Books

 BOOKS

 

It lies there on the table just waiting to be read,

Beneath its hard back covers bound with linen thread,

The authors weaves their magic with special tales to tell

And you the reader cannot wait to fall beneath their spell

Some books they draw you right away into their special world

Whilst others tantalise and twist their secrets to unfurl,

It does not matter where you are in wood or busy train,

The world inside their pages is your mystical domain,

You settle down to read a book, your whole demeanour changes

The outside world it disappears, whilst you delve into its pages,

You are lost within its special world its characters are real,

Displaying all emotions that we human people feel,

The authors can transport us to far and distant lands,

Or have us wander aimlessly beside a coastal strand,

I could not live without my books they are to me a treasre

They fill my life with happiness and brighten up my leisure

 

Ted Morgan

national poetry day poem

National Poetry Day 2015

 

Today is National Poetry Day

So I’m saying it in rhyme

The only problem seems to be

That I do it all the time

When I went to the chip shop

For sausage chips and peas

She asked me ‘salt and vinegar?’

And I answered her ‘oh yes please’

And when my friend came visiting

And I made her favourite brew

I knew she liked it nice and sweet

So I said ‘three lumps or two?’

Last night when I was weary and I retired to my bed

I remembered to say ‘thank you Lord for my daily bread’

And when I woke this morning racked and stiff with pain

I muttered to my maker ‘Oh Lord, please not again’

Ann Redburn.

The Neighbour

The Neighbour

 

I had a new neighbour – I thought it was great

He’s weeded the garden and painted the gate

Renewed all the woodwork – pointed the wall

Planted up baskets – and that is not all

He’s reflagged the back yard and strimmed back the weeds

(He did my side also for he saw my great need)

As I look from my window it’s breaking my heart

For my side is scruffy and his is so smart

So I’ve bought plants for my planters – but I know I won’t win

For he’s an OCD handyman – a bloody great sin!!!!!!

 

Ann Redburn



On th Buses

 

 

On The Buses

 

I remember years ago,

I used to work on the busses,

And I was the conductor,

Conductors were the bosses.

letting passengers on and off,

regardless of their class.

 

The 5 a.m. run was one of my favourites,

Full of miners en route to the pit,

All smoking pipes roll ups,

and something in between,

I never found out what they were,

but I think you know what I men.

 

My pet hate was the school run,

the kids were a nightmare,

And they couldn't do their sums,

They used to leave me messages,

on the backs of the seats,

spelt all wrong.

 

The evening shifts were funny

all the passengers like Jekyll and Hyde,

I took them out all sober

and they came back all pie eyed.

 

I should have been the driver,

he always looked so relaxed,

Especially when we went round a bend,

that's when my heavy ticket machine,

hit me in the middle of my back.

 

It was all a big mistake though,

I forgot one important fact,

Travel sick was I

so at the end of every shift

My guts for hours felt like

I had been on a roller coaster ride.

 

John Crook

 

 

 

 



peace

 

 

PEACE
THERE IS NOT MUCH PEACE ON THIS ESTATE,
ON DAYS I WISH THERE WERE,
SUN IS OUT WITH A DYING BREEZE,
SO THE WEATHER IS SO FAIR,...
BABIES CRY, DOGS BARKING AND AIRCRAFT CIRCLE ROUND,
CAR ALARMS AND ICECREAM CHIMES AND SOME JETWASH SOUND,
I LISTEN LONG AND HARD,
AS COMOTION STRAINS MY SOUL,
THEN SLOWLY AND ONE BY ONE,
THEY ALL JUST SEEMED TO GO,
NO BABIES CRY, DOGS ASLEEP AND AIRCRAFT BACK AT BASE,
YES, AND THAT IS WHEN IT PUT,
A SMILE BACK ON MY FACE,
PEACE AND TRANQUILTIY CAN BE DIFFICULT TO FIND,
I NOW SHARE IT WITH THE BIRDS AND BEES,
AND A LOVELY GLASS OF WINE.
BY
JOHNNY CROOK
2015

Mothering Sunday

                                                             

   Mothering Sunday.

Its Mothering Sunday but no Mum is near,

To straighten tie or brush our hair,

For years ago she was called to rest,

A special Mum who I thought the best,

Its days like this that we recall

Those special traits which helped us all,

The patience, calm and loving smile,

The look that would at once beguile,

If we were anguished and afraid,

She calmed our fears and made us brave,

Oh how I wish that she could see,

That frightened child that used to be,

But by words and guidance we now display

The influences we espouse today,

Our thanks to all the mums out there,

Who raised us all with kindness and care,

And let us hope that we do the same,

For our children who bear our name.

 

© Ted Morgan

 

 

 

The Haggis Hunt

There’s a mysterious clan in the highlands,       

 Mc haggis their tartan of choice,

For they have hunted the wild mountain Haggis,

Since they were all wee little boys,

They have honed their skills with the claymore,

Their sporrans are big wide and brown,

With lots of the silver dangly bits

Made by silversmiths of great renown,

The haggis is small black and rotund

With legs at the front and the back,

And it scurries about in the heather,

Wherever bad weathers’ on track,

It likes best the snows of the winter

When winds at a gale fore do blow,

And hiding midst boulder and heather

Makes spotting them hard, don’t you know?

The big hunts take place in the New Year,

When the Haggis hunter’s guilds are in town,

Each hunter awash with the whisky

From first footing and the scotches they’ve downed,

Their eyesight at first is quite hazy,

And people in pairs they do see,

And spotting the wild mountain haggis,

Is a challenge on mountain and scree,

The wind is a problem in’t Gorbles,

 So a hot water bottle under kilts all did put,

To keep them all sung and so warm like

So avoiding a frost bitten Butt!

They slowly crept up on the haggis

And cornered the brute near a wall,

But just as the posse were pouncing,

The haggis rolled into a ball,

Away down the hillside it trundled,

Followed by the Mc haggis clan

But the bottles under kilts made them stumble,

And entwined with their legs as they ran

The hunters were soon in a big heap

And the haggis rolled far out of sight

So another year’s hunt was a failure

Caused by drinking whisky far into the night.

 

© Ted Morgan



The Cruellest of all Diseases

The Cruellest of all Diseases

I cannot ask you to help me remember

I cannot ask you to understand

There are times when I do not know you

Even when you hold my hand

I am locked in my little bubble

And though at times there is some memory

I will never be the one you love so

For now you are you – and I am me

Ann Redburn



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