Read Poetry from Heartland
THE WATERS OF WELWYN
Although I am returning from years of exile,
the scars of life and death still healing,
I had not expected to be so deeply moved
as the half-forgotten yet heart-beat familiar
curves of the country road opened out
and I saw - the great Victorian Digswell Viaduct,
a graceful portcullis across the valley
and memories of the Flying Scotsman
bring a smile to my heart.
for coming back to Viaduct country means,
I am home.
As a rare vine revives
when replanted in its native soil
so too do I, back in my beloved Hertfordshire hills
with their soft contours of quiet charm,
and I find that the waters of the meandering Mimram
flow as clear and as freely as my tears of joy.
Christina Raven, Welwyn, Hertfordshire
YOU’RE NOT THAT BAD GRAN
It had been the first time I’d walked outside
Since I lost my mind
Met a young lady, she was very kind
She even helped me look for my teeth I could not find
You’re not that bad Gran
Escaped out the garden gate
Kissed the post man and called him mate
And ran as fast as I could down the beach
You're not that bad Gran
Looked for my date, Sam twenty-one, seemed ideal for me
Apart from they forgot to put months, not years
All this excitement was making me need a wee
So I went to the loo and what did I see?
A pair of teeth smiling back at me.
Hannah Kitchen, Boston, Lincolnshire
Dedicated to my mum who I love more than anything, and to my nan who inspired me to write this poem.
Hannah Kitchen said: I am 11 and this is my first poem I've had published. I thought it up while bouncing up and down on my trampoline in the garden. I live with my mum and two dogs and play football for Wyberton Wildcats. I enjoy all sports and represent Sibsey Free School in tag rugby, cricket, tennis, football, swimming, cross country and swimming. I have recently started indoor bowling for Boston and I'm doing well for the junior team. I also enjoy going on cruises with my mum and looking after all my animals.
KIRBY GROVE MEMORIES
Come with me, let's take a walk
Down memory lane, we will wander
Starting over the bridge to see the steam train pass
We'll kick off our shoes to land in the grass
And we'll laugh as we find them
Then in the fields we will roam
We'll go under the bridge and on to the bank
We'll run to the river and paddle its edge
Then we'll sit with our butties, we'll drink and we'll eat
What a glorious sight, this River Dee
It's now getting late, so we'll have to make tracks
If we're lucky, we'll make the race to the bridge
The steam train is coming and oh, what a thrill
One shoe still on, the other in Rhyl!
But before we head home, we'll stop at the brook
To see the swans swimming with the ducks in the nook
That's what we did before we went home
Back to our house in Kirby Grove
Rosemarie Lynn Foulkes, Mancot, Wales
IMPRESSIONS OF KEW GARDENS VILLAGE
Impressions of Kew Gardens village
Situated close to the river Thames ravine
A small town by fashionable Richmond
The Royal botanic pleasure gardens
Kew palace stands in Georgian splendour
Where the Victorian iron gates reside
And the church stands on the village green
A picture book scene in London
The district line station is metroland
Around the shopping parade are local villagers
In the preamble of idyllic peaceful days
As the crowd bustle to street entertainment
For families live in capital bourgeoise
And children play in neverending days
Summertime and the fragrant flowers
Streams sparkle in the light of the sun
Where the boats sail at Kew Pier
Pissaro paints a nineteenth century picture
While the bridge across the water runs
Stories about a little famous town
Elizabeth Tittensor, Richmond, Surrey
THE OLD PICTURE POSTCARD
On the old picture postcard
Some buildings look the same
And the road is looking wet
From some recent rain.
It is the same street as it is today
Yet different in a modern way.
People stand watching the photographer
Who were these people standing there.
They look curious as they stand and stare
Do those looks mean, let strangers beware
They look very much at home
In this town still called Stone.
Some of the buildings are still here today
But others like time have vanished away.
Audrey Ritzkowski, Stone, Staffordshire
HOUSE UPON THE HILL
When visitors depart
And sunlight dapples on my ancient stone,
I bask in mellow evening's balmy glow
Bestowed when heat of summer's day has gone.
My spirits come to life
As peace descends, my walls do well recall
Those people past and present who were here,
The royal banquets, civil war and all.
My name is Hoghton Tower,
Above my northern landscape I survey
Far mountains, roads and rivers spread before me,
So tranquil in this fading of the day.
Birds settle on my roof,
And distant city lights I see below,
But mine are dimmed as I await tomorrow
When all my splendours once again I'll show.
Now here's a winter sky
I'm less benign, my ramparts dark and still,
A silent snowfall shrouds me in its cloak
So ghostly now, the house upon the hill.
Dorothy Mapley, Preston, Lancashire
LOVE AT THE LOCAL FETE
I saw her on the village green, it was the day of the local fete,
With her long dark hair and large brown eyes, I knew I couldn't wait
To really get to know this girl who'd set my heart on fire
So I lingered by the gate, 'neath the chestnut trees by the briar.
As she came near her gentle look told me she liked me too,
So I held her close and caressed her face as our friendship grew.
We walked together across the green and under the
chestnut trees,
We enjoyed each other's company and the gentle summer breeze.
We declared our love, and I said for me that there would be no other -
But we knew that it could never be, as she belonged to another.
So as we parted on the village green, I told her I loved her only,
Then sadly I watched her walk away - the most adorable little brown pony.
Jan Imeson, Allington, Lincolnshire
STOKES BAY
Amber slashed pie in the sky
chases the day away.
Turreted waves in gun-metal grey,
dressed to kill, still
scour the ravaged bay.
Fricassee of shrapnel and spent shells
festoon the walkways,
to cut underfoot.
Garnish of cinnamon barks,
in splendid disarray
adorn the shores.
Vantage point
peach boulder battlements
keep the sea at bay.
Lights fire from armoured trucks
of salvage workmen,
barricades on display,
whilst slightly inland,
offset, just back from the fray,
marines pine for salad days.
Sandra Davies, Gosport, Hampshire
A FRIGHTFUL JOURNEY
Ordered a taxi for a certain date
For an appointment not to be late.
Cruised along at an appropriate speed
Saw students gather, as we proceed.
Down the Bede bank, we came to a halt
Traffic lights showed red, it wasn’t a fault.
As we waited at the traffic light
A jolt, a shudder, we had a fright.
The car behind shunted on to us
In our view loomed a great big bus.
We were startled and shocked with the impact
It wasn’t a dream. It was a fact.
The bus driver appeared on the scene
Checking for damage on our windscreen.
The car driver behind was to blame
As details were given there seemed no shame.
We checked, no bones broken, no collapse
Suffered injuries from whiplash
Our journey continued without more mishaps.
Doreen Barella, Sunderland, Tyne and Wear
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NORTHWICH
On Weaver's bank with fishing net
Where Cavalier and Roundhead met
Changing colour with blood let
Winnington Bridge was prize to get
Where the Dane and Weaver meet
Where cobbles still line some street
Where the chemical giant was born
Where polythene was spawn
Where Victorian splendour lines its boundaries
Where no longer are its foundaries?
Boatyards, canals and lakes
The nation's condiment it makes
A colossal boat lift standing tall
Hoisting vessels large and small
Some hundred years it stood alone
Many which were sad, forlorn
Rural views I would not switch
Countryside and ditch
For deep inside Cheshire which
Lies the salt town Northwich
Dennis Humphreys, Northwich, Cheshire
THE CONCRETE SHELL
Once holy now left to echo the spirit of time
The faithful gone with its passing
Now artists fill it with dreams
The verse on the wall tells of the now
Apples laid by artistic hands slowly mark nature's time
The colour changing as they seed
Beauty filling emptiness
The wonder of artistic hands
Painting with nature's creation
The dream of the then
Filled with the reality of now
The stones and shells bonded by man
Encapsulate the creation of time
Built for the worship of God
Now used to fulfil his gift to man
Incense, laid to slow the pace of time
Heat leaves its recorded burn
To visit is a time of wonder
A time of thought
A time never to forget
Bernard Tucker, London, Greater London
NOT QUITE CONVINCED
Even
If there was a miracle
And a good God gave me back my
Voice ... sight and hearing ...
And even
If there were two miracles
And good God gave me back
My old physical ability ...
To use again
Then firstly
It is not guaranteed
That I have matured enough
To deservingly cherish those
Treasures regained by miracle
And secondly
I am not quite convinced
Whether after so many years of disability
That would be what I desired the most ...
Piotr Kniecicki, Putney, Greater London
FRIENDSHIP
These words are written especially for Janet
Countryside and village ever dear to her
Private hardships were kept that way
Buckles breadvan, large loaded basket and Janet
For years, a rural day
Rising at dawn, home at dusk
She loved people, tea and cake
Time for a natter every day
In local dramatics, her appearance and talents bloomed
Her bike was her Rolls Royce
Later, her worthy support
As feet became well worn
Simplicity, honesty and gratitude
And a welcoming smile always
Two flowery Buddleia, a gift from Janet
I said the attracting butterflies would remind me of her
Hours after her private demise at her home
I found two gorgeous butterflies flitting joyfully around my kitchen
Beautiful in every sense of the word
Margaret Ann Wheatley, Smarden, Kent
BLUE DIAMOND
Full sixty years ago today
You stood close by my side
And as we both confirmed our love
I looked on you with pride
We both made solemn vows that day
That death alone would part
And after many golden years
That was the case Sweetheart
And most of those that saw us wed
When we were in our prime
From off the stage have long since fled
Such is the march of time
The Cornish village where we met
That sunny, summer's day
Is much the same as it was when
Your Pa gave you away
Its old, grey, granite country church
Stands firm against the blast
That every fury hurls at it
For only stone will last
Ron Dean, Saffron Walden, Essex
PEVENSEY CASTLE
Where did those great stones come from piled atop each other?
Which have looked back through the mists of time
When the enemy came storming up that stoney beach
Clad in fur and steel, with bow and spear.
What became of the village and the farm,
By the pillager who came to do them harm.
Did they flee before those raiders from across the sea?
Then to times when armies came from Rome
To enslave them and destroy their homes
When the Huns sacked Rome they had no pity,
The Romans returned to their sacred city.
Then the Angles and the Saxons brought more war
Then Christians came to restore with a promise of a new tomorrow.
Still these walls saw more sorrow.
Then in times with peace, so frail, they have heard the sirens wail.
These steadfast ramparts that have stood the ravages of war
Heard the clash of steel once more.
Its secrets are kept in its walls so deep
Today we stand within the castle's keep,
And we say, sleep good, castle sleep.
James Pyett, Pevensey, Sussex
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FLEETWOOD PIER
It has gone forever
Nothing left now except burnt embers and twisted iron.
Although since our childhood and our parents time
It had always been there.
Welcoming us on our sand haven holidays.
Victorian lady with empire spirit,
Pirouetting over the dark brown sea.
Once silver and shining against the sunlit morning
Smelling of salt air and fish.
Waiting for the visitors,
Who would marvel at the thundering waves beneath.
At night tended by purple shadows as the golden sun
Sank into the awesome deep.
Casting the rhythms of seasons
Along the wind blown coast,
While gulls shrieking cries tell of a passing time,
We remember only the splendour,
And the way it once presided over the ocean
Like an old friend lit by the moonlight
Inviting us into a magical space on the lonely walk home.
Marjorie Nye, Blackpool, Lancashire
POWYS
Plynlimon's grandeur, veiled in mist and snows
To hide its secrets without trace
The waters from its inmost body flows
The Wye is born to flow with nature's grace
As it descends through meadow and the glen
Trefaldwyn's rough terrain, now departed
It gains in strength and might and volume when
In Gamon Vale, it joins the river Marteg
This is my home, my pretty mid-Wales lair
With tranquil vales, and ripple of the streams
The land of song and beauty everywhere
This is God's land, the wondrous land of dreams
The hedgerows too are bursting into life
Green buds and blossom catch my sparkling eye
A time of beauty, love and peace, not strife
And everywhere, the power of God I spy
Powys, the land I love so well
Land of my birth, I kiss the sun's strong beams
As it shines forth in every nook and dell
This is God's land, the wondrous land of dreams
Reginald M Williams, St Harmon, Wales
Reginald M Williams said: I have written a considerable number of poems over the last 60 years, many having been published. Being a countryman, I get inspiration to write about and describe the beautiful area of Mid-Wales in which I live. I have also been keenly interested in local history and photography. I recently wrote and published a book on Mid Wales entitled A Glimpse of Beautiful Mid-Wales. This is
available at £15 (plus £6 p&p) from R M Williams, St Harmon, Llanview, Rhayader, Wales, LD6 5LU. (signed by author if required).
LLANTRISANT - ANCIENT AND MODERN
From a Llantrisant point of view,
It's rather sad, but very true
That there's an air of moving on, of cut and thrust,
But we still have Roman drains,
And the skyline doesn't change,
And the rarest thing of all ...
Our own Town Trust.
And sometimes there's a night,
That has a shimmering silver light,
And a mist lies waiting on the castle green.
Everything is hushed and still,
Then we hear marching up the hill,
A ghostly army,
But no sight of them is seen.
The old cobbles are resigned,
To the sound of traffic whine,
The clattering of hooves is long since gone,
But Llantrisant's oh, so rare,
There's always something in the air,
The memory of its past still lingers on.
Judith Humphreys, Llantrisant, Wales
HOUGHTON FEAST
The second weekend in October is when friends and
families meet
Heralding the start of the 900-year-old festival of Houghton Feast.
Bernard Gilpin rector of the local parish church from 1557 to 1583
Started the tradition of roasting an ox, distributed to the poor for free.
The fairgrounds were held in the lake and Market Place
The welfare football ground was where the foot handicap races were based.
Due to housing developments the fairground is now on the rectory field
Pipers from local pipe bands compete for the feast shield.
Colourful floats led by marching bands parade along Broadway
A festival service in St Michael's church is held on the
sunday
On monday afternoon roast ox sandwiches are sold
In the evening a firework display is a sight to behold.
From the fairground the music blares
As families and teenagers forget their cares
Enjoying rides, having goes on the coconut shies
Eating toffee apples, candy floss and pies.
Doris Turner, Hetton-le-Hole, Tyne and Wear
SUNRISE
The Pennine Hills of Yorkshire
Looked a wondrous sight
As the sun awakened
In the early morning light.
The Emley Moor TV mast,
Standing proud and tall,
But as the sun ascended,
Side by side it looked quite small.
Castle Hill another landmark
With its famous tower,
Looked in the shadow
At this early hour.
Just like the pendulum
Of a ticking clock,
The sun went on its journey,
Its work it could not stop.
The Holme Moss TV mast,
Standing tall and proud,
Looked like a rocket,
Shrouded halfway in the cloud.
The early morning dew,
Waiting for the sun
To warm and feed the flowers,
A new day had begun.
Barbara Hellewell, Meltham, West Yorkshire
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A TOWN CALLED BATLEY
Taylor's Mill stands like an empty shell,
If walls could speak what would they tell,
Way back in the past this would not be,
Once a valued employment in the town of Batley.
Once Batley variety club was all the rage,
Queuing to see pop stars on stage,
The music was fine for all to hear,
The building remains now called the Frontier.
Once three cinemas graced the town,
One has changed and two are pulled down,
Three supermarkets visited by many,
Difficult to imagine when there was not any.
Linda Blackburn, Batley, West Yorkshire
WATCHFUL EYE
As I gaze upon Spennymoor Town
My hands are going up and down
Now and then I give a chime
I am a keeper of the time
Chattering children walk to the pool
Noisy pupils when out of school
Shoppers stroll at a leisurely pace
Buying goods in the market place
In the park, gardeners toil
Planting flowers in rich soil
Infants play on the swings in the sand
Watchful parents close at hand
My exalted post lets me see
A town engaged in activity
Producing goods, serving needs
Many people sowing seeds
It is evening, families rest
Like the lights, they give their best
I will watch them every hour
Waiting for those seeds to flower
Thomas Conlon, Spennymoor, County Durham
Dedicated to the people who live and work in and around Spennymoor.
CHEESY
There's music in Woodbridge
He's here again
Every day his soul he plays
Cheesy by name and
His jokes are the same
Everyone loves to hear his song
Everyone loves to
Stop and pet his faithful dog Bert
Year after year this special
Busker has been the heart
And unique soul of our little town
King of the streets he is
Even when he's down
Real love we have for our Cheesy Busker
Sharon Kemp, Ipswich, Suffolk
SUFFOLK LANES
Suffolk Lanes twist and turn
Revealing hidden delights
That charm the eye
Suffolk Lanes twist and turn
Leading to love, laughter
Desire in the eye.
Suffolk lanes twist and turn
Fading in the evening mists
That wend their tendrils
At every turn
And dim the eye
Suffolk lanes twist and turn
Until our destination
We reach and leave behind
Our hidden dreams and so darkens the eye
Janice Edwards, Woodbridge, Suffolk
Dedicated to my bus drivers on the Felixstowe - Ipswich - Woodbridge routes.
Born in Middlesex, Janice Edwards has interests including reading, runes, crystals and writing. I started writing recently after reading some verses written by my daughter. I was checking them for her, she commented. My work is influenced by my lifestyleand I would describe my style as free verse. I would like to be remembered as a free-spirited person who lived life to the full and had a great belief in freedom of speech. Aged 67, Janice is retired and has an ambition to cruise the world. She has three children and five grandchildren.
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6AM WALK IN HETHERSETT
Dill pulls energetically, heading for the railings marking Taylor-Wimpey territory;
the groundworker's detritus strewn haphazardly.
Suddenly, from within a skip, seven blue-black crows arose, erupted,
spewing caws, corrupted the tranquillity.
Dill crouched low, startled by the flapping and their darkness.
Undistracted now towards Lynch Green and Myrtle Road.
Trees enclose, block out worries of financial global gloom,
smothering the greedy fat cat's purring.
Cockerels crow, compass points in decibels across village gardens.
Drenched, dew-pulled cobwebs shimmer, the fat bodies of their spinners hidden.
A grey heron with laborious wings landed on the sodden ground.
Announced his arrival with a throaty squawk, shook his head, stretched, then downward curled his neck, he crouched, transformed,
a wisened old man.
Slowly with each calculated, yet hesitant and wary step, bright piercing eyes,
huge slowly moving feet, at all times equidistant head to earth,
he stalked towards the pond,
where, in the reeds, the ghost carp, calmly, rippled, unaware.
Pippa Chapman, Norwich, Norfolk
Pippa Chapman said: I spent my childhood in Hove and my married life in Shoreham-by-Sea and Norfolk, where my two daughters and three grandchildren live. When writing my life story, I discovered that it was through free verse that I could best express my emotions. I retired from the NHS and I now enjoy singing, writing and teaching indoor bowls. I also help adopted adults who feel the need to trace their birthparents.
OUNDLE MARKET
A hustle and a bustle on a Thursday morn:
A clank and rattle as the traders set their stalls,
The start of trade was marked one time by hunting horn,
The nature of what's sold is known by merchant's calls.
There's shining piles of fruit from orchards near and far
And market garden peas and sprouts heaped high in mounds,
Used gathering tools for sale which smell of oil and tar,
The tang of coffee and the shoppers' chatting sounds.
The scene is much the same as in the days of yore
When carts and horse-drawn buggies carried stores from farms
And travelling pedlars sold their wares from door to door.
The market still retains a quota of its charms.
John N Brown, Peterborough, Cambridgeshire
RENEWED AND SPARKLING
Sparkling, shining, spirited,
Inspired, graceful body glided around the room.
Bright, vivid colours
Sparkling, shining, refreshing, stimulating
Like the phoenix with renewed energy.
Sparkling, vibrant and encouraged by the people
In the Mayfair community centre.
Sparkling, she danced to the music
Feeling the warm glow grow inside her.
Enthusiastic, stretching through her fingertips,
Reaching out to those who gave her love and support.
Sparkling, shining, twirling and swirling,
Beautifully dancing.
Sparkling, smiling through this journey,
Sparkling on this roller coaster,
Thank you to the kind and caring community
Of Church Stretton.
Angela Jones, Church Stretton, Shropshire
YOU LIFT THE CORNER OF THE CURTAIN
You lift the corner of the curtain,
Fly away from the gate,
Leave me behind wondering wild wind outside.
I push open the window,
Set free the bitter smell of lemon leaves.
I am dancing above the icing river,
In the red dancing shoes flaring and burning.
Steam rises up pretending to be my tears,
Like the gentle maze wakening by the myth,
Weighing the swings of swans fluttering being shy,
Wet the dreary eyes imagining a home without invasion.
The image of ghosts flashes back and forth,
Diligently play dreams on the platform of city wall.
Some ugly gentle voice steals over my blue paled smile,
Like moonlight tiptoeing above misty flowers,
Wave his hand before disappearing into the freezing night.
Isabella Dean, Worcester, Worcestershire
OUR SUE
Without going overboard,
A national treasure
Has to be Sue Barker
Who comes from Paignton in Devon near Torquay.
Our Sue who is knowledgeable
Blonde and full of fun,
Is esteemed very highly by everyone.
An ambassador to be proud of
At many major sporting events
From Wimbledon to the London Marathon
Or a TV hostess who presents
God bless you, Sue Barker,
Who is so much more
Than a pretty face
For this polite and pleasing lady
Is our Sue
Who has charm and grace.
Joan Kernick, Newton Abbot, Devon
SPLIT SECOND
Lads looking cool, lads looking good,
Lads in their flash car doing all they could
To pull the girls, to attract attention.
Rival guys, defying all convention.
Driving around with their music full on.
The four of them singing a rugby song.
Windows down so we all can hear.
Trying to impress. They've been on the beer.
They charge through the lanes, like bats out of hell,
Driving like crazy and not very well.
Taking the bends and swerving around,
Enjoying the music, enjoying the sound.
They head for the motorway, they love the speed.
Adrenaline buzzing, the freedom they need.
They can't wait to get there, a lorry's ahead.
They wiz around it, then they see red,
The car approaching, a woman's face,
The blast of a horn, then nothing but haze,
The split second crashing and thunderous noise,
The mangled bodies of those beautiful boys.
Carol Ponting, Bristol, Avon
Carol Ponting said: During our lives most of us are touched by sorrow and grief but also by sheer joy, happiness and laughter. Sometimes in the depths of despair, we wonder however we can go on. Later, we find ourselves doubled up with laughter. Sometimes, there is just a little pause in time that will bring a smile to our lips or a tear to our eyes. At such times I feel compelled to express myself through poetry and I want to share this with others. I hope that you will order my book Life In Rhyme from Waterstones or Amazon.co.uk.
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THE GARDEN PARTY, GLASGOW, LATE SUMMER, 1945
Jimmy's made of party,
We're all of us invited.
There's ice blocks and lemonade
And some concoctions Jimmy made,
We're all of us invited.
Now to ask mum,
It isn't damp or wet,
She can see it from the window
Of our warm kitchenette.
Eat up all your tea,
There's some cream sponge there,
Perhaps mum will give it a bit
For all of us to share.
There isn't much,
But we've been taught
There's always some to share.
Now to ask the question,
Say it nice and clear
Yes and now she's smiling,
The party's almost here.
Ann McNair, Verwood, Dorset
TAWSTOCK HERITAGE
I gaze across the country
And marvel at the splendour
Of the acres of woodlands
And fields of cattle grazing
Tawstock, church and school
Stands out amongst the finest
Like a painting set in oils
Framed for all to see
The village of old cottages
And flowers of varieties
With scenic views for miles around
A ramblers paradise
The ancient tower stands tall with pride
Watching over troubled spirits
Of a war torn nation and blood stained history
And the suffering of innocents
Silent flows a country stream
As leave softly fall
With shadows of darkness closing in, to end the day
For our Tawstock's pride and heritage
Jim Carlin, Barnstaple, Devon
DON'T EAT THE DAISIES
Nestled under plains of chalk the town of Westbury sits
I like to take the dogs and walk up, past the quarry pits
Once famous for its cloth and mills,
The Lavertons, Phipps and Lopes
It's sheltered by the rolling hills below steep, grassy slopes.
For over thirty years I've grown fond of this charming place
But councillors seem set in stone
On plans which will deface
The beauty and the peace both found
A short walk from the town
Where the valley meets the rising ground
That leads to Bratton Down.
Through Welhead, with its water source,
Is where they plan to build
A by-pass, almost to the horse, all peace and beauty killed
By noise and traffic, car on car,
And far from Westbury's trade
Nothing but an ugly scar. Once done, can't be unmade.
Gill A Willis, Westbury, Wiltshire
NAILSEA CARNIVAL DAY
Walking down the high street, floral adornments above.
Baskets, troughs, blooms planted with love.
Bronze pavement glass-blower,
Cauldron on the village green.
Memorial of Nailsea history past - long seen.
Shop windows pending prizes.
Reflecting a day - full of surprises.
Carnival floats start their ride.
Cowboys, Indians, Daleks, Dr Who,
Animals antics from the zoo.
Singing, dancing, can-can too;
Lovely costumes sewn so new.
Excited fairies, glorious rainbows, pass by with halabaloo.
Crowned princess, sedately waves from shiny limo
Raffle tickets, dips in bins,
Crackling microphones - such a din.
Ice-cream cones, clowns play the fool,
Bargains for good causes, fun for all.
We're not shy of coconuts, at skittles we'll have a try.
How we all laugh, when the wet sponges fly.
In Nailsea there is warmth and fun.
Next carnival why don't you come?
Judy Edwards, Nailsea, Somerset
SLEEPY VALLEY BALLYGAWLEY
Sleepy Valley Ballygawley you are a lovely little town. You nestle deep between them hills of beauty and renoun. The Pole Hill and Knockmany with Ballymacilroy. They set the scene of verdant green. A place for to enjoy. The Shantavny and the cluster, with the Todd's Leap oh so high. It will bring a smile onto your face and a twinkle to your eye.
Then maybe in some distant time. A beauty spot you will be. And everyone will come along to get a glimpse of thee. Just stop some day and spend your time for them hills are calling you. And they are crying out Just look at us, when you are passing through.
For Selsiskilgreen and Glencull where the waters slowly run. And your homes are bathed with sunshine when the Summer days do come. Then they tell you of the greatest sights and the wonders of the world. But they never mention all thee spots or beautiful Glencull.
John Monaghan, Ballygawley, Northern Ireland
LITTLE SNOWDROP
A little snowdrop, admired by all,
in February to March, they are so small.
The winter days are cold with snow,
yet a little miracle you should know.
We waited with anticipation the message to hear
what can it be, so early in the year?
Look down on the ground, what can you see?
A little green shoot, a flower, maybe?
Up through the ground, they pop their heads.
I can't help thinking they stand on legs.
Delicate to look at, as white as snow,
a smile on our faces, hearts aglow.
Thank you, little snowdrop, for being so glad.
I feel much better now and not so sad.
William Fell, Douglas, Scotland
William Fell said: I live in Lanarkshire with my wife Ann and we have four grown children. My hobbies are gardening and photography. I started writing poems two years ago with over 40 to my credit. They are suitable for all ages, young and old alike. My church life as a Christian motivates and reflects my thinking and writing. This can be seen in a book I have just finished called What If? Soon I trust to be published.
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MY NEIGHBOUR IN NUMBER 35
With a great wisdom she always referred
To the material world and the one in the heart.
With a colourful blindness she embraced
Mother Nature, all the living and the dead.
To her, for our love nothing must be spared
Even with unknown shadows smile she shared.
Knowing that she was not just the body
She has detached herself from the rat race.
The flattering sights of the impermanent,
To seek eternal bliss and the divine grace.
For love, she has stood hungry sometimes
And gave her pennies to those needing it most.
Such generous souls the society has long lost.
One night, peacefully in her bed she died
And all the grateful folk around her have cried.
In simplicity my humble neighbour was buried
Leaving deep prints in the hearts of Leith.
Messan Foley, Edinburgh, Scotland
AFTER THE HARVEST
Straw bales in a grey field
Caught up in a vortex of criss-cross stubble
Peace coiled up in swathes of the sun’s long days
Under a purple sky
The net of sun, the drop of rain, the intake of air
Fused in the roots, the stalks, the beards of barley
Peace rolled sideways as the bales fell
Dropped from a trap-door in the wide-roofed sky
Peace as sole birds cry their wings
Across dark wisps of cloud
The trees turn black
The sky falters
The seeds already garnered in, winnowed
Into deep clean vaults, the drink and food of winter
Pat MacKenzie, East Kilbride, Scotland
JOHNNY BLUES WELL
The well! The spring of life
And the gathering place for friendship
The well of hope, and sadness too
So pure the waters of the murmuring stream
Where barefoot children in innocence sang
While skylarks rose amid azure skies
Above - Johnny Blues Well.
In days of lighter songs
Our mothers dreams, and fathers prayers
Were offered at that well
Before the clouds of the gathering storms
Would shatter their dreams and prayers too.
Tis so very very sad, but so true
Nothing stays the same forever
My wandering footsteps led me back -
Back to my place of birth
Our old house is now a partial wood
And the pride that was Johnny Blues Well
Is now a tumbled down shell.
Alexander Baird, Dalry, Scotland
PITSCOTTIE
Pitscottie still stands nestled in a valley
Peace and serenity once invited you to dally.
It has been a quiet rural village since 1358
Tradition kept it that way to date.
Wider roads now pass over the land
Where horses to be shod used to stand.
Lindsay of Pitscottie wrote his chronicles of Scotland
In the peace and quiet of this green land.
Petscoty was then a crofting place, true rural life.
Farming has continued from age to age
More machinery and cattle passed through the village
Sheep herded through too,
The drovers most of us knew.
But the gentry, they drove through with horses and carriage,
Reminding us all of another age.
Pitscottie is a picturesque village in Fife
Participating daily in all aspects of life.
Moira Clacher, Kintyre, Scotland
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