Reader's Poems
05 Apr 2011
The Power of Nature
By ‘Aemot’, Keighley
Planet Earth groans as the plates shift and slide,
An earthquake the first indication.
Buildings are shaken, structures collapse
Wounds the heart of the Japanese nation.
With dreadful foreboding Tsunami is formed
The sea raising up like a hand.
It moves with the weight of the world in its wake,
And inexorably makes for the land.
Aware of its frightful formation,
Soon all will recoil at its might.
The seashore recedes, giving note of intent,
Whilst the water-wall hoves into sight.
Houses are brushed from the landscape,
Trees are torn up by the root,
People are caught in the vortex,
Enveloped in deadly pursuit.
The pictures relayed to all nations,
Show the power of Nature’s domain.
Townships removed from the face of the Earth,
Lives torn apart with disdain.
The wave pounds inland with its cargo,
Till its energy slowly abates.
As the water recedes and disperses,
See the hell that this carnage creates.
That phenomenon we call Tsunami,
Laid waste to all in its wake.
We can only take pity and wonder,
As we cry out at others heartache.
Ode to a Non Smoker
By Lucy Gilbert, Burnley.
When people told me to stop smoking,
I told them that they must be joking.
I never will quit
And try to get fit
I’ll carry on coughing and choking.
But then, in a true contradiction,
I decided to kill this addiction.
I made up my mind
To my body, be kind
And get rid of this nasty affliction.
So I threw out the lighters and matches,
Went out and bought nicotine patches,
I thought “Bloody hell
They do the job well”
(though they itch, and I’m covered in scratches).
Well I’ve managed quite well, I’ll admit it
The habit, I’ve managed to kick it.
Though my waistline is growing,
And the wine has been flowing,
I still can’t believe that I did it..
Bread & Dripping
By Sue Pettit via e-mail.
“What’s for tea, Mum?” the laddie said.
“If you’re lucky you’ll get dripping
Spread thickly on your bread.
But best be good, else otherwise
Nought will come your way.”
“OK, Mum,” said the laddie,
And he wandered off to play.
It was always bread and dripping
Spread thickly on his bread.
Or milk sop, with bread for dipping.
“It’s good for you,” she’d said.
“I’m tired of bread,” the laddie moaned.
“I’d like some cake or crumpet.
But all I get is bread,” he groaned.
He gazed into the baker’s shop,
Saw fancies, tarts and cake.
“Come on, my lad. No time to stop.
”We have to see the butcher’s shop.”
“But look at that. It’s chocolate, Mum.
Can’t we take some home?”
“You won’t like that. Now, come.”
All day long the laddie thought
Of chocolate buns and fancy cake
And tarts they could have bought
To make a special teatime break.
But, once again, upon his plate
Lay the boring bread and dripping,
A meal he had begun to hate.
That night, he dreamed about a feast,
A table spread with wondrous goodies.
He prowled around it, like a beast.
What should he choose, to give his buddies?
When, suddenly, as he stood sipping,
The feast just disappeared,
Leaving the dreaded bread and dripping.
“Tomorrow is special. I’m giving you a treat
To celebrate your birthday. I’ll make a lovely spread.
You can choose. You can say what you want to eat.
I won’t make bread and dripping, so something else instead.”
The laddie sat and thought so hard.
The choices now were many.
“I know,” he said. “Make bread and lard.”
My Mate Nipper
By Bill Hobson, Foulridge.
Ten weeks old he was,
We got him from a friend,
The fun and laughter that he brought
We thought would never end
He soon became family and loved by all,
And he would play for hours,
With his little ball.
For eighteen years he gave us pleasure,
Past memories now that we will always treasure.
That little bundle of fun that came to live at number one,
Brought something special that will be remembered by everyone
Now all the kids have grown and flown the nest
And the little dog is old and way past his best.
I look into his eyes to see if there is pain,
For he is getting near to the end,he is also getting lame
I carried him in and out to do his business for a while,
But he would look at me as if to say this is not my style
He looked into my eyes one day and the message was dead certain
And tears came into my eyes for I knew that it was time to close the curtain.
As I carried him from the house his eyes was on the door,
And I knew darn well that he was thinking,
He would not see it anymore.
Going to the vets that day for the very last time,
For once he never made a murmer or a single whine,
At the bottom of our garden there is a little grave,
Where a little dog lies who was ever so brave
I have had carved on the headstone, just underneath the date
Here lies Nipper my very best mate....
A Lancashire Lass
By Jilly Bowling.
As I sit upon the moor,
The sweet smell of heather is the lure,
The grasses I played in as a child,
They no longer seem high, they no longer seem wild.
I as a child would spend my days,
Just watching and sitting in sun soaked rays,
The town below me, the houses, the mills
A Lancashire town that had no frills.
For then the smoke from the chimneys would rise,
Like a dragon’s breath would fill the skies
The old cotton mills dark and grey
Stood like great ships in an empty bay.
The times I walked within the mill,
No sounds of machines, all was still,
The light that streamed from the high window,
Gave a feeling of sadness that now does show,
Of the long hard days that were once had there,
By women,and children that gave much despair.
For these are the cotton mills of my Lancashire home
They once stood proudly but now stand alone,
In a maze of houses and newly built shops,
No longer we see the chimney tops.
The Doc Knows Best
By Jeff Fellows.
It all started when I lost my voice
And I went to my GP
He sent me to a specialist
To see what it could be
He said I think you have a tumour
Oh dear I said, will that be my lot
Come and see me in two weeks time
Then I’ll confirm that’s what you’ve got
I went to see him two weeks later
It was true what he had said
I am afraid I’ll have to operate
We already have a bed
My operation it is over
And I’m back in my bed
But I have a lot of pain
Going through my head
I told the nurse, she said to me
Too much morphine I would say
So I gave myself some more
And the pain it went away
My stay at B.R.I wasn’t such a treat
When I think about the TV table
That crashed down on my feet
I could not lie upon my bed
The pain I could not bear
I had to spend three long nights
Dozing in my chair
I asked a nurse for a walking stick
She said “I’ll look around”
I had to wait three full days
A stick could not be found
Fifteen days on ward 18
I thought its time to go
But when I asked the sister
Her answer it was no
Now I was mad would not give in
I knew what I had to do
A battle of wills was started
And I was going to see it through
So I decided not to wash or bathe
I would not eat
Until the matron on ward 18
My demand did meet
I was sitting on my bed
And was in a lousy mood
When who do you think came in my room
It was my surgeon Mr Sood
He had heard about my problem
Listened to what I had to say
You are fighting fit good as new
No longer must you stay
So pack your gear get checked out
And then be on your way
But my problems were not over
What a sight to see
My legs they started to swell
From my toes up to my knees
So I had to call my doctor
He said, it’s very clear to me
They’ve left your surgical stockings on
How careless can they be
Now the swelling is subsiding
And I’ll tell you about this as well
I won’t go back to ward 18
I’d rather go to ****
Are You Seeing
By John Williams, Colne
What do you see nurse, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you look at me?
A crabbed old woman not very wise
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice: “I do wish you’d try”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And is forever losing a stocking or shoe
Who willing or not lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding the long day fills
Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes nurse, you’re not looking at me!
I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still
As I move at your bidding and eat at your will
I’m a small girl of ten with a mother and father
Brothers and sisters who love one another
A girl of sixteen with wings on her feet
Dreaming that soon now the lover she’ll meet
A bride soon at twenty my heart gives a leap
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep
At twenty five I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure home
A woman of thirty, my young growing fast
Bound to each other with ties that should last
At forty my young will now be soon gone
But my man stays beside me to help carry on
At fifty once more children play at my feet
But to play with our grandkids is more than a treat
Dark days are upon me my husband is dead
I look at the future I shudder with dread
For my young are all busy rearing young of their own
And I think of years of love I have known
I’m an old woman now and nature is cruel
The body it crumbles and vigour departs
And now there’s a stone where I once had a heart
But in this old carcass a young girl still dwells
And now and again my battered heart swells
I remember the joy, I remember the pain
And I’m loving and living life over again
I think of the years, all too few gone so fast
And have to accept that nothing can last
So open your eyes nurse, open and see
Not a crabbed old woman
Look closer , you will see me
A Large Farming Family
By Peter Wolfenden, Colne
Our family of ten was large when we all sat down to dine
The villagers used to ask my dad what he did in his spare time
Every day we walked to school, it was two miles from door to door
On sunny days it wasn’t far, when it was raining it seemed a lot more
When it was raining hard, many times we got wet through,
When we got to school, change our wet clothes we had to do.
We then got a towel, or a pair of the teachers pink knickers long,
This was embarrassing when brown stains they had on.
Our clothes were mainly cast-offs bought at jumble sales in town
My auntie altered them to make them fit; they cost less than half a crown
There were jackets, frocks and coats coloured red, blue brown and green
Our schoolteacher used to remark so many colours seldom had she seen.
Upstairs the rooms were small, large enough for the drawers and bed,
This left us short of space, so we slept three kids to one bed.
Our mattress was made of flock, the pillows feather and goose down,
On top two grey army blankets, a quilt and large pink eiderdown.
Every Friday night we had a bath to remove all the muck and grime,
With so many kids to bath it took my mother a long time
The bathroom was in the kitchen in front of a roaring fire,
Then we went to bed wi now’t on, because we had no bed attire.
We seldom had any fancy grub like our neighbours used to eat
Ours was most days the same, porridge and tatties with some meat
We had many birthday parties when kids came to the farm to play
For tea, egg butties, jellies and a special sponge cake for the birthday.
We didn’t have a modem loo, when nature gave us the call to go,
Underneath the old iron bedstead was a large hand painted poe.
The outside loo was a shed at the end of the backyard
This was a long drop type, which to empty was always hard.
We never got new best shoes, they were handed down from Jack to Joe,
If they were a size too big, father stuffed sheep’s wool in the toe.
For school we had lace-up clogs with irons nailed on,
These were heavy and very robust, so they lasted long.
When the lads left school, they worked on the farm every day,
For work we got our clothes bought, bed, fed and no pay.
This was why family farms were self supporting better them most,
Because there was no wages, and few bills came through the post.
For entertainment, country dances were held in villages miles away,
Then we arrived home, just in time for morning milking the next day.
Transport to the dance was by cattle wagon, so noisy you could not talk,
We decided a third-class ride was better than a first-class walk.
When at one of these dances, a partner you would hope to find,
Then one day you would get married, leaving the farm behind.
First you had to earn money, spreading muck and making hay,
Or leave the farm to work in the nearest town, earning decent pay.
Bethany and Mojo
By Anne Barson, Burnley
My granddaughter’s photograph with her face aglow
Was taken whilst playing with her cat Mojo in the snow
Snowflakes in her hair and a sparkle in her eyes
The happiness he brings her, you just cannot disguise
He sleeps upon her bedroom windowsill late at night
Sometimes he climbs into her doll’s house, such a funny sight
He follows her simply everywhere, except of course to school
But he patiently waits at the window for her return as he really is no fool
For when she comes home, he sits by the fridge and gives her “a meow”
He knows then, she will find him an extra treat somehow
She loves him so very much and he definitely loves her
When they are together, you should hear him “purr”
The very best friends there could ever be
That’s Mojo the cat and his friend Bethany.
Lovely Lady
By Graham Twist, Colne.
There’s a lovely lady who I know
Whose heart goes out with the warmest glow
With her comical ways she made us giggle
Whatever she said turns into a riddle
Whether young or old she’d stop for a while
Offer a kind word and a tender smile
She’s dried our tears and shared our laughter
I know she’ll be there with us in the hereafter
Some family and friends are up on high
Waiting for her in that heavenly sky
We all love you like no other
That lovely lady is my mother
Spring
By John Walker and Emily Williamson, Silsden.
Spring has arrived; the flowers are in bloom,
Time to see the sun since the winter’s gloom.
Snowdrops and crocuses - what a lovely show,
To think that only recently there was ice and snow.
Poems taken from issue 37 April/May 2011. To order this issue go to the Northern Life online store.