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