Read Poetry from A Sense Of Place
THE POWER OF THE MINSTER AND ITS TOWER
My life had turned into a darkened place
Fate had treated me unfairly
I walked the streets of York down slow
My heart was hurt and in the cold
My feet sank in the frozen snow
Reaching the ancient part of town
I found myself facing the Minster
Stopped, drawn in by His power
Inside I walked the aisles in haste
Until I reached the gateway to the tower
With hammering heart I climbed the stairs
On top my tired body slumped into a chair
I watched the winter sun turn heavens red
In golden light I felt no more despair
Looked up and gave my thanks instead.
The sounds of bells gave way to sound of choir,
This evensong I’d found my faith restored
I sung and prayed and when I reached the door
In weakened light my inner strength
Returned able to face the world once more
Silke Broadbent
TORRIANO SCHOOL
Torriano school is somewhere dear to me
And soon we’ll celebrate its centenary
100 years the old school has stood where it stands
A hundred years through many changes in our land
While its surroundings change the old school remains the same
A place of accomplishment, a beginning of knowledge its aim
A place where as a child I learnt a lot
Where I remember learning, well, what’s what?
Running around concrete playgrounds
Playing two balls up the wall
We thought we were all really cool
Amusing ourselves with rhymes, chasing games and dares
Just like my own children did in the ensuing years
Now an adult I’ve returned to help teach future generations
And proudly be part of its approaching celebrations
Yes 100 years Torriano school has lasted and remains
The same building among time’s progression unchanged
A place of learning where many more will be educated
In foundations of life just like I was as a kid
Martine Gafney
STREETWISE IN THE CITY OF MILTON KEYNES
Fear not for his safety
I am aware of his risk assessment
His seeming confusion
Translates to consuming curiosity
To know my every move
Like the back of his hand
He is familiar with our wondrous city
With the destination of each bus
And its many calling stops
All the venues where, may be obtained
Meals and drinks for reasonable prices
Or preferably free, are at his fingertips
He thinks lucky, therefore he is
Born to be observed how other people
Will respond to him
And he shall have two guardian angels
Lest he rush in where so called wiser men
Would fear to tread
Geoffrey Martin
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TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK
Whitchurch, old as time and charming still
Where Roman legions cooled their feet
And mighty Talbot sprang, he fierce in war
And now at peace, beneath the feet
Of townsfolk on their way to prayer
Where Hotspur’s body laid awhile
Then secretly was dragged away
Clerk Caldecott, dreaming at his desk
Created life in sketches trim
That laugh and leap at us across the globe
Tom Jones and Merry England too
Delight us still from German’s pen
While Coley Maddocks Alport Club
Still kick the ball at Yockings Park
Tick tock, tick tock
The clocks from Joyce still keep the time
For us, and far across the world
Tick tock, tick tock
Jon Ellison
HUGO’S OF WOODHALL SPA
As I sit in a luxurious leather chair
I watch people pass by and stare
Into the window with a casual glance
They then come back for a second chance
To look at models dressed in the latest fashion
Smart, well-dressed and with a passion
Paul, the owner appears, to tell the story
Of this unique village in all its glory
Folk pass by and are supremely impressed
At how local folk can be dressed
This shop is full of elegant taste
To pass by would be a waste
Come inside for a variety of reasons
Fashion here abounds all seasons
Photographs exist of an era long gone
But this shop proves life goes on
This distinctive shop will enthral
All who come through its open door
In this village there is plenty to see
But Mr Hugo’s is the shop for me
Rosemary Parkinson
HUGO’S OF WOODHALL SPA
As I sit in a luxurious leather chair
I watch people pass by and stare
Into the window with a casual glance
They then come back for a second chance
To look at models dressed in the latest fashion
Smart, well-dressed and with a passion
Paul, the owner appears, to tell the story
Of this unique village in all its glory
Folk pass by and are supremely impressed
At how local folk can be dressed
This shop is full of elegant taste
To pass by would be a waste
Come inside for a variety of reasons
Fashion here abounds all seasons
Photographs exist of an era long gone
But this shop proves life goes on
This distinctive shop will enthral
All who come through its open door
In this village there is plenty to see
But Mr Hugo’s is the shop for me
Rosemary Parkinson
CITY OF SUNDERLAND
The city of Sunderland
Nestling on the banks of the wear
Where once the Vaux Brewery brewed the finest beer
Born out of shipbuilding, glassmaking and exporting of coal
Sunderland was booming with few people claiming dole
Times have now changed the shipyards are no more
The brewery has gone, coal no longer leaves the shore
Instead there’s a glass centre, university and Stadium of Light
An olympic swimming pool
Recently built, much to the citizens’ delight
St Peter’s church will hopefully be dedicated
As a national heritage site
Which will enable the city of Sunderland to achieve new heights
Not far from the church are Seaburn and Roker Marina
Two seaside resorts bringing tourists to the area
In the main part of town there’s the Bridges shopping centre
An empire theatre and a magnificent minster
Mowbray park with its winter garden, lake
Memorials and floral displays
Adjoining museum where visitors can spend many happy days
Doris Turner
THE MIGHTY MOURNES
By luminescent milky moon
Dark silhouette sketched in the gloom
Against the inky midnight sky
Its sweep is wide, its reach is high
Formed beneath great glacial mass
Sculpted stone with icy glass
Vast monumental mounds of land
True works of art by nature’s hand
Below these silent snow capped heights
Blink twinkling clusters of tiny lights
Belonging to city, village and town
And homes of the people of County Down
The mighty Mournes like wise old sages
Overlooked the region through the ages
These timeless relics of the past
Built to endure, long will they last
Nicole Miller
PARK HALL LAKE
As an artist my eyes search for patterns of light and dark
For pleasing shapes and rich colours
I have visited the lake on many occasions
And found contentment in what it offers
Stroking colours across a canvas
Capturing in different seasons this tree-encircled pool
A small haven of beauty in an urban sprawl
In summer, the strong arms of trees
Stretch up from sturdy proud bodies
Lifting high green umbrellas to vast sweeps
Of rich cobalt and bright whites
The quiet waters of the lake
Disturbed just by a breeze or the movement of birds
And when the day’s cool and leaves no longer able to cling
Are forced to the ground
Creating rich golden syrupy carpets
A haphazard trellis of dark branches is exposed
Silhouetted against an unpredictable dome
Menacing clouds scud across shivering skies
Their routes dictated by the prevailing wind
Which cause unrest on the water
And make the lake’s pictures unrecognisable
Julia Bradshaw
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THE SLATE WORKER
The small villages stand quiet
Upon their rough tussock land
This is where the slate quarry men
Made their last desperate stand
Hard, bone breaking work
Hours enough to kill a man
Life difficult, dirty, dragging
Cut short the slate worker’s span
Grim, grey and gallant
Boots clattering on the cobbles
The long walk to the workplace
Oft on the way back he hobbles
Yet the mind remains alert
Bards, artists, poets abound
Hard toil may kill a man
But his soul is sound
He also has his great faith
Strong, robust and true
To take him where his heart lives
The melodious voice given to few
Linda Watson-Manns
LIVERPOOL 2008
Our capital of culture is a tribute to the dreamers,
Visionaries, missionaries, plotters, planners, schemers,
Idealists all from Merseyside, investors in our Mersey pride.
Campaigners, complainers, comedians and entertainers,
Tours, visits, rides with city guides and local life explainers,
Scouse gals and guys who vocalise and praise their city to the skies.
Movers, shakers, let’s give Liverpool a breakers.
More enjoyment, more employment, more of givers,
Less of takers,
Watch the fireworks, feel the fun,
Fairs and fetes for everyone.
Multi-national, multi-lingual, multi-faith, all intermingle,
Teams exciting, times inviting, face the future with a tingle,
Friendships longer, feuds far shorter,
Hope for every son and daughter.
Modern magic, myth and mystery mixed through centuries of history.
Bright lights blaze, night sights amaze, entice all to this soul kissed city.
Theatre, laughter, music, dancing, poetry, prose and art.
Our capital of culture, with a welcome at its heart.
Rosemary Critchley
HURRYING HOME
His smile
A cornucopia of good things:
Not handsome,
Not young,
Far too thin for a man of his years,
Underpass busker
Plays guitar, sings.
His joy
Works transformation on our day
As we pass
Secure
Woolly-warm with glove-encased fingers,
Closed hearts and purses,
Scurrying by.
His life
Flames iridescent in the gloom:
He is real:
And we
Know ourselves to be shadows beside him:
We flee his glory -
Hurrying home.
Jo Walters
MILES CROSS HILL
Sometimes on dreamlike, shining afternoons
I pause above the hill near Alford town
Smell copse and lea, taste far silk sea, touch sky
Hear history when the curious breezes sigh
So haunting, once, long centuries called me back
To ancient cross beside a rutted track
A small child’s pleas, young widow’s weeds, pride gone
For need of victuals by that boundary stone
One thing she chose, just one; a simple egg
The cost, a coin in vinegar ‘gainst plague
A murmured prayer, breath of clean air, child’s kiss
I felt before all faded into mist
I shivered, ran, turned car down Miles Cross Hill
Look up, look up, please see me if you will
I need your joy, my carefree boy, bright smile
To guide me home this last and thankful mile
Pamela Starsmore
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THE MAJESTY OF SEVERNDROOG CASTLE
A very proud castle in our woodland stands
Such a famous building looking oh so grand
When I was a child I climbed right to the top
Up and up all those stairs until they suddenly stop
We would excitedly gaze with wonder at the magnificent view
When at the top we stood by its flag as in the breeze it blew
Surrounded by tall trees and slope
At the bottom the castle stood a cafe on the slope
What fun we had so very happy and so full of hope
Would mum buy us an ice-cream? We were filled with hope
Then roly-poly down the hills
Then build a hide-out, oh what thrills
In the grounds of that castle so very tall
Back in those special days when my brother and I were small
Pamela Green
Dedicated to my dear mother Ivy Rutherford who gave her life to us and sadly died in February 1974.
Pamela Green said: “I was born in London in June 1950 and my interests include my family, writing poems and listening to music. My first mammogram in 2001 revealed I had breast cancer and necessitated a mastectomy to save my life. I now promote mammograms and their importance in saving lives. I was given the title Greenwich Woman of the Year, 2002, because of this. Life is so precious. This is my second poem to be published and it was inspired by my mother who gave her life to my brother and I and took us to Severndroog Castle, which was very exciting.”
HOME TO SUTHERLAND
I can scarcely stand on icy paving slabs.
Gingerly, I slide my feet along the path
But where it slopes I can’t control my
Slide towards the crisp grassy edge.
I fear a fall - me that so enjoyed
The slides of chilly childhood winters.
Reaching the road, I dare to lift my head
And see the glittering world around me.
A silvery sun, set low in a pale blue sky,
Shines through the bare birch branches
Turning every frozen raindrop into crystal.
I reach to touch the drooping diamonds.
Grasses, leaves and last year’s flowers
Stand stiffly to attention, transformed
By frost, into star-studded fairy wands.
The little beech tree droops dejectedly
Still wearing last year’s brown.
The pond is frozen over, the grasses trapped beneath the glass.
How strange to think that just a week ago
We walked on white New Zealand sand
Too hot for our bare feet, watching surfers
Riding the waves, then sink beneath the brine.
Sunburnt, we sat with Santa at the airport.
Our Kiwi cousins say Ooo, it must be cold.
And yet, wrapped warmly in our woolies,
We wouldn’t swap this winter wonderland
For all the sunny seascapes of the world.
Lily Byron
A LEANING TOWARDS EALING
Everything is there. Nothing can compare.
The heart, the centre, the soul.
It’s there.
There are shops ‘til you drop.
Presents galore and that ‘finest’ store.
There is so much in store.
An abbey, a cabbie,
Look at the sign- the lowest crime.
See the green like that postcard I’ve seen.
Look up and dream, the church spires
Where the prices are higher.
All is sound for Steve Pound,
A Polish deli, the halal, a shopping mall.
Follow the trail, more flats for sale.
Hail, queen of the suburbs.
I get the feeling there is something about Ealing,
It’s in the centre, written from the heart.
Julia Agati
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ACROSS MY DEVON VILLAGE
I sit alone in silence
As evening closes in
And I cast my eyes for miles around
Across my village wide.
The setting of the distant sun
A landscape to behold
With woodlands by the acres
And cattle grazing peaceful.
The singing of the congregation
Echoes through the village square
With people holding hands in friendship
Helping one another.
The rustling sound of falling leaves
In the gentle breeze
Reminding me to take my leave
As darkness closes in.
Our neighbours villages of Tavistock, Landkey
Give pride to our everyday lives
With history and untold legends
For the generations to come.
Jim Carlin
COLCHESTER
Colchester’s a ghostly place,
Here and there a hidden face.
Boudicca a warrior queen,
In this area, is she seen?
In the moonlight, dead of night,
Then the crossroads are a fright.
Full of fear and deadly cold,
Here were hangings,we are told.
Ghostly voices from the sea,
Tell of wrecks that used to be.
Whilst in the town, the Roundheads fought,
Ancient bullet holes, shiver with thought.
So many battles here were seen,
Comings and goings in castle seen.
So Colchester - the oldest town,
Full of clues of past, abounds.
Annette Twilley
VISITING WIGHTWICK MANOR
A Christmas displayed in Victorian decor;
The flute choir playing in the parlour;
Old English carols as from Morris’ pen;
Played in this day as played then -
Nowells sing loud, masters in this hall.
How the poor are raised and the rich will fall.
His magnificat of social care
Set to a French traditional air.
From sweet and soothing flutes depart
To the billiard room and D’Morgan’s art.
Notes from France still tune the mind,
Music to France in art we find.
The inner ear hears pipe and drum,
A march to France and battle hum.
The spirit of William Morris we trace,
His soft green patterns adorn this place.
A cameo of Wightwick’s atmosphere,
Its history, charm and character.
Here, past and present, seem to fuse
On visiting to chase the muse.
Sheila Barnfather
Dedicated to Penn Poets who have given me such encouragement. Joining their group has been one of the best things to happen to me.
Sheila Barnfather said: “I am a retired medical secretary and began writing poetry in February, 2009. I find this to be a most rewarding experience. I have always read poetry and decided to join Penn Poets, an ecumenical poetry group last year. I sing in Wombourne Choral Society and play the flute in West Midlands Concert Band.”
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UNDER OUR TREES IN GOLDEN AUTUMN
I felt you turning into a tree,
embracing me with your breath,
sifting through the ever green leaves,
fierce as to shock the rocks by the sea,
gentle enough to wake the miracle of myth.
The bewildering and love between us rise and flee,
as pearl of rain knocked into sands,
solid with tenderness in your eyes,
and winded away under stars,
shining as your looks at me.
I walk in a golden autumn in our woods,
hum a song remembering your face,
lost in wonders at leaves falling down from that tree,
where we were laughing and dancing,
as kids chasing in the youth.
Yuhong Ding
FARNHAM GOSTREY MEADOWS
Sitting on the banks of the River Wey
In Gostrey Meadow on a sunny day
In the river swim little fish
Alas, not big enough to make a dish.
Children having fun with their fishing nets
Are sure to go home soaking wet
The fish are quite happy to be caught
And put in a container they have bought.
Nearby the river is a bridge where you may play
Pooh Sticks it is a game to pass the time of day
The gardens they are a pretty sight
Also the children’s playground, a delight.
Many people come and go
To escape the hustle and bustle to and fro
The ambience of the meadow is a welcome space.
Elizabeth Cranston
Dedicated to my grandchildren Daniel, Scott, Charles, Katie, Ben and my adopted two Erin and Gareth. I thank each and every one of you for your love.
WALKING WITH THE LADIES OF CARLTON
There’s a group of ladies in Carlton
Who meet up once a week near the pub
We go for a walk, then call in somewhere
For a cup of hot tea and some grub
We follow a different direction each week
Whether there’s sunshine, rain or sleet
But we’re always okay as we’re tramping along
With thick socks and good boots on our feet
Carlton has many places, for walkers to do their stuff
The area’s flat, you can see for miles
And the going is never tough
There’s the nature reserve up at Drax
And at Brayton Barff, you can trek for a while
The company’s good for a talk and a chat
And there’ll be something to make you smile
There’s the village of Snaith just up the road
And Selby a few miles away
And when we plod back home to Carlton
It really makes my day
Anne Preston
Dedicated to my husband Mark who is the inspiration for everything. I will always love you truly, madly, deeply darling.
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METROPOLITAN LONDON LIFE
This is metropolitan London life
A cosmopolitan city is capital centre
Where commerce trades money markets gold
As skyscrapers predominate the city skyline
At the stock exchange along the square mile
And men in pin striped suits share for success
Commuters travel on the tube to bourgeoisie towns
In the West End is the London fashion capital
Covent Garden entertains café life on the cobbled streets
Actors in theatre land perform on stage and screen
To the media broadcasters from the channel transmission
As the press publish from Fleet Street
Parliament meets in the political arena
And world time is set on the Greenwich meridian
Where the river Thames runs through London
A royal capital courts at Buckingham Palace
On Hampstead Heath stands Kenwood House
At Hyde Park people parade in Kensington
In London, England lies our capital city
A place in the nation to a historic country
Elizabeth Tittensor
WEALDEN SKILLS
Early morning mist and chill,
definitely hop picking time,
spiders’ webs, invisibly woven,
creatively in the air.
our Indian summer,
golden sunshine bathing deep blue skies,
while my much loved, listed, family home,
undergoes major roofing repair,
all the old well worn shapes scrupulously observed,
peculiar ridges, shapes, gullies, chimneys,
all abound in this mesmerising canopy.
Kent peg tiles shown off in their glory,
as Wealden master craftsmen patiently toil,
measuring deftly, nothing to spoil,
the intricate work so easily overlooked,
just look at that authentic wavy line of ridge tiles mirroring so much history,
knowledgeable roofer expertise, essential for our heritage treasures,
unsung heroes risking their necks on precarious surfaces,
definitely taking pride in the end result.
Margaret Ann Wheatley
THE FLIGHTLESS BIRD
It is twelve o’clock,
We know the time
When she rises to the sky
Like some prehistoric bird.
Wings outstretched,
Glistening as the sunlight
Catches her unawares.
How proud, how majestic,
A piece of aviation history
And national pride.
But now for the last time
She graces our eyes.
Full of tears we stand and stare,
Her drooping nose seems unrealistically sad.
We mourn her loss,
And say au revoir Concorde.
But our sadness turns to joy
As we welcome her to take a rightful place
Among the planes at Brooklands.
Julia Kibblewhite
AS I WALKED THROUGH THE GATES
As I walked through the gates
I knew I had achieved my dream
As I walked through the gates
I felt the belief of self
As I walked through the gates
Three years of waiting faded
As I walked through the gates
Of R A F Uxbridge
I knew I was where I was meant to be.
Janice Edwards
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