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Northen Life Readers' Poems

09 Jul 2009
Would you like your work published?
Then send your poems to poetry@looppublishing.co.uk, or send to Poetry Platform, Northern Life Centre, 43 Scotland Road, Nelson. BB9 7UT. We aim to print all submissions, please be patient if yours does not appear on these pages, all will be kept on file and in the next edition it could be you.

The Phantom
By Derek Gregson, Accrington

She slid along the pavement like a phantom,
Her flowing hair the colour of the night,
Her piercing eyes reflected in the street lamps,
Awash with tears that scattered in her flight.

She bowed her head to hide her face from others,
Sweeping back her hair with trembling hand,
A sob escaped her lips and plucked at heartstrings,
Too dolorous for any soul to stand.

She lurched against the wall inhaling deeply,
Her maiden’s bosom rising with each breath
A sense of tragic circumstance prevailing,
An omen tainted with the scent of death.

She staggered on, her firmness sorely tested,
Each halting step an effort to enact,
Until at last she tumbled to the pavement,
A groan of pain emitted on impact.

She scrambled to her knees, fighting exhaustion,
Sheer terror in her eyes, her breathing pained,
Her gaze locked on the entrance to the graveyard,
Whose rusting gates were stoutly locked and chained.

She crawled up to the gates and struggled upright,
A keening laugh exploding from her lips,
And all at once the chains about her shattered,
Obeisant to her pallid finger tips.

She turned to face the crowd in fluid movement,
The terror in her eyes replaced by fire,
No more the timid creature born of nature,
But more the very crux of man’s desire.

She hastened through the gateway as the moon rose,
Her haunting presence given to the night,
A marble tombstone soon her destination,
With epitaph displayed in ghostly light:

She Strode God’s earth until the age of twenty,
An orphan raised in service to the rich,
A happy child until her master used her,
And woke in her the powers of a witch!

Me and You
By Mrs Elsie Whittaker, Burnley.

I may not be able to read or write,
Drive a car, a two wheeled bike.
Go shopping at will, or catch a bus,
Just look around there are many of us.
I may need help, for that simple task,
A shoe lace tied, not to proud to ask.
But one things the same between me and you,
Hey, guess what, I have a heart to.
My feelings hurt just the same,
But as I am, I don’t complain.
I have aspirations in life too,
We’re just the same, me and you.
But when yours happen, materialise,
Mine never will, and a part of me dies.
But I accept my lot, I have no guile,
I’m happy you see, with my childlike smile.
And if we should meet, please remember it’s true,
There is no difference between me and you.

Remembered
By Gail Perkins

Remembering the wars and hand me down clothes,
There’s tears and laughs in black and white photographs,
Underground shelters, to nursing aids
Before or after bombing raids,
Vera, George or even Bob Hope,
Gave laughter. And will to cope,
Springfield nursing home
Many a child was born
Seven days of rest
Is always best.
New lives to carry us through,
They bring a sparkle of joy,
HOPE and the NEW.
Remembering the wars and me down clothes

I Wish
By Mollie Brown

The bible says your sell by date is three score years and ten.
Although I’ve got well past that date, I’m not ready to say ‘when’.
There are loads of things I haven’t done and places I’ve not seen.
For instance, I have not been asked to appear before the queen.

I haven’t climbed Mount Everest or sailed the Spanish Maine,
I haven’t abseiled down big Ben, done a free fall from a plane,
Nobody’s ever asked me to duet with P. Domingo
(Though perhaps I’d find that difficult- I haven’t learned the lingo!)

I would have liked to have a go at dancing with Gene Kelly
But, due to my arthritis, my old knees have turned to jelly,
I could have made it into films, romanced by Errol Flynn
But that was oh so long ago when I was young and thin.

I could have played the female lead in good old ‘south pacific
’ Eat your heart out Mitzi Gaynor; I’d have been terrific,
I might have led the suffragettes, been tied up to a railing,
Or done the world in eighty days with Mr Michael Palin.

I really wouldn’t change my life but a daydream can be fun
I’ve just one more ambition that would benefit everyone.
As Chancellor of the Exchequer I’d have sorted the reserve
And made sure senior citizens got the pension they deserve.

Life's Balance
By Graham Twist, Colne

If only we could keep life’s balance right,
Perhaps our goals wouldn’t seem out of sight.
We pay for our goods when we get the bill,
Balanced with cash when we get to the till.
For the food we eat we use weights and measures
Enhancing our health, those delicious pleasures.
But if we break the law we are brought to book,
When the scales of justice take a look.
If we tip the balance we could go to jail,
On the other hand the law may fail.
So in loving appreciation of our fellow man,
We should show our feelings as best as we can.
So to all God’s creatures great and small,
If we keep life’s balance, we will not fail.

Janet's Corner
by Francis Forrest

Janet’s corner started so small
Just a tiny box against the wall
So as she grew and grew and grew
That box it multiplied by two
Then boxes torn, oh such eye sore
We graduated to a drawer
This resting place of tumble out toys
Bursts at the seams with faded joys
It over spills, encroaches more
Her corner now becomes the floor.
A doll’s house here, a small pram there
Some tattered books on an easy chair
Our tidy thoughts, just useless dreams
Could never quell our young ones schemes
A prim straight home! Twas not to be
But we’ll not change it, no siree
For the happiness glowing in our bundle of vim
Is worth more to us than a home neat and trim.

Sculptures in the Sand
By Dorothy Mapley, Preston

I saw them in the morning,
The tide was out
And there they were -
Magnificently carved in sand,

Horses that would never run,
But every sinew, every muscle
Poised as if
To spring to life.

And through the sunlit day they rested,
How their perfect beauty
Drew the crowds!
The sea returned

Bringing horses of a different kind,
White foam to bear away
Those silent friends,
And as the tide receded,

They were gone.

Walking Day
Mrs. D. Clitheroe(nee Alker)Preston

When I was a child, growing up in Wigan,
The walking day was always a big ‘un.
Aunties, uncles, cousins and grannies too,
All in their Sunday best for a bit of a do.
The sun always shone I remember it well,
The man standing shouting, flags to sell.
The banners blowing, glinting in the sun,
The brass band playing, see the big drum.
Children cheering, crowds waving their flags,
Ladies with perms, matching shoes and handbags.
And after the walking, it’s party time,
Trestle tables full of food sublime.
Sandwiches, trifles, jelly and ice cream,
All these goodies, a little kiddie’s dream.
Everybody had fun, those were the days,
Yesterday’s memories of those wonderful walking days

This Girl
by Karen Stewart, Cleveleys

This girl
Hiding deep inside
Always felt denied.

But this girl
Hiding deep inside –
Knows that it wouldn’t be the same,
If she could live her life again.

For this girl
Who feels so much inside;
Who wants to be alive -
Would be recognised.

A Baker's Tale
By Pauline Gaffney

Old Ma Clegg from Malthouse Way
Did little else but bake all day,
But no-one flocked to eat her pies,
Her sponges always failed to rise,

Her bread was leaden to the core,
A biscuit, dropped, would crack the floor
. Her relatives, though kind and good,
Refused to eat such rock-like food.

So poor Ma Clegg, who couldn’t stop,
Whose baking was a total flop,
Was by confectionery surrounded,
In fact she was completely grounded.

The pies and cakes took all the space,
Yet still she baked at growing pace.
Meals were handed through the skylight,
But only in the misty twilight.

By loyal daughters, quite embarrassed,
And fast becoming very harassed.
Still on she baked, to their amazement,
From stores she’d hidden in the basement.

It seemed that there was no solution,
In spite of daughters’ resolution.
Till one day through the letter-box,
Ma flung a pie at barking dogs.

By chance a gent, just passing by,
The pie forlorn he did espy,
Ran to the Council, straight and true,
To show off his discovery new.

Now old Ma Clegg’s abode is free,
From all kinds of confectionery.
The Council took the lot away,
To build a modern motorway.

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Short Stories

Ingrid Price09 Jul 2009
The Trouble with Granddad
By Ingrid Price

Every year since Daisy could remember, Granddad came to stay with them for two weeks in August. Dad said, it was to give Auntie Carol a rest from the arduous task of looking after him, and Mum said he always brought Trouble with him. The strange thing was, Daisy never got to meet Trouble and no one would ever explain why.
It was the same again this year. Sitting on the front step waiting for Uncle Bob to drop Granddad off, Daisy decided it was time someone told her who this mysterious friend of her grandfather's was. Boldly she put the idea to her brother Ben. "I do hope Granddad lets me see Trouble this year."
At fourteen, Ben had double Daisy’s experience in everything and adopting his superior look he said patiently. “Trouble isn’t a person Daisy, it’s something that happens and in Granddad’s case, Mum thinks he does things to cause trouble on purpose.” Hugging her knees, Daisy considered this and seeing her puzzled expression Ben laughed. “Like last year,” he said. “When Granddad forgot to bring his teeth with him.”
So that was Trouble, Daisy thought, recalling vaguely the desperate phone call to Uncle Bob, to catch him before he and Auntie Carol set off for the airport. “Put them in the post,” Dad had said and hearing of Granddad’s plight, Susie next door found a spare set of her mother’s dentures to see him through the weekend. The borrowed teeth had a life of their own, opening and closing unbidden and no one except Daisy could understand a word Granddad said for four days.
The year before that Trouble had popped up on their trip to the garden centre, when despite Mum’s misgivings, Granddad’s dog Winston went along with them. Proudly Daisy had control of Winston’s lead, Granddad was in charge of Daisy and if there was a sign that said ‘No dogs allowed’, the grownups missed it.
By the time Winston was spotted, the pansies had suffered a doggy call of nature, a rack of potted geraniums had been upended over the garden gnomes and Daisy was ankle deep in the debris. As usual, when Trouble was about, Granddad was nowhere to be seen and, grumbling an apology to the Centre Manager, Dad’s credit card compensated for the decapitated gnome family and two bags of broken geraniums.
This year if Trouble showed, Daisy would be ready for it. Then, suddenly, Uncle Bob’s car was rounding the corner at the top of the street and Ben was shouting, “Mum, Granddad’s here!” Squealing in delight, Daisy raced Ben to the gate and as the car pulled up, Auntie Carol waved from the passenger seat, looking like a film star in her designer sunglasses. Behind her, the rear door opened and the bundle of joy that was Winston preceded Granddad out of the car. Uncle Bob carried Granddad’s suitcase up the path and Mum came to say hello.
Giving her a peck on the cheek, Uncle Bob said. “Can’t stop Abby, don’t want to miss the flight.”
As Uncle Bob’s car accelerated away, Granddad presented Mum with a bunch of pink carnations, receiving a hug in return. Mum loved having Granddad really and tugging on his arm Daisy beamed up at him. “I hope you’ve not brought Trouble with you this year Granddad!”
Granddad smiled. “You’ll have to speak up pet, I can’t hear you.”
At this, Mum exchanged a grown up look with Ben, who pointed to his ear. “You’ve forgotten to put your hearing aid in Granddad.”
“Ah,” said Granddad sheepishly. “There’s a good reason for that. I lent it to our Mabel for the bingo last week and she never brought it back.”

the trouble with granddad.jpg
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Short Stories

Carol E. Grant09 Jul 2009
Dora’s Dismay
by Carol E. Grant, Preston.

Dora finished off her vol au vents placed them in the fridge, and had another sip of sherry. This evening’s dinner party would be a triumph she told herself, but then wasn’t it always! She had been so engrossed today with the preparations whilst listening to Classic fm. Volume, as loud as she thought suitable. To capture the atmosphere. As she pummelled the steak and kneaded the dough. It was only when she went through to the dining room at the front of the house that she noticed the removal men taking furniture into next door. She could spare a few minutes just to discreetly survey the contents being carried in. One sofa, looking a bit the worse for wear and a standard lamp which certainly didn’t match! And goodness, what was that a jukebox? Oh dear, she hoped it wasn’t a working model. It really wasn’t what one would expect to find in a house on Laburnum Gardens. It would have to be investigated. Best way to do that was to take a tray of tea round; under the pretence of welcoming but to see what sort of people would be living on the other side of her wall! She placed Royal Albert cups and saucers along with the teapot onto the tray with some of her homemade scones and pausing only to practise her ‘pleased to make your acquaintance’, smile in the hall mirror, removed her pinny and set forth.
She was invited in by the lady of the house although Dora quietly thought, maybe the term was somewhat exaggerated in this instance as she had a cigarette in one corner of her mouth and was wearing man. Utd slippers garishly coloured!
The woman told Dora, her name was Paula, hubby Stan was upstairs checking the bed was properly placed. Hearing voices it wasn’t very long before Stan came down into the kitchen; it was then that he and Dora looked aghast at each other! Stan realised at once that right there, invading his territory was the woman, who was his worst customer ever (he was the owner of the local butchers) and furthermore, she and her parents had been his neighbours many years ago. He had never liked her snobby attitude then and he certainly hadn’t changed his opinion. Meanwhile Dora’s heart sunk, it was that awful man from the butcher’s! His meat was next to none, but his manner left a lot to be desired, in fact she had always found him, crude and obnoxious, but had tolerated it in order to buy the best. After a few false niceties she managed to extricate herself from the Formica table and leave as fast as etiquette allowed. Her dismay in finding out who the man of the house was had made her forget to even refer to the jukebox! She remembered only when Elvis Presley sang out from the other side of her dining room wall, full volume as she served her guests the melon boats!

doras dismay.jpg
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