of his sermons. He stooped down, tied his shoelace, checked his watch and paced down to a taxi stand. If he had forty cents, well and good, for they had a deal. They drove down to Checkers' Avenue. It was a short ride that gave him a chance to glance over boutiques, salons, bookstores and one café. He stepped down, handing over the cash and thumbing his next lift. This time around, the destination was farther away. His pockets were empty, yet he confidently sauntered in, put a plush rug over his feet, and sauntered out. The Big Ben let out a chime. No one said anything. He walked in to Cosco Square and shuffled up to the bookstore. When he came out, his mufflers were up and he had a brown packet in his hands. He craned under the hawkers and slipped away to the Barrington's across the ...

Book Name: The Red House Mystery Book Author: A.A Milne Have you heard of Winnie the Pooh? Sure you have! You'd have seen him, at least, peering out of a hidey-hole in one of your storybooks, or referred to in a literary context. He's a rotund, ever-smiling, yellow bear, who usually wears a red shirt and blue shorts and doesn't bother to change. And if I've got the attire wrong, it's because it doesn't matter. That speaks for itself, doesn't it? Winnie-the-Pooh is a simple fellow. Who created this pally, enthusiastic, honey-loving bear? The chap's name is Alexander Alan Milne, commonly referred to as A.A. Milne. Not a frilly man himself, Milne has concocted several other lucid, easy characters who are lovable by virtue of their sheer honesty, if not anything else. An excellent storyteller, Milne's style of writing is light, simple and guileless. You aren't deceived- instead, you are handheld for as long as it's possible and then you can...

I’m thankful that I can walk up and down, Every other day, and know the world is not an impoverished place. Although I know that millions go hungry in pockets, I am not confronted by the stark vulgarity of it- I don’t grimace. My words do not resonate in a colosseum, Where I may be beheaded on account of political inaccuracy! We aren’t stranded in a once-bombed Cathedral, or Concentration camp, Where every next breath feels like ecstasy. But I don’t know what it really means to be thankful- To canter, while your heart is trotting, To paint from an imagination clouded by the gore of war, To be headlong, knee-deep in violence- but express the music of freedom in a jotting. Have I seen the change- the resurgence, Have I come to learn its true meaning? Have I been the merger of plight and placidity, Have I toiled every time my heart gave that wavering beat? I have not- not as yet; That ripple of an aberration has not yet abounded. Have I br...

"Where to, son?" "French class, and then violin soon after." "Splendid. Which reminds me, didn't you perform in London last summer?" "Oh yes. All too well! We're planning to get an orchestra together soon."  "Brilliant things for brilliant minds. Aren't you trying one of those coaching classes?" "No; which ones?" "The ones that crowds are surging to, of course. A handful of names and handfuls of people!" (smiling) "The Maths and Physics classes? I love math, but I don't like hard-core math. There's a lot of math in music, you know. And in languages too!" (patting the other) "Better keep in touch with what some of the other folks are doing, you! A tip for a tuppence. They'll leave you behind before you realize it." "Oh, sure." (casually) Humanities. They are contexts in which some people would shrug when they heard this word. It's a lovely word inde...

Little woman, you are growing, I measure you against the firs. Little woman, let me mark your presence, Against every specimen along which the brook skirts. Little woman, do you remember chasing the fowls? Do you remember how you shrieked when they poached them at dawn? Do recall that moment in the fall, When you heaped the leaves on a sudden call From the wind? Creeping stealthily against the motion of the fawn, Through the woods of long-ago, now pruned into lawn, They are all the more beautiful for it, little woman, For all their rounds, you've aptly set the tone. Little woman, hurry home An errand is waiting for you- How can you be so stoic, Little Woman, when there's so much to do? Crouch, little woman, under the pine, Enjoy the shade of the spruces, Make the most of the moonshine- It'll soon be swept away in rows and truces. The men are coming- on horses With weapons and arms galore, They have no taste for the tales that are nestled, Among...