| People And Places |
Lynda Brennan, Editor
PEARL
Going away Marilyn?
With your golden curls
And cheeks like peach bloom
And gentle nature of my little friend.
What are you seven or eight?
You Seem younger in the memory.
Hope you will be happy in that big place
Where the Queen lives.
Coming back Marilyn?
Now twelve years old like me,
To the same street
With the same friends to follow
You out along the Lambhill Road
To the newest little grave.
Your own wish, to let the children say goodbye.
Ann G McNair
Dedicated to a little friend who touched my heart and left rays of hope and joy for all to share.
ONE WINDOW IS ALL I NEED
One window is all I need,
Break me out and set me free,
Please, oh please, let it be.
I can’t stand this insanity
Whilst I sit here clenching my fingers and my feet,
Hear me out and hear me speak,
Whilst I sit here in my room.
Watching walls and stomping my feet,
All I can do is think and think.
Looking out my window,
All I can do is blink and blink
While I sit here listening to da beats.
April Bright
A BACKWARDS LOOK AT LIFE
What if life went backwards
And went the other way?
There would never be tomorrow
And only a glimpse of yesterday.
Perhaps we’d never really die
But only be newly born?
The end would be the beginning
And the night would be the dawn.
Just a hint of this erratic,
Topsy, turvy world is enough
To make people painfully aware
Life ain’t soft, it’s truly tough.
Jean Clark
IT’S CARNIVAL TIME
It’s carnival time in Burnham-on-Sea
There’s great excitement with plenty to see
The women are busy with needle and thread
Working all hours to get ahead
The men are busy on the floats
The painters are choosing different coloured coats
Then weird creatures start to appear
It’s carnival time in Burnham, it’s clear
From dogs and cats to snakes and rats
Everyone wearing fancy hats
Nursery rhyme characters and clowns
Skeletons and ghosts take over the town
Elephants and tigers, lions as well
Balloons, toffee apples, necklaces to sell
There will soon be a fantastic night
Burnham will be lit up from the floats light
Music, laughter will fill the air
It’s carnival time I do declare
And when it’s all over to add to the cheer
Some will go to the pub for a good pint of beer
Violetta Jean Ferguson
PADDY
Paddy was an Irishman, of that you can be sure.
He loved to dance and jig across the kitchen floor.
He always had a good tale to tell,
He told them by the score,
And for any willing listener there were plenty more.
His garden it was wonderful, overflowing with masses
of colourful flowers, cucumbers and tomato,
And a secret shed where he spent hours making little toys
for his girls and boys.
To Mavis he was married nye forty five years.
He really was a lovely man,
I say it through my tears.
Brenda Watson
FAIR AND CARNIVAL
In our town of Barnstaple
Not far from our village
We have our fair and carnival
As each year in September.
People come from miles around
From villages and towns
For laughter and enjoyment
Weather, come what may.
The dodgem cars and big wheel
Noah’s ark and ghost train
Side shows of attractions
Fun for young and old.
Close by the fun fair
The streets are packed with people
Cheering the procession
Taking photographs to remember.
The colourful floats and glittering costumes
Give way to bands of many districts
As evening turns to nightfall
With the closing of another day.
Jim Carlin
HEALTHY HERNE BAY
Come to Healthy Herne Bay, as the old guide books say
With fresh air and sunshine galore
A walk on the Downs
Or browse in the town
Why don’t you come to the Bay
Come to Healthy Herne Bay, why not stay for the day
Bring all the family too
Spend time by the shore
Fish, swim, sail or more
What fun you can have in the Bay
Come to Healthy Herne Bay and make your own way
The museum or bandstand to find
Exhibitions displayed
Live music played
There’s plenty for all in the Bay
Come to Healthy Herne Bay on carnival day
The seafront buzzing with noise
The clock tower stands proud
Crowds laugh aloud
Everyone must come to the Bay
Margaret Burns
ISOLATION
I lay awake in my bed, the sound of the cockerel ringing in my ears,
The silence is deafening.
A different place, so quiet the pace of life so slow.
As I walk along the tree - lined beautiful houses,
So grand, a different place, not run down.
Cold unsmiling faces hardly glance my way.
I am the invisible one lost in this crowd of unfamiliar faces and places.
A town so uninviting, no-one to turn to,
Alone within these four walls.
Cut off from the outside world, no family or friends,
Such a strange place, beautiful, yet ugly.
I gain solace from feeling the freshness of the crisp air on my face,
As I walk along and see the branches of the trees swaying in the wind.
The golden autumn leaves have fallen on the ground laying lifeless and crumpled.
Do not weep for me because I am not sad,
But glad to have seen the beauty of the town.
Sabiha Mertdogdu
CANARY WHARF
A mini city of glass and stone
Where once our proud seafarers sailed forth
Returning with sugar, bananas and rum
We island locals call it the wharf
A financial centre of towering structures
Where fountains and sculptures soften the blow
While thousands of suits make their daily commute
Hoping to maintain their status quo
Glass cages replace the steel cranes
From maritime centuries gone by
The old dockers and sailors to memory
Their trades all destined to die
The years may erase the memories
As their maritime history moves on
Along with their traditions and hardships
They still yearn for those days long gone
But alongside that financial city
With its computers, broadband and blogs
While old dockers remain, the name stays the same
Known forever as the Isle of Dogs
Michael Cleere
Michael Cleere said: “I am a single, gay man in my sixties and I find as I get older that I have suddenly stopped running in my life.
For the first time I am standing with my back against the wall and I am able to look back and also to look forward. All those words and
thoughts and feelings that were also running in my mind are now somehow still. I am able to transfer them to print and that’s a nice
feeling after all these years. If you, the reader, gain a similar feeling, I would be a happy man.”
STOCKSBRIDGE
A Royal guest to Stocksbridge came,
Who travelled here from far away.
His equerry beheld a paragon frame,
Keeping dryness, for his Highness, all day.
An enquiring mind, questions he sought,
Concerning the town’s original name?
Gifts given, also received, he brought,
A Royal guest to Stocksbridge came.
No longer stocks upon a bridge,
Or Samuel Fox to quote his day,
River Don’s ravine, plus Pennine Ridge,
Who travelled here from far away.
Historians and councillors, their answer gave,
Ancient landmarks, demolished shame.
Slaking one’s thirst, quaint pubs we crave,
His equerry beheld a paragon frame.
Truth is, we learn from past mistakes,
Building near water, flooding we pray.
Prevention better than a cure for our sakes,
Keeping dryness, for his Highness, all day.
Jennifer M Hudson
HETTON-LE-HOLE
My hometown is Hetton-Le-Hole
Which prospered during the years
When the country needed coal
The mine is now gone, the community thrives
As new types of employment to the area arrives.
The Eppleton Colliery site is now a country park
Which is beginning to make its mark
As countrywide cycling events take place
And water sports are taught on one of the three lakes.
We have a new building called the Hetton Centre
The library’s on the right as you enter
Where friendly staff teach computer skills
The end of the building’s where the public
Pay council tax bills.
Attached to this centre is the football ground
Where on certain Wednesdays
Sunderland reserves can be found
The late Bob Paisley, ex Liverpool manager
Of whom Hetton’s so proud
Is held with affection by the footballing crowd.
Hetton has a brass band and male voice choir
Which many local organisations hire
To raise funds for local charity
Sending audiences home happily.
Doris Turner
GLASGOW
Glasgow, our great and glorious city, built on the River
Clyde, amidst the sounds of St Mungo’s Bells, ringing for so
many years, with the world’s finest ships built on our banks.
A city of iron, steel, leather engineering and distilling, as
well as entertainment, and culture and the mind and
character of our people reflected through these industries.
The once second city of the empire, has braved the triumph
and tragedy over the centuries, from great fires, and floods,
to vast unemployment depression, and such loss of life felt
from the two world wars.
In the 1960’s, our city underwent massive regeneration,
down went the old tenements, and up, with the high rise
flats, along with the motorways, and throughout the 1970’s
and 1980’s saw the endless new hotels, concert halls, and
culture centres, and art galleries opening up everywhere.
Long may the fish swim, the bell ring, and St.Mungo bring
the native man and woman from every country.
Iain Henderson
Iain Henderson said: “I was born in Glasgow in 1962 as an only child and grew up in a musical family. My father was an accomplished
pianist and my mother was a noted Gaelic singer, who won a silver medal at the National Mod. She was also a gifted harmonica player.
My lifelong hobbies and interests include autograph collecting, entertaining, travelling, reading, writing, entering quizzes and
competitions, and of course, poetry. My future ideal home and working life are to end up on the professional stage and live in a quiet
existence in the Scottish highlands.”
TORN BY ADDICTION
Be still my heart when fear I know as doubting minds and empty souls,
Attach themselves within my life to pull me back and not let go,
And I believed in all that’s fair, all innocent of spat and hate,
No greedy, loathsome, selfish things and earthly devils without wings,
That steals the seeds from life’s own plate then spit out venom full hate,
They shackle me in ghostly chains and leave me numbed and spirit dead,
And drain the blood from out my veins and torture me inside my head,
Then clinging to the dark of night now twist there faceless self away,
From all that’s good and pure and bright that with comes with every new born of day,
Then I awake from out this hell to push aside what’s gone and done,
And walk from where that I have been in a new day that has just begun.
Janette Horn
IMAGES OF PORTADOWN
Placidly the River Bann slides
Through the heart of Portadown.
Under the arched stone bridge it swirls
Ignoring the growling traffic swarming over.
Patient fishermen dot it’s reedy banks
And lusty rowers compete for silver cups.
Fragrant summer blooms lead busy shoppers
Into a bustling town centre
Where country sometimes comes to call.
July holiday crowds line the bridge as bands play
Men march and banners billow in the breeze.
Images fill my mind.
Sprinting on my bicycle in all weathers across
The bridge to old Portadown College by the Bann.
Walking to church on Sunday, watching as the wind swept
My sister’s feathered hat over the bridge like an exotic bird.
Rainbow Christmas lights flickering on the rippling waters.
Christmas music serenading rushing people
Trawling glittering shops.
Ancient church bells ringing out in the frosty air calling
Families to candlelit carol services.
Children returned from across the world
Home to Portadown.
June Crozier
PORTADOWN
Portadown, oh Portadown
Once a thriving market town.
Factories, mills and McGredy’s rose garden bloom
Felt the hand of progress and met their doom.
Then the troubles came, what a terrible blight
Hatred crept in like a thief in the night.
Neighbour against neighbour, it affected us all
And the killing scores written on gable walls.
A place divided, without a heart
Two massive bombs blew the town apart.
We hoped, we prayed to find a way
To return to the innocence of yesterday.
Then the big sleeping giant of peace did awake
And roared through the town, the people did quake.
Build your houses and churches and shopping malls
Your roads and pubs and bingo halls.
Let people of all religions and none
Enjoy the shopping, night life and fun.
Then man can live with his fellow man
In that lovely town on the banks of the Bann.
Maureen Hagan
Born in Portadown, Maureen Hagan has interests including reading and writing. “I always liked to write short stories and poems when I
was young and in later years I would write poems as a dedication to friends on retirement and weddings etc. My influences are memories
of my childhood,” she commented. “I would like to be remembered as someone who wrote and evoked memories for her readers.” Aged 56,
Maureen is a retired staff nurse on a mission to publish her book of short, real-life stories and poetry. She is married to Eamon and
they have children, Bernadette and Gerald.
CAERPHILLY
Gilbert de Clare, or Gilbert the Red
Said to his wife one night in bed
I’ll build you a home, a grand design,
Just to show you this love of mine.
So Gilbert and Alice found a plot
Up on a hill, a nice little spot.
Gilbert worked there both day and night
To get this project looking right.
A great hall here, a turret there
Gatehouses to add some flair.
A water feature in the grounds
Gilbert’s talent knew no bounds.
The finished structure drew a crowd
Gilbert really felt so really proud.
But Alice couldn’t stand the strife,
So Joan of Acre became Gilbert’s wife.
Gilbert the Red was now Gilbert the Grey,
His home was a big price to pay.
The estate agent said it was worth the hassle,
De Clare had built Caerphilly Castle.
Judi James
ISLE OF ANGLESEY
Craggy coastline, caressed by blue sea
White washed cottages by a village quay.
The sweet sound of music always beckons me,
To the mountains and rivers where my heart roams free.
There I learned the language at my mothers knee
This beautiful Isle of Anglesey.
Sleepy villages where princes once trod
There time stands still, like a time forgot.
Church bells rang out, the pews to fill
Three times every Sunday, return there I will.
Where the corner shop lady bids, Hello, sut ydach chi
It’s all part of the magic of Anglesey.
Wild grow the flowers that blanket the hills,
Far away birds on the mountain sills.
An island so rich in heritage and skills
And kind hearted people, minus the fuss and frills.
This culture rich corner, that’s a part of me,
Is the lovely Isle of Anglesey.
Elizabeth Hughes
OLD MARKET TOWN
Market town near western shore
Whose awakening is lost in folklore
Ancient Cambrian place of the shires
Seat of wizard, Merlin’s long ago camp fires
Where antique Carmarthen oak supreme
Long shall stand or break the dream
If oak does split and frown
Carmarthen town shall tumble down
Forgotten choirs and poet’s rhymes
Ghosts of druids of long ago times
Steepled churches, centuries of sunset glow
Where blossoms and daffodils whisper and blow
Churchyards reciting dog eared verses
Sulking over insults and renewing curses
Carmarthen Castle slumbering deep
Invaded by warring seagulls and passive sheep
An armada of coracle boats sighted in the bay
Pisces Star blessed with bounty for market day
Creative gardeners in rustic plots
Planting acorns in nursery pots
Scribbler
HOW COMMON
Look over my back fence
And life shows a different side
With no shops or cars or houses
Just the common, green and wide.
But life’s mysteries abound here
Horses, cattle, sheep and more
There are foxes, badgers, field mice
Insects, frogs and newts galore.
I can feed them veggie peelings
Nothing’s wasted, all is saved
And they wait for my arrival
Keen to see what goods I have.
The bird life here’s quite stunning
And I feed them nuts and seeds
Leaving hazels for the squirrels
I don’t pick them from the trees.
Yes, the village wildlife’s wondrous
If we take the time to look,
And say thanks for natures blessings
In our lovely little nook.
Maggie Morse
Born in Kingsbury, Maggie Morse has interests including gardening, reading and travelling. “I started writing humorous verses for
friends on special occasions and my work is influenced by day to day events,” she commented. “I would describe my style as uncomplicated
and I would like to be remembered for my kindness and humour.” Aged 64, Maggie is a senior course advisor with an ambition to see her
granddaughters marry. She is the widow of Dennis Morse, a detective inspector and she has one son. “My biggest fantasy is to be able to
sing opera and my worst nightmare is to drown in a car,” added Maggie.
LADY OF LUCK
Lady of luck am I
To be living in this town by the sea
Where the taste of local caught fish
Is to die for
and Spuddies are grown near the sea
Travel may broaden horizons
Of sights so often compared but
Where’er I go, where’er I be
There isn’t anything more beautiful
That I can see as such
Breathtaking coastline and scenery
Of hometown Milford Haven
Elsie J Rodriguez
NOBBY
He was our local character, of that there was no doubt
Any organising needed, it was for Nobby we would shout
He had to leave the pits because of chest disease
Started making concrete characters
And took to it with ease.
His garden a concrete Disneyland became
Bright colours and flashing lights
People came from far and near to see this wondrous sight
His wife Esther welcomed one and all
With tea and homemade cakes
And they would sit on concrete chairs
Watching little gnomes fishing by the lake.
He made a collection box shaped like a banana tree
Monies collected once a month for local charity
The charity box was stolen which caused a lot of tension
A saddened Nobby shook his head
And paid it from his pension.
The day of his funeral was cold with snow and sleet
Strong men were needed to carry his coffin
Made of course from concrete.
Anne Jenkins
CASTLEFORD
The town of Castleford where I grew up
Had coal miners playing in the Rugby League Cup
Glassworks, pottery and chemicals too
Tailors that made best suits for you
The river once boasted pollution and foam
Now the wildlife has made it their home
Herons, cormorants, kingfishers too
Even an otter was seen passing through
An old large barge lays stranded near the Old Mill on the weir
It’s part of our heritage we love it so dear
Past times have left us with memories to treasure
Times have moved on as we look to the future
Now we see ski slopes high in the sky
Designer shop outlets with all you can buy
Regeneration is ongoing too
The whole town is buzzing with everything new
Castleford is the place of my birth
I wouldn’t exchange it for anything on earth
Margaret M Woodhead
XMAS IS COMING
Twelve days to Xmas,
Three children and a spotty dog off to Chopwell Woods
To buy our very own Xmas tree
Hurry, hurry, here we are,
Dad, may we have this one?
Two, six pence per foot, it’s a big one,
Yes children this one will do
Hurry back home,
Hurry, hurry.
Home at last,
Up into the loft.
They’re here Dad,
Beads, baubles and the stable,
Oh, there’s a chip off Mary
And there’s an ear off the ass,
We need new straw for baby Jesus
Don’t forget the Xmas fairy.
Dad turn on the lights,
Whoopee it’s nearly Xmas,
Merry Xmas to everyone.
Betsy A Tench
CHANTRY CHAPEL
I stood with awe at the chapel door
Wondering what I was about to see
It opened to a charming sight
Small but what a delight
It was so calming sitting there
There were no pews but lots of chairs
Mary’s statue stood on the right
Brightened by the morning light
An archway to the left I see
I walked over to it quietly
Where does it lead, I’ll take a peep
Looking down it looked so steep
The spiral stairs wound round and round
It’s the entrance to the underground
I headed back towards the door
A long red carpet on the floor
A baptism font on the right hand side
I opened the door and stepped outside
Walking along across Chantry Bridge
I looked back to admire Wakefield’s heritage
Valerie Curnin
MY HOME TOWN
On a bright autumn morning in Scarborough town,
There’s nowhere I’d rather be
It’s quieter now with visitors gone
For a stroll down by the sea
I love to walk along the beach, feel sand beneath my feet
The glistening sea, enjoys like me
The sun’s late summer heat
I feel so lucky living here, to see the sea each day
Sometimes it looks so clear and blue
Some days it’s rather grey
I sit at work and hear the jet boats riding the bay
The fog horn sounds a warning on a misty, foggy day
I love to see the countryside
The sheep and cows just grazing
And the colours of the autumn leaves
Are positively amazing
For me though, nothing can compare
To the beauty of the sea
And living here in Scarborough town is where I want to be
Sue Gurney
BEVERLEY - A HISTORIC TREASURE
Chiming, clanging, the big bells dancing,
Aloft, above grey gargoyles calls,
From far dark depths,choirs chorus chanting,
Heavenly hymns echo through the minister’s walls.
Awakening amber captures cobbled road,
Illuminating divine’s abode, to town, ye olde.
Butcher and baker, the humble apothecary,
The face-pressed glass for mints of murry.
Wooded wasteland silently surrounds,
Lively shoppers exploring the sounds,
Of the busker, Big Issue, cafes and bars,
To fill with people, fast food and cars.
Over one thousand years, this town now stands,
Proud to have its people and lands.
Despite change, its history is still there to see,
Be there history and beauty, be it Beverley.
Mark Abd-Mariam
GOD’S GARDEN
Wherever I shall travel
North, south, east or west
There’s one place I return to
The place I love the best.
A town in north east England
Which I’ve chosen as my home.
It’s a place with hills and moorland
Somewhere safe to roam.
We’ve a waterfall called High Force,
A river called the Tees
Its beauty can all be yours
To enjoy, if you should please.
It truly is God’s garden here
Where rare wild flowers abound,
And sheep can wander with white deer
In Raby Castle’s ground.
So visit us in summer, or visit in the fall
There’s a welcome here in Teesdale,
For those who come to call.
Christine Mason
STOCKSBRIDGE
A Royal guest to Stocksbridge came,
Who travelled here from far away.
His equerry beheld a paragon frame,
Keeping dryness, for his Highness, all day.
An enquiring mind, questions he sought,
Concerning the town’s original name?
Gifts given, also received, he brought,
A Royal guest to Stocksbridge came.
No longer stocks upon a bridge,
Or Samuel Fox to quote his day,
River Don’s ravine, plus Pennine Ridge,
Who travelled here from far away.
Historians and councillors, their answer gave,
Ancient landmarks, demolished shame.
Slaking one’s thirst, quaint pubs we crave,
His equerry beheld a paragon frame.
Truth is, we learn from past mistakes,
Building near water, flooding we pray.
Prevention better than a cure for our sakes,
Keeping dryness, for his Highness, all day.
Jennifer M Hudson
WAITING FOR LADY LOVIBUND
That evening we sat at the long bar,
Hearer of long tales, in the long room, in mock anticipation,
Waiting for our Ladyship.
Beyond, there is the sea, cruel fresh wind a-blowing.
Snug behind the bar, our hostess with the ghost list,
Shamrocking in the aisle, Guinessing the hour,
Bright Carling weeping in the glass.
Captain Reed, un-matey Rivers, where are you, ghastly crew and bride Annette,
Trailing gown of seaweed green?
Old salts grown young with age,
Your ship turned lust mad,
Driven to the watchful Goodwins,
Sucked into their bloated mass,
(Here there is only sand ...)
Turn off the lights, turn on the candles,
Play loud the stabbing Psycho strings, hold hands:
Behold the silvered sea.
Has our Lady already passed us, her cargo our doubts,
While our thoughts etched into the copper horizon a ship’s shape,
Indistinct as the moon-drugged sea?
Andrew Haynes
CAVERSHAM
Memories of long ago,
Growing up in Caversham.
Briar Close and Surly Row.
We lived on the edge of town.
If you looked around you’d see a valley,
A beech wood and a clump of conker trees.
People from the past. Norah and Hilda Tame,
And the dog, Jinx, on a leash, going down the lane,
With apples and embrocation for their pony, Blaze Away.
Could I take her over Forty Acres?
Ah, no dear, not today.
One Winter it snowed steadily.
Snowflakes released from a grey, grey sky,
Fluttering like feathers, swirling down,
Till a mantle of cold snow covered the ground.
We played on the hill with a home-made toboggan.
White fields, black trees in silhouette on the skyline.
Now the landscape I knew is long cleared away,
Yet somehow my soul hovers there to this day.
Rachel Smith
CHEAM BALLAD
Frosted tufts of grass in fallow fields,
Bordered by slush-trodden perimeter paths.
Rabbits hurry and scurry along frozen, scarred ground
Whilst hawthorn yields up blood red fruit to the hungry robin.
Autumnal gold now surrenders to winter’s icy breath.
Skeletal fingers of bare trees point, starkly outward,
To steel-grey sky on Cheam Common,
And patiently await spring’s return.
Richard Scowen
DOVER MAGIC
I came from Bournemouth,
To live in Dover,
About four years ago.
My first thoughts were,
What have I done?
It’s a world I just don’t know.
I’ve lived in many countries,
Africa, Australia, India,
To name a few,
So, to move to a place like Dover,
Was hardly a dream come true.
But it didn’t take me long to find,
So much to do and see.
Lovely walks along white cliffs,
The beaches and the sea.
Foreign voices mingle in the air,
Well, you know,
It’s only an hour to France from here.
Four years on and my heart is telling me,
Dover. The gateway to Europe,
Is where I must be.
The magic of Dover,
It’s clear to see,
Has really got to me.
Leah Matthews
CHEAM
Sunlight slanting through forest trees.
Horses hooves muffled by fallen leaves.
The Tudor Court pauses at the Old Rectory, in the middle of Cheam,
En route for Nonsuch Palace, held in high esteem.
But that was a long time ago, lost in the mists of time.
Cheam lives on, but with a different face.
Today a thriving, bustling place.
The faint echoes of Olde Worlde Charm,
Mirrored in buildings, mellow and calm.
The Old Rectory keeps its secrets safe,
And the ghostly guardians keep the faith
Audrey Stokes
NEIGHBOURLY CHEER
There’s something quite delightful
About living on Bourne Estate
All the different sorts of people
And the array of noises they make
you hardly ever see them
everyone lives such busy lives
But in the midst of all the action
A sweet camaraderie survives
Hellos from across the way
Try my curry, come to a fair
Can I borrow your bicycle?
Oh let us drive you there
What are you doing tomorrow?
Have you seen my son?
Could you feed our cat please?
Until we return to Holborn.
Laura Cudd
WELLING CORNER, 1960
Sleepy town, pensioners with sun visors
Down sleep on benches by the flower bed
At Welling corner, and babies sleep in prams
Parked in the porch of F W Woolworth.
A policeman, in a blue police box, leans
On the telephone, while a cloud
Of summer weight, silk scarves flutters
As housewives chatter at the bus stop.
The red routemaster runs the mile
Of high street shops
From the railway bridge
To Welling United football club.
And in the crook of Hook Lane
A young couple look in the window
Of Hummerstone and Hawkins
For a house in Huxley Road
With a laburnum tree that hangs out lanterns
Of blossom on warm evenings. I imagine
Them sitting with the French doors open
Just beginning to imagine me.
Christine Covil
EPSOM DOWNS
Up to the Downs, they said,
Where Londoners like to tread.
And locals too, to exercise,
Their minds and bodies energise.
Travellers and folk arrive in Spring,
To see the renowned sport of kings.
’Tis the Derby, a race that means
A lot to people, including Queens!
Horses trained up to their best,
Come to race, are full of zest.
Grandstand watchers, and on the hill,
Viewers anticipate a wondrous thrill.
Soon the race is run, the visitors gone.
This rolling expanse now left alone.
Perfect for locals again to roam,
This precious sward too close to home.
Some run, others walk, a few to fly
Model aeroplanes, all reaching for the sky.
Many jog across this empty space,
Happy until the next Derby race.
Norman Rice
COME TO CAMDEN TOWN
Come, come to Camden Town
Where travellers visit from far around.
Come see the sights, taste the delights
Where old and new blend, entwined.
Smell the aromas of many cultures
Hear the abundant tongues of different lands
Join the crowds filling the streets or open market place
Find a bargain, a keepsake among the plentiful fayre
But beware, in London when roaming around
Among the crowds vagabonds can still be found
Just as in Dickens’ day
They’ll pick your pockets and be away.
Try a taste of the olden days, of memory lane
Away from the bustle walk the narrow towpaths of the lock
Serene and still the murky water flows.
Wait around for the night life to kick in
To try the Ballroom, Underworld or various clubs
It’s just as busy in the countless trendy pubs
Whatever you’re after I’m sure it can be found
Come see, come to Camden Town.
Martine Gafney
NO CHANCE TO SAY GOODBYE
Not seen for so long but never forgotten
Chances lost, excuses made by both
Lives changed, but not accepted by all
Reflections come when one is lost
The chance of reconciliation gone
Why when it’s too late
Do we find acceptance for other’s situations?
I am not perfect, nor were you
So why couldn’t I accept changes before?
Why should I have expected acceptance of me
When I did not afford you the same honour?
All I have now are my prayers
Which all start with I'm so sorry
Till we meet again
Sue Moody
PORTSMOUTH
Portsmouth is an English Isle, a stone’s throw from land
With a pebble beach, as opposed to sand.
It has a fine harbour, now a large port
Made famous by Nelson, who courageously fought.
A haven for sailors, a wonderful sight,
When seamen return, from a perilous plight.
It’s people are plucky, and tough to the core,
Just like they were, during the second world war.
That conflict left scars, tore families apart
Bombed and burnt buildings, replaced with new heart.
Portsmouth is a city, with a crest of its own,
The motto is poignant, to ever who roam.
Brunel, Doyle, Kipling, Charles Dickens too
All dwelt here in Portsmouth, to name but a few.
Portsmouth now has a tower, viewed with splendour and grace
Beckoning all to visit, this historical place.
Gillian Gemmell
MILTON KEYNES SHOPPING CENTRE
I’ve got a thing about lamps and shades,
Their shapes and sizes, textures and hues,
What watt is the light bulb?
Which amp is the fuse?
I’m browsing round the store once more,
Prices go from high to low,
Lamps ultra modern to art deco,
Ghoulishly glaring to soft subdued glow.
Over here the prices rocket,
From bayonet fitting to élite obscure socket,
They’re not in the range to suit my pocket.
These prices are lower.
Beige today seems all the rage,
Tasteful and sedate, but wait,
I can’t say I care for this colour,
When push comes to shove
It won’t scratch my itch.
Now I’m rejoicing in gaudy and garish,
Rejecting the bland for the kitsch.
Geoffrey Martin
A TOWN CALLED LUTON
What can I say about Luton today?
A town that is bustling in every way
Yet just outside here the Downs are full of green
The most beautiful sight you have ever seen
Especially on a lovely summers day
They stretch so very far away
From my window I can see them so clear
A sight I hold so very dear
Although I have travelled far and wide
When I return I cannot hide
How glad I am to be back here
To a town I hold so very dear
Even if the rain is falling fast
I know it will not last
For soon the fields outside will be full of green
The best sight that you have ever seen
Enid Skelton
WANTAGE
Wantage, Wantage, O Wantage
We have no trams or trains
We have no mountains, but hills with white horses and dragons,
We had the burning king.
We have parks for poets, Sir John Betjeman,
We have bandstands, but please, no handstands
We had St Mary’s, but no more.
Half my family watch over us from the hillside cemetery,
But we do not mourn.
Wantage, O, Wantage, you mean a lot to me.
Caroline Emanuel
Dedicated to my mum Angela, dad David, brother Leslie and my children, Chloe and Sean, with love.
WARE
Ware was once an industrious town,
Where its maltings gave it a rich crown.
Producing furniture, rolling stock, envelopes and pills to name but a few,
The workforce took a pride and earned their due.
For years its schools and the college have played an
important part,
And given its former students an excellent start.
To use their skills with pride and grace,
But never to forget this lovely place.
The river Lea so central to Ware’s heart,
With its riverside gazebos to enrich this part.
Majestic swans in abundance always seem to be seen,
Beside deserted barges, now a has been.
Place House and The Priory are buildings from the past,
Their importance in history was truly meant to last.
Peace, prosperity and love instilled into its fellow man,
Ware shows this was always a small part of God’s plan.
Mollie G Day
Dedicated to all my family and kind friends whom I love and respect so much, spanning many years.
Born in Bishops Stortford, Mollie G Day has interests including photography, reading, travelling in Europe, particularly to Italy, and
writing letters. “I started writing about my family and friends about ten years ago when I retired and my work is influenced by the worth
of human nature, people I meet and their influences on me. I would like to be remembered as a person who tried to see the best in most
people and appreciated great friendships.” Mollie is a retired careers advisor. She is married to John and the person she’d most like to
meet is the singer Russell Watson. This poem is one of her first attempts and she is now keen to write more poetry about places, people
and events she loves and respects.
THIS DAY
This day the sun shone bright
Leaving shadows all around
The rays were spreading light
Over the frosty ground
I rode my horse with speed
Over valleys pleasant and green
My hands held tight upon the reigns
I passed a shimmering lake
Such beauty
I have
Never seen
My face covered in spider skeins
On my finger my loved one placed a ring
I feel I am in the starry sky
As I hear the robins sing
I wonder. I wonder why
Does he love me sure and true?
Only time will tell
Meanwhile, dear friends, missing that
Please treat me well
At least for this one day
Gloria D Preston
OLD HUNSTANTON BEACH
Whilst the sand trickles through my toes
The stillness reaches out and caresses my soul.
The cool breeze revives my senses
As I take a leisurely stroll.
My body unfurls like a cat from slumber
As I stretch my arms and breathe the salty air.
Negative thoughts ebb away with the tide
And the wind whistles through my hair.
The seagulls nestle in the layered cliffs
Then swoop down with their plaintive cry.
My skin tingles with freedom’s touch
And my body lets out a contented sigh.
As the sun goes down in a fireball glow
My imagination stretches with the view.
I’ve escaped from the urban chaos
And I’m beginning to feel like new.
Margaret Rowe
WARMINGTON VILLAGE STORE
Supermarkets rule the high streets of our country,
Their well-stocked shelves are filled with goods from foreign lands,
Their trollied aisles are thronged with plebs and gentry,
Cash registers ring out like shrill but tuneless bands.
Yet here in Warmington, far off the beaten track,
An enterprising couple opened up a shop,
Supplying locals with good food, not bric-a-brac,
Fresh vegetables, groceries, no germ-filled slop.
For supermarkets are unfriendly, not for chat,
Our village store is welcoming, a book-exchange,
Where cheerful greetings rule with verbal tit for tat
And morning coffee can be drunk, that’s quite a range.
No need to drive, no need to park, no trolleys here,
A friendly village street undrowned by traffic noise,
Old-fashioned grocer’s shop with service and good cheer,
A village store where you can shop and keep your poise.
John N Brown
NORWICH
Welcome to Norwich, a fine city full of character and mystery,
Its streets and wonderful old buildings echo tales of intrigue and history,
With majestic cathedral standing tall and proud,
Fifty years in the making,
Started by Norman Roger Bigod and two other noble men, a huge undertaking.
His castle stands aloft on a mound of Norwich, just a small part,
There’s Norwich Guildhall, home to several Lord Mayors over six hundred years,
The scene of one mayor’s murder, then a prison with tales of many tears.
Norwich has played host to kings and queens and men of noble birth,
Pulls ferry and Elm Hill, two more jewels in this crown of much worth.
There are many fantastic and gory tales and plots since Norwich’s birth,
Many famous people have resided, worked or visited our great city,
And so proud Norwich people sing and rejoice the city’s praise.
Its colourful past and bright future, so drink a toast and my glass I’ll raise.
Anthony Woodward
Born in Norwich, Anthony Woodward has interests including painting hand-built figures, drawing and writing. “I started penning
verses seriously when I had a period of illness and was incapacitated,” he explained. “My work is influenced by observations of life’s
events and I would like to be remembered as someone who made people think and appreciate friends and their surroundings.” Aged 55, Anthony
is married to Sylvana and they have one son and two daughters. He has an ambition to make money from writing. “The person I’d most like to
meet is Jimi Hendrix because he was a colourful, flamboyant showman and legendary guitar player,” added Anthony.
MARKET DEMISE
It’s all gone now. It’s a desolate scene.
Broken, buckled, rusted railings where the pens have been.
No more bewildered cattle, startled pigs or sheep bemused,
By country folk with raucous voice that frightened and confused.
It’s all gone now. Some would say that’s no bad thing.
No more harassed animals parading round a ring.
The old yards are all silent, and weeds through cobbles grow,
I shut my eyes and fancy I can hear the cattle low.
It’s all gone now, but when market day arrived
The villagers came flocking in. The township came alive.
They met with friends and neighbours, exchanged the
latest news.
Discussed the livestock on display, debated, aired their views.
It’s all gone now, and there’s very little left,
And gazing round the market place I feel somehow bereft.
No more hustle bustle. It’s a desolated scene.
Just broken, buckled, rusted railings where the pens had been.
Maureen Cleaton
FIT FOR JUST A FALL
I gaze from a window and within the abundance of sun
Life brighten many from awakening
Or slumbers to a joyful call
But as if caged from their joyful root of much delight
I am aware that I will have dreams of envy
But never live such happy moments
Of each and one and all.
Yes, I had a seizure just the other day and feel so guilty
Because I cannot clear the blood stains
From my concrete floor all away.
I know that to instill confidence within
Is building false bridges, what a sin.
I cannot guarantee a future of potential that others boast
And thus sustain
For I feel I will be fit for another fall again.
Neil Yule
YARMOUTH’S GREAT
Roll up, roll up, to Yarmouth everyone,
Just have fun, when you’re with everyone,
New style seafront, you must come and see,
Entertainment you must come for all to see.
There’s fish and chips and lovely food,
Candy and rocks and ice-cream too.
Plenty to do if you are in the mood.
So let yourself go on trains to and fro.
There’s pleasure beach too, for families to choose.
There’s horse and carts, take your time,
There’s pubs and clubs, you can dine.
Late night entertainment, you must have meant it’s time.
When you come to Great Yarmouth
It helps to kill the time.
Marion Mills
Born in London, Marion Mills has interests including writing, reading and art. “I started writing in the year 2000 and had success with
printing some of my work in magazines. I would describe my style as neat and artistic and I would like to be remembered by my stories
and poems,” she remarked. Aged 64, Marion is a housewife and carer. She looks after her husband, Peter, who suffers from illness. “The
person I’d most like to be is a journalist and the person I’d most like to meet is singer, Daniel O’Donnell,” added Marion.
HMP AND ME
The figures clad in black and white
Go back and forth and out of sight
The iron gates that call them in
To spend their time with those that sin.
At her majesties pleasure hundreds dwell
Thrown together to do their spell
And the residents with their angry cries
Staring out with soulless eyes .
Get black and white to answer their calls
As they do their time behind the walls
Two separate communities eternally joined
Opposing sides of the very same coin.
A twelve foot fence that draws the line
The end of their world, the start of mine.
Susan Feeney
CORNWALL
There’s one place I like to be,
Cornwall that’s the place for me,
Scrambling down rocks to the sea,
Then home again for scones and tea.
Heavenly.
Andy Hayward
PATH TO PARADISE?
There is a place, not very far,
Where trespass can’t be done.
To some it is a nightmare
But I can find it fun.
It doesn’t matter where I am,
It’s never very far.
If squashed up on a crowded bus
Or travelling in a car,
I always have a quiet nook
Still as the evening star.
So, sitting still with coat done up
And hat wedged on my head,
I cheerfully can sally forth
Where grown men fear to tread.
I stroll the pathways of my mind
And wander through my head.
Kate Rowland
Born in Exeter, Kate Rowland has interests including arts and crafts, singing and gardening. “I would describe my style as eclectic
and varied and I would like to be remembered as someone who triumphed over adversity and still made people smile,” she commented. Aged 39,
Kate has written stories and designed artwork and her biggest fantasy is to wake up one morning and realise that her ill-health was just
a dream. “My biggest nightmare is to be boring, mundane, petty and selfish,” she added.
DREAMS AT TAMWORTH CASTLE
Once I had a violin,
Couldn’t play, just made a din.
It seemed to me to be quite old
I wondered if it could be sold.
Castle staff agreed to see if they could be of help to me.
Up the castle hill I climbed, with money, money on my mind.
There I stood with bated breath,
In the home of Ethelred.
Museum staff all crowded round to see what treasure I had found.
What is the cause of all this fuss?
Could it be a Stradivarius?
At last the awful truth is known,
It’s a load of rubbish that I own.
The violin was made you see,
To make a fool of folk like me.
Christine Parry-Webb
THE TRAMP
A shambling, lonely figure wearing worn-out hobnailed boots,
A tattered shirt, a ‘kerchief, an apology of suits,
Mis-shapen jersey, too tight vest,
With tangled beard against pigeon chest.
Red dreadlocks wild, tied back with string.
You’re back in town. It must be spring.
Where do you go in winter? What brought about your plight?
Or did you choose to wander the land each day and night?
Where do you sleep or seek to rest
Your blistered feet so sore oppressed?
What do you eat or drink, save scraps
Filched from doorsteps or rubbish bags?
In the street I happen to meet you but you instantly dodge aside,
Your glittering eyes darting swiftly. Is it fear or cunning they hide?
I shiver with great apprehension
Then, aghast as there dawns comprehension,
I wonder who mourns you. Were you without friend
When in skip you were huddled and there met your end?
Susan Brown
Born in Birmingham, Susan Brown has interests including meeting people, keeping fit, patchwork, playing the harmonica and the ukulele,
handbell ringing and local history. “I originally wrote for colleagues when they left work and my poetry is influenced by art, music
and everyday life,” she explained. “My style is often reflective and sometimes humorous.” Susan is a retired librarian. She is married
to David and they have three daughters and four grandchildren. “My biggest fantasies are to learn to swim and to own a fairground organ,”
added Susan.
CHOCOLATE
The ancient Greeks will say, when sleeping under a carob tree,
All your dreams will come true someday.
“Oh” beautiful carob tree in the sun, I gaze up at your shining pods,
Is this the spot where chocolate boxes began.
As I sleep and dream, how good chocolate is for my self esteem.
I ask dear carob, can you hear my wish,
When in England you do arrive, promise not to make me fat,
If you do and my dream does not come true,
The cocoa bean I shall support, and always eat the honest Kit-Kat.
This delicious chockie bar is often worshiped from afar.
And when I dream again under your carob tree,
The wish you grant will come true for me.
Audrey Mullins
Audrey Mullins has interests including reading, walking and the animal world. “I started writing poetry as a hobby on my retirement and
my work is influenced by travel and life,” she commented. “I would describe my style as imaginative and I would like to be remembered as
someone who loved and cared for my fellow men.” Aged 73, Audrey is a retired registered general nurse with an ambition to write a
bestseller. She has four children and she would love to be an actress for a day. “I have written short stories and several poems,
four of which have been published,” added Audrey.
KINGSTANDING PUBS
I’m no alcoholic, but I do like a beer,
I think I am speaking for most of us here.
Why is it then if we all like our drink
That Kingstanding pubs are becoming extinct?
The Kingstanding’s shrunk - it used to be huge,
The Crossway’s now turned into some sort of refuge.
Houses now stand where the Charlie stood tall,
College Arms come Opera House, now a McDonald’s.
The Mount once so welcoming, I met my husband there,
Now those that still go enter if they dare.
Locally the Shed, formally the KCA
Became sad and neglected till they closed it one day.
The Boars Head nearly went but we kept it with victory,
Don’t people know these places have history?
These are just the ones gone in my area,
But I know it’s a fast growing hysteria.
Christina Bowen
MOVING IMAGES
I was the Palace that held your dreams.
In the soft, red plush of my warm interior
Adventures were lived, romantic love won through.
In that seat that held you safe
You escaped for a while from what was true
To my mysterious, dark, unreality.
Time moved on, today has different dreams.
I blaze with coloured neon, unforgiving light,
Illuminating with stark clarity a silent crowd,
Markers poised above the slips that hold their hopes.
To be the one to scream success out loud.
No mystery, too brash, too real.
Tomorrow I’ll be gone, and homes will rise.
To fill the space I held. Will they hold dreams?
Tonight, in silence, I will reminisce
‘Bout times when, carried by a beam of light,
Dreams lived, and in my dark, back rows was felt
That questing, clumsy, sweet, so sweet first kiss.
Joan Norgrove
THE PICTURE
It was taken almost one hundred years ago, by a
photographer we will never know. A picture of life as it
was then, Skegness in 1910. The clock tower was built,
it must have been new; an old man crosses the road
for a rendezvous. A smart lady in a hat, dressed to be
seen. Who was she, where had she been? A tall
policeman stands by his proud white horse, he had to
be six feet tall to join the force. A small boy in a cap
sparks his clogs on the cobbled street, a pretty girl in
a frock with a gentleman to meet. An era of innocence,
they don’t know what was to come, their idyllic world
smashed by the horrors of the Somme. I walk along
Lumley Road a hundred years on, I close my eyes and
imagine the people in the picture, then I open my eyes
and they are all gone.
Francis Greenwood
TIDESWELL WAKES
Out on a branch a little bird sings,
While down on the ground I find some rings
Of daisies. White shining, Mum to please,
As squirrels dance tangos in the trees.
Church bells ring out a metallic clang,
The bass drum beats out, boom bang-a-bang,
Keeping in time with those marching feet,
As the town brass band comes down our street.
Wakes week is here, fun every day,
Giving the children real cause to play,
Once more the fairground has come to town,
Coconuts, dodgems, swing boats, a clown.
We all have such fun, laughing out loud
Balmy June days with scarcely a cloud.
The tug of war, my dad’s strength to test,
Which local team will come out the best?
Saturday parading through the town,
Brass bands and Pipe bands bring the house down,
From near or far folks come to give cheer,
At Tideswell Wakes, highlight of the year.
Reg Cokayne
GREAT HOUGHTON VILLAGE
A sought after area, that’s how it’s described
By the estate agent standing by my side
Two thatched roofed pubs built of local stone
Where villagers can visit for a drink and a moan
The church is the pinnacle, elegant and small
Which at night is lit and observed by all
Sadly, the post office has been closed for years
Looking empty and lonely, confirming villagers fears
Newly built is the village hall
Offering numerous events at the flick of a call
On sunny summer days, cricket is played
With various refreshments on a table laid
The village green has a bench and a sign
Where passers by can idle their time
This small pretty village which is well kept
Makes the thought of moving something I’ll regret
I’ve decided Great Houghton is a place I adore
And the decision to move is not an option anymore
Diane Ilka
Diane Ilka said: “I am a newcomer to verse writing, but have previously had a book published. Great Houghton Village is my third attempt at
poetry. The second, The Empty Nest, was inspired by the emotions I felt once my two sons, John and Peter left home. My book The Cali Album
contains my first four line poem in the conclusion, also photographs and signed contracts relevant to the many famous sixties and seventies
artists who performed at the California Ballroom, Dustable. For example, The Rolling Stones, Stevie Wonder, Jimi Hendrix, The Who and The
Temptations. It retails at £14.99. For further details please email dianeilka@hotmail.com.”
LEICESTER LIVING
Four a.m, foxes yittering on the lawn
Upflung windows the only hue and cry.
Eight a.m. dawn, with the wind searing seen
Beauty of the Swithy Woods into feeling.
Frosted branches, disrobed trees, holly, yew
And ivy glowing greenly into day.
Deer stepping daintily across the whitened dell.
Bus into cityscape, nestling in prospect,
That suddenly seems all there is. Shopping halls,
Busy streets, roadworks, Victorian structures
Gently crumbling, battered into planners void.
Luxury towers of Babel, no playgrounds, no community.
Tidal languages in the schools, roads and jittys
Of landlocked Leicester, washing us into the future
And nitty-gritty get along.
Evening, home again with bird seed, cat treats, dog bones,
Fox food, Mercury. Keep it real. Learn to say hello
In thirty different tongues.
Lesley Vann
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER
In my little village you wouldn’t believe an event was about to take place.
It wasn’t snow falling on that Christmas Eve, but a rather more interesting case.
They came from the sky, like fires from hell, scientists beamed with delight.
Thousands of pieces just shattered and fell. All part of the meteorite.
For millions of years it had travelled alone, hurtling its way through space.
We were all proud to say it made Barwell its home,
A quiet and dignified place.
Hundreds of people were rushing around, the Christmas spirit had gone.
Searching for fragments that fell to the ground, their value was second to none.
A gentleman taking his dog for a walk watched a piece fall from the sky.
For weeks after this he did not wish to talk, but Barwell folk understood why.
It’s not boots and shoes, but the meteorite, that made this small village alive.
A spectacular sight on that cold Christmas night in nineteen sixty five.
Wendy Bown
FAMOUS LOCAL LADY
Born in Grantham, a shopkeeper’s daughter
She gained great fame in every quarter
She stood tall in a world of men
And famously lived at number ten
She was well known for words that were burning
She said, This lady’s not for turning
She saw us through the Falklands war
And will be remembered for ever more
For she showed great wisdom, power and strength
And gave her all at every length
She was true blue, with none to match her
She is the Lady Margaret Thatcher
Jan Imeson
CHARLOTTE BISHOP IN CHURCHTOWN VILLAGE
White washed, thatched cottages,
With tiny windows peeping onto the lane,
Kids homeward bound from school,
Splashing in puddles left by recent rain.
Charlotte Bishop, with mud on her dress,
Marches through all of them, she makes such a mess.
Ring necked doves sit on chimneys and coo,
Charlotte thinks they’re saying, how do you do?
From the park by the church waddle ducks through the gate,
The lollipop man makes all traffic wait.
A mallard with her young marches straight to the pub,
And they’re fed at the back door, avian pub grub.
From the old stone church, with the clock and the spire,
Come the angelic voices of practicing choir.
And Charlotte’s still tramping through puddles with glee,
She just wants to get home, because it’s spag bol for tea,
Frankie Shepherd
BLACKPOOL
Blackpool by the sea is such a popular resort
With everything to suit all needs, for each creative thought.
Look along the promenade, with miles of golden sands
Take a tram ride, which goes past
Where the majestic Tower stands.
Attractions await inside the Tower,
And the lift takes you to the top
On a clear day you can see for miles
And they also have a shop!
Come into the fabulous ballroom
For wonder, music, dancing
A visit takes your breath away, it really is entrancing.
Keep some time for the aquarium, the Tower Circus too
And Jungle Jim’s a children’s dream,
With lots for them to do.
People love the Pleasure Beach, with rides and thrills galore
Where a happy day there can be spent
Which has them clamouring for more.
Leave your troubles back at home, relax and look around,
There’s really no place like it, where thrills and joy abound!
Jasmine Grace Geddes
A FRIDAY JOB
There was a young lady from Tooting
Who was not very good at computing.
Her boss said, Miss Lee, press the archive key.
Make sure you do it each Friday.
But after he left, she was a little bereft for she had a lot to do.
Then the doorman came in shouting, Let’s be having you
Everyone out, to your homes you must go.
I want to lock up so don’t be slow.
She finished her work and out she went,
She clocked her card, a day well spent.
She sat on the bus thinking what she had done,
She really had had quite a lot of fun.
Suddenly, she jumped up, spluttered and sneezed,
Oh no, it’s Friday, my boss won’t be pleased.
He told me to do a certain job,
I have not done it.
She began to sob.
He is sure to tell me off quite hard.
I hope he doesn’t give me my cards.
Patricia Leahy
MY YEARLY VISIT TO KESWICK
I am Winter, as the locals all know
I come to Keswick to put on my show;
I wander through the park of Fitz
I look at all the leaves and rub my blue and icy hands;
I zap the leaves of the trees with my icy powers
And shatter them with snow;
I make the grass blades shake and shiver
With an icy coat of dew;
As you can see I’m fantastically
Powerful and strong;
I can see you know with your gloves and woolly hats
My hands are creeping round your necks and blasting your face with shivers.
Edward Hutchinson
IMMIGRATION IN MY CITY
So many new faces
In the streets of uptown
Excitement and chatter
No fear, no frown
They have come to live in my city
My city is Chester, the jewel in the crown
They have come with new hope
A chance for their young
Potential unfilled
As yet unsprung
There will be those
Who will work hard
And be a success
With lots to thank
And lots to bless
I hope the people in my city
Will give them a chance
Embrace them with kindness
For mankind and my city
To enhance
Patricia Wilton-King
TIME ON OUR HANDS
The Town Hall clock that stands in the square,
No one is sure how long she’s been there.
She’s a beacon of life for this sleepy town,
A landmark for strangers who visit.
Her porcelain face lights up the night sky,
Her beauty’s matured over time.
She’s elegant and proud, stands out in the crowd,
She’s hostess to many social events,
The dates in her diary are full.
She’s ruthless, yet kind when she gives you the time,
No matter the weather, she’s got it together.
She’s busy making her way round the clock
With never a moment to spare.
What can we do for the clock in the square
Who gives us so much of her time?
Let’s give her our time, time after time, after time.
Brenda Thompson
Dedicated to my late husband, Albert.
Born in Lancashire Brenda Thompson has interests including reading, pottery, crafts, tai chi, and swimming. “I have had more chance to work
on my writing since I retired from my job as a training officer in textiles,” she explained. “My biggest ambition is to have my poems and
children’s books published. The person I would most like to be for a day is a miracle worker and I would love to meet the Dalai Lama.”
Brenda is the widow of Albert and she has two sons and a daughter.
SEASCALE
As the wind blows
As night follows day
As the sun rises and
The sun sets
Bringing a new dawn.
As the morning dew
Drips from the spider’s web.
As the tide turns
Never ceasing
We are but a raindrop
In the mighty ocean.
A delicate flower
In the bloom of heaven.
God asks that we care
For his kingdom and
All his creatures
It is our home.
Vivienne Hosfield
Born in Durham, Vivienne Hosfield has interests including holistic therapies, music, art and needlework. “My work is influenced by my
personal experiences and I would describe my style as free-flowing,” she pointed out. “I would like to be remembered as someone who had
an ability to listen.” Vivienne is a retired midwife and former laboratory technician. She has children Rachel and Zoe. “The person I
would most like to meet is T S Elliot and I would love to be an angel for the day,” added Vivienne.
PRESTON’S FLYING PLUMBER
Oh, there was a star winger of Preston
Who were proud as he pulled a white vest on
Then he dribbled around
His full back on the ground
He’s Tom Finney, the legend of Preston
Peter Cleland
THE DAY EARBY TURNED INTO A RIVER
The rain poured from the sky,
A terrible, wet July.
Puddles gathered in every hollow,
Drains spewed their water, to follow.
Gutters gurgled and rushed along,
To join the splashing,
Of nature’s song.
Soon, the beck outside joined the river,
And roadway too,
Just a raging turmoil of water,
Trees and debris joined the queue.
No bridge to cross, no railings to divide,
I could see my family on the other side.
Then, a face popped up from the raging water,
My grandson, Phil,
Are you ok, Gran?
He said with a cheeky grin,
Then back into the water, to the other side,
I watched him swim away, with pride.
Iris Tennent
NEW YEAR IN COATBRIDGE
New year in Coatbridge
Pure dead brilliant, aye it is
Everyone stays up to yon time
Shortbread, dumplings, Buckfast wine
At the bells a dram or two
Who’s going to first foot you?
It’s the party of the year
When the spirits are finished we’re on the beer
The magic is in the air
Nowhere else can compare
The celebration lasts from hours to days
For New Year this is the place
To get out of your face
Julia McClay
A PORTRAIT OF LANCASHIRE
The boundaries o’ Lancashire ’ave changed so much
O’er the years I’ seems t’ave shrunk
Bu’ wherever y’ come from in the north west
Yu’l ’ear folk say it’s Lancashire the best!
From border t’ border, the Red Rose County
Coast t’ dales, stretch o’er the towns
Cities expandin’ through countryside still plenty
Lancashire cun offer so much variety
A ride down prom, by tram or by ’orse
Ye’, you’ve guessed right; Blackpool o’ course
Four thousand holes in my ’ome town, Lennon said so, in that certain song
Rollin’ ’ills o’er Lancaster way, then travel across t’ Morecambe Bay
Along the canal from Liverpool t’ Leeds
Wi’in the walls the sound o’ machinery, old mills still standin’ deadly and silent
Now, wildlife an’ anglers own the waters
Gone are the workers, their days ’ave ended
You’ll always find us on reet side o’ Mersey
An’ nowt is greater than Manchester
Ask any true thoroughbred
Lancashire’s all one, no more t’ be said!
Clare Bradley
WHEELWRIGHT PASSING
Nigh on a century has been put to the test
And the long-lived wheelwright rolls at length to his rest.
Slicing his home grown beans, he talked to me,
Already many years ago from his memory,
How an urgent job in the timber yard
Would call him from school.
How a fine sprung , sturdy cart would arise from his work
And on such a cart he would bounce and lean to the road
Taking zestful risks round bends and down the hills.
Only a handful of years ago, one would see
This unmistakable figure raising his stick
To stop the main road traffic, and heart in mouth,
One watched him wamble across is triumph, even with glee
And chuckle uphill to his house.
Oh yes, it is best
To sing a hymn of gladness on this day
When the gleeful wheelwright rolls at length to rest.
Juliet M Rees
Born in Windsor, Juliet M Rees has interests including music, reading and helping dyslexic people to read and write. “I started
writing poetry at school and my work is influenced by Larkin, Browning and Tennyson,” she remarked. “I would like to be remembered
as an honest poet.” Aged 72, Juliet is a teacher with an ambition to run a salon for readers and writers. She is married to Brian
Rees and has five stepchildren. “The person I would most like to meet is the novelist Thomas Hardy because I love all his work,”
added Juliet.
NEW ARRIVAL
Perfect hands and perfect feet,
Although you cry, your nature’s sweet.
All the spirits were there to greet
You on the day of your birth.
Perfect fingers, perfect toes,
Full of goodness, I suppose.
Spiritual grandmas pinch your nose,
As they gather round.
So soft of skin, so soft of hair,
So soft of breath and so aware.
Even your smell is so, so fair,
We’re filled with feelings beyond compare.
May you flourish like a flower,
We will nourish you each hour.
Give you room to stretch and grow,
Become aware, share what you know.
We can never count the ways,
We’ll love you throughout all our days.
We’ll love you with every living breath,
And in whatever life comes next.
Philippa Devenay