Time for Reflection

 

 

 

Time for Reflection

 

 

The end of the year is not far away

I sit and write my Christmas cards and realise their are fewer than last year

The present is slowly slipping past

Friends and relatives leave this earth and only memories remain

They leave behind happy memories of times spent with them

A life which, from this distance, seems to have been much gentler than it is now

I do not mourn  - but rejoice that I was part of their lives  and they of mine,

The coming generation will fill the gaps and life will continue

Not as it is now, but as it will become because they will shape it

Christmas is a time to take stock of where we are

The New Year will lead us to the path we must now take.

 

 

Ann Redburn

 



a Policemans Lot

A POLICEMANS LOT
Stay where you are,
Keep your hands in your pockets,
Always remember this,
Shoplifters will always be prosecuted!...
That was the anthem, of every trader,
In every shop throughout the land of Salford,
They put up signs and fisheye mirrors,
All around their shops,
Then fail to watch the shoplifters,
"4817 to foxtrot four",
"I've got this shoplifter pinned to the floor"
"Send us a van as soon as your can",
"1013 here , I've got it in hand"

Jonny Crook

Potting on

 

 

 

Potting on

 

 

When I remember him, it's first a chuckle. then a rueful smile:

his life was long and hard, had left him next to  no illusions.

 

Then, in my mind's eye, working in his greenhouse:

if ever he was happy in himself, then in that space,

 

he did not seem to mind the heat, not on the hottest day,

hummed as he worked, the seedlings spread around him,

 

the pile of little terra cotta pots, one inside the other, at his feet:

each filled with compost, placed in neat rows on his bench,

 

Then the  gentlest work, teasing the seedlings apart, one or two

thumbed into each  small crock, so much satisfaction in such simple tasks;

 

and all around the complex pungency of fresh mixed earth,

of young tomato plants, courgettes and marrows,

 

and high and low, the thrum and murmuring of insects,

telling him that this was right, that this  was how they liked it.

 

 

Joe Stephenson

 



my Library

MY LIBRARY

SOME GO TO THE LIBRARY FOR A WALK,

SOME FOR A LAUGH, SOME TO TALK,

SOME GO THERE FOR EDUCATION,

SOME GO THERE FOR OBSERVATION,

SOME WILL GO TO TRY AND SAVE SOME MONEY,

SOME GO TO RESEARCH,

HOPING TO FIND THEIR LONG LOST “AUNTY BUNNY”

SOME GO TO READ AND WRITE AND DRAW,

SOME WILL GO TO CHECK OUT,

THAT NEW LAW,

SOME WILL GO TO CHECK OUT,

THE NEW LIBRARIAN’S NAME,

SOME MAY GO TO TRY,

AND WOUND HER FLAME,

BUT, NO ONE GOES TO SCREAM AND SHOUT,

WE ARE SO VERY HAPPY,

KNOWING THAT THE STAFF,

CAN ALWAYS HELP US OUT,

AND THAT IS HOWFEN LIBRARY,

SO MUCH WE DO LOVE YOU.

 

BY

JOHNNY CROOK

human traits

 

 

 

 

HUMAN TRAITS

Of all our human failings,

The one I hate the most,

Is arrogant presumption?

It really is so gross.

The problem that I have,

When one sees  it in a friend,

Is working out how to tell them,

They are being such a pain,

Am I being so wrong by trying to be so right?

Should I forgive and forget?

And give up the good fight,

That’s why I wrote this ditty,

So you would understand my plight.

 

By

Johnny Crook

2014.



No more War

 

 

 

No More War

 

No more wars’, the voices cried from across the years
‘No more wars’ our hearts replied – our eyes still wet with tears
‘No more wars’ the warriors called – no more to die in hell
‘No more wars’ the widows said – you had a tale to tell
No more wars – but it is plain...
The ghostly voices call in vain

 

 

Ann Redburn

Westhoughton Christmas 1910

 

 

 

 Westhoughton       Christmas 1910

 

 That Christmas Westhoughton mourned  its dead

 

For the mine had blown – just as they said

 

 December in  nineteen hundred and ten

 

 Howfen buried its boys and men

 

 The Angel of Death, pausing before each humble door

 

Had selected three hundred and forty four

 

And Christmas never came that year

 

From every house in silent street

 

Shawled against the winter sleet

 

Women processed on unwilling feet 

Shrouded in grief and devoid of tear

Mourned those whom they held so dear

Burdened with sorrows so raw on display

They came to bury their men that day

The remaining members of Wingates band

(Twice voted the finest in the land )

By each miner’s grave did stand

With tightened throats and hearts of lead

 Played funeral marches for the dead

With respect and dignity and pride

They said farewell to those who died

And we  gather each December still

 

We don't forget - we never will.

 

On that cold morn no church  bells rang

Proclaiming  peace and love and joy,

Just the measured knell of the passing bell,

Tolling for each lost  man and boy.

Ann Redburn 2014



Mortality

 

 

 

 

Mortality

 

Another funeral to attend

Another farewell to say

As we our years increase

So do we recognise our own mortality

We see the mourners gathered round

The tears so freely flowing

And hear the eulogy of a life well spent

Whilst the priest’s voice intones

The riches of the after life

They are just words to the departed kin

Though meant to comfort

The words touch not the hearts of them that mourn

They only think of loss and grief

And see a bleak future ahead

The final farewell said,

A chapter closed

What does tomorrow hold?

 

Ted Morgan



Impress the lady you love

 

 

 

Impress the Lady you Love

Wine her, dine her, always hold her hand,

Laugh with her, cry with her,

And always look spick and span,

Shower her with flowers,

Buy her favourite wine,

Always hold the door for her,

Take her out when the sun shines,

Try to keep her happy,

But if you see her sad,

Write her some love letters,

But never have a rant,

Hold her, cuddle her,

Keep her nice and warm,

Go to the ends of the earth and back for her,

Maybe then she will love you until the end of time.

By

Johnny Crook



White Crosses

 

 

White Crosses

here are no warriors here

only men,

 

there are no heroes here

just regrets,

 

here are no soldiers here

just lives extinguished

that still should burn bright,

 

there is no glory here

that dream died with us,

 

crosses are our legacy

they speak for us

in a common language,

a language that denies

 the geography of hate

 

by these you will remember us

by these we will be known

after are names are scratched through

by spit tipped blunted pencils

following a silence

when the roll is called at muster,

there is no poetry here

 

look for it elsewhere

 

look for it cowering in the trenches

look for it huddled beneath the firing platform

 

look for it sinking in the mud

 

look for it

after the anointed hour

that moved us forward and left us

hanging silent on the wire

 

listen for it

crying in the surgeons tent

 

marvel at it in the lines

hobbling in file

gasping and blind

 

do not look for it here

 

there is

no

poetry here

for we have no neeed

of poets

 

©Mark Russell



the crafters

 

 

 

The Crafters

 

They stood amongst pavilions fair – their toil and triumphs displayed there

For all to see who came that day and paid to enter

Either with keen intent or idle interest, to while away an hour or two upon a rainy Sunday.

Those who had grafted and crafted and given birth to their creations

Carved and painted with love and passion – produced with frustration or satisfaction

They stood and hoped that their love would be shared by all who entered there that day

How could they fail to buy the house, the cat, the scary guy

The doorstop, holder, hanger, pot

How much love had gone into that lot – created by such skilful hand

And presented to those of this fine land who came to see, if not to buy

Faces long and pocket deep – how could those who visit keep such granite faces?

Surely they must understand the work, the hours, the care, the planning

The frustration and tears when failure mars the finishes product.

Will it sell?  Will it sell? – nonchalance feigned as people approach the stall

Will our creations be loved by all – will they buy?

Or will they glance with feigned indifference, not penetrating our emotional defence

Oh yes, oh yes, at last a smile.  Perchance to handle for a while

That which we have, throughout the night, worked to produce for your delight

They smile, and chat, and measure its merits against that which perhaps they

Obtained last year on some similar day.

It pleases, thank Heaven; they buy and offer crisp notes of enormous value

In order to finalise the transaction.

Deep into pocket, purse and handbag do the crafters delve to offer change

Or else to lose this sale.

And then, as if the dam has burst, the trickle becomes a stream

Oh joy, our dream is shared by those who that day are there

And when all is done and all accounted for, the crafters exit, Laden, by the door

Through which they had this morn staggered, laden

Tired and drained, but happy yet.  The day was, this time, successful.

 

Ann Redburn



Flowers 1

Flowers 1

I do not think of flowers much,

 they pass me by. Remind me why

for you they carry love and life,

the children’s fragile daisy chains,

the golden butter test beneath the chin,

half-laughed-off fears of wetting beds;

your widow’s memories and grief,

vast drifts of poppies; each a tear.

 

Such names!

lady’s mantle, smock and slipper-

lady’s tresses, ladies bedstraw-

love-in-a-mist, then love-lies-bleeding-

hemlock and enchanters nightshade-

hog-weed, mousewort,mares tail-

cow-bane, catch-fly, toadflax-

there’s sickness, healing, witchcraft-

poetry and music, joy, eternal sadness-

and yet I do not think of flowers much:

they pass me by.

Joe Stephenson

I hurt The one I love

                                                            I HURT THE ONE I LOVE.

 

                                                       I WOUNDED MY WIFE TODAY,

                                                            OF THAT I AM SO SURE,

                                      I OPENED MY MOUTH WITH BRIMSTONE & FIRE,

                                               MY OUTBURST WAS UNCALLED FOR,

                                                      IT MADE HER EVER SO SAD,

                                   I RECOILED TO MY ROOM, TO REFLECT ON THE BAD,

                                         ATONE FOR MY SINS SEEMED SO FAR AWAY,

                                BURDENED WITH CONSCIENCE AS MORALITY KICKED IN,

                            TWAS MORE THAN A MISDEMEANOUR & MORE THAN A SIN,

                               AS HER FEELINGS & EMOTIONS NOW NEEDED NURSING,

                               SO WITH REDEMPTION IN MIND, I CONSIDERED A PLAN,

                          BUT WITHIN A HEART BEAT, IT WAS JUST A FLASH IN THE PAN,

                          SO, I WEAR MY HEART ON MY SLEEVE & REQUEST A REPRIEVE,

                 WHERE’S FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE, PLEASE, HOLD HER HAND.

                                                       BY JOHNNY CROOK 2014

My Mums Clock

 

 

 

My Mums Clock

The clock it hangs upon the wall it was bought in nineteen sixteen,

Dad bought it for my mum, and on her wall it’s always been

It marked the time when the Kiser roared and my dad he went to war,

He came back a troubled man with memories of its gore,

Whilst ticking on, it saw the birth, of babies numbered six

Two died in childhood leaving, two boys, two girls, the mix,

It ticked on through the Second World War, not harmed by Manchester’s blitz

Flames rose high in the red streaked sky, from bombs dropped by Fritz,

Our clock it marked the time, when wars Victory did arrive

But when dad died it stopped for him, as though it was alive,

It started after a short time, then charted days of bliss,

As wedding bells rang for members of our family, sealed with a loving kiss,

Sadly a daughter’s tragedy meant changes to mums life

She became her children’s guardian, to save them from more strife

The clock it kept on ticking through the stages of their life

And watched each girl flee the nest, each to became a wife,

Mum and her clock had aged a lot and when the good Lord called,

                  It bade farewell, and stopped again, with the mechanism stalled.

It still ticks on though times have changed but now it does reside,

On her son’s wall ticking still, charting times relentless tide.

 

© Ted Morgan



Tinnitus

 

 

 

Tinnitus

Imagine if you can, a noise inside  your head,

You can hear it when you wake up because you heard it when in bed,

You can hear it when you get to work, and when it is your break,

You will hear it whilst you have your lunch, even with your mates,

You can hear it when you go back to work and try to concentrate,

So on your way home from work at night,

Guess what? Your head is in a state.

 

Imagine if you can, a noise inside your head,

You've come home from a hard days work,but wait:

You can hear it in the kitchen, you can hear it in the lounge,

You can hear it in the bathroom,

Even when lying down,

With anger spilling over, its tempting to pass it on,

So look around and pick your victim,

And make sure you stand your ground;

Overcome with frustration as the noise swirls round and round.

 

Imagine if you can, a noise inside your head,

You suffer it at work, now suffer it at home,

Try to explain to a loved one in whatever tone,

Search and search for help, succeed you feel you must,

But fail you will as this is just another day with

TINNITUS

 

John Crook

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



April Rain

     
April Rain

I am the wind that crosses the sky,
And comforts the lonely as I pass by,
I know how your feeling the hurt and the pain,
For I once fell in love with the April rain,

And oh how I loved her like never before,
Sometimes love was silent, sometimes it would roar,
While the clouds in the sky turned red like a flame,
We stood together, myself and the rain.

I knew from the start I was falling in love,
As we danced with the breeze that came down from above,
But I just could not help it, no one was to blame,
And I gave my heart to the April rain.

But the month of May was coming our way,
And April knew she could not stay,
As she left in tears I called her name,
Never to forget the April rain.

Allan Anthony Martin.


 

 

 

 



Snails

snails

 

 

 

I can’t get rid of the snails, Ted

They are things that I really hate

They just give a cheer when I put out the beer

And throw them over the gate.

They seem to just love the slug pellets

And slide swiftly over the gritty sand

The snails I have in my garden

Must be the most stubborn ones in the land

They eat all the plants I have planted

They hide up during the day

To add to my plight, they come out at night

And wander wherever they may

I’ve watched them – they move like racehorses

Everyone said they were slow

But they climb up the wall like an athlete

I’ve watched them – and so I should know.

I can’t get rid of the snails Ted

So I wait by the door with a gun

They are so flaming quick, they are taking the mick

So I’ll shoot them - each flaming  one.

 

Ann Redburn

The Wordsmith.

The Wordsmith

I think I'll write a poem a wordsmith I will be,

But what the heck to write about has put me all at sea,

So I thought that I would Google the different types of verse,

I think that was a bad idea, it made my thought block worse,

I found that verse was graded into many different kinds,
It seemed it was dependant on the rhyming of the lines,
In Descriptive poems you visualise the objects of your verse,
But writing in Reflective mode your thoughts are more diverse,
The poem in the Narrative vein has a story it must tell,
Whilst Odes entwine a person  or an object in its spell,
The Ballard it is musical and has a certain rhythm,
The Lyric like the Ballard is tuneful,short in vision,
Now Shakespeare he wrote Sonnets in a very special way,
Whilst melancholic Elegy's were the forte of Mr Grey,
And last of all the Limerick  made up of lines times five,
And naughty verse has sometimes made this latter one survive,
With all these different kinds of verse my brain cells start to twirl,
 I don't know which one I will choose, to write my poetic pearl,
After hours of  fruitless thinking I still have a writer's block
My brain cells decommissioned like a ship that's in dry dock!

Ted Morgan,

ABOUT WESTHOUGHTONS POETRY GROUP

The group is composed of people who write and enjoy poetry 

We meet once a month to socialise and read each others poetry.