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