Readers’ Poems Nov/Dec 22

Christmas Poem

BY IRENE NUTTER

Another year of yuletide throng,
Another special Christmas song.
Frenzied snowflakes, sparkling wine,
Melodious Robin amongst the pine.

Nuts and berries, a feast for all
And Santa’s presents against the wall,
Beneath the Christmas tree so tall
And guests arriving along the hall.

Ladies adorned with gowns of gold,
Ushered inside against the cold.
Whistling winds across the moor-
Must all push hard against the door.

Inglenook fire with flames adance,
Guests all mesmerised, as though in a trance,
Thawed now ready for feast and wine,
Surround the table and ready to dine.
Fit for a king, this golden goose-
With crackers and hats and blueberry mousse.

If I Could Dance Like Fred Astaire

BY DAVID BUXTON

If only I could dance like Fred Astaire.
I’d know just what it’s like to walk on air.
I’d glide across the floor, and folk would gawk –
In every town I danced, I’d be the talk.

I’ve got a suit for funerals and such things,
But not the same as Fred wears when ‘e sings.
I really need a top ‘at and some tails –
I’ll pop along to Moss Bros in the sales.

A white tie? That’s no problem, I’ll be bound.
And patent leather shoes will soon be found.
And looking to avoid an ‘andicap –
I’ll need some other shoes for when I tap.

Now, dressed like Fred, I’m bound to look the part.
I know the tunes ‘e danced to, off by heart –
Those songs by Porter, Gershwin or Berlin
Are easy, ’cause the rhythm is built-in.

Now Fred’s a dancer I ‘ave long admired –
To reach ‘is standard, practice is required.
I bet ‘e practised several ‘ours a day –
By gum, it were well worth it, I would say.

Now mastering the steps is what comes first –
My quickstep and my foxtrot aren’t the worst –
All very well when dancing on my own,
But not all Fred’s routines were danced alone.

I’m sure I’ll need a partner on the floor –
A graceful lass, not more than five foot four.
What’s more, she’ll have to promise to obey,
And if she wants a ball gown, then she’ll pay.

I envy Fred the partners that ‘e had –
The first Adele, his sister, wasn’t bad.
She made ‘is name, then getting rather bored,
She left the stage, got married to a lord.

Astaire then took a test at RKO:
“Can’t sing. Can’t act. Can dance a little though.”
Consid’ring ‘im not good enough for them,
They loaned ‘im out to neighbours MGM.

‘e got a minor dancing role next year
With Gable and Joan Crawford ‘e’d appear.
Relaxed and self-assured throughout ‘is scene,
‘e made a good impression on the screen.

It sometimes looked as if Fred were on wheels,
Yet Ginger did it backwards (and in ‘eels!).
‘e even made a film with Cyd Charisse –
With Cyd as partner, I might look obese.

With Rita Hayworth nestling in my arms,
I’d do my best to turn on all the charms –
Who knows what ‘appens when you dance?
The outcome could become A Fine Romance.

With ‘air slicked back, I’d sway from left to right
To Top Hat or The Way You Look Tonight.
My partner’s eyes adoringly on mine,
‘er feet obeying ev’ry subtle sign.

And folk would marvel at my great technique
In Shall We Dance or Dancing Cheek to Cheek.
Aye, dreams like this are ‘armless and they’re free –
At least They Can’t Take That Away From Me.

But sadly, all these dreams amount to nowt –
I’m short of breath and suffering from gout.
It’s pointless dreaming of such ballroom fame.
“Excuse me, Nurse. Can’t reach my zimmer frame.”

Skylark on Weets Hill

BY ALLAN BOLTON

A blissful silence wiped away:
torrents of song pour from above
in melodious jumble, profuse outpouring
overmastering all sounds besides.

Raising a gaze, seeking the source,
find something insignificantly brown
with rapid wings, more spirit than bird
it hovers, raining notes without cease.
From the valley’s watersmeet I’ve striven
upwards, climbing to this height
led — by a pillar of sound?
that seems to bridge heaven and earth.

From a restful bench I survey the all-around,
Bowland and all the high peaks of Yorkshire,
as if a promised land. At my feet
pebbled memorials to those
others whose spirit belongs here.

We are pilgrims in this outdoor cathedral.

A Little Patch

BY BRADLEY CHAMBERS

When we f ’st gorrit, that ‘ouse in Ponte,
T’weren’t nowt burra patch o’muck.
More like Battl-o-Somme,
Than sommat w’th both’rin wi.

Mind you, ahm no stranger t’hard w’k
(Tho’ I’m no Percy Thrower).
An’ wi a birra’ liftin’ n’ shiftin’
An’ a lot o’ sweat, and no shortage o’cussin’,
Well,
O’er time,
Well,
It became me own little,

(Now, I won’t say it’s Kew).
I mean, don’t get mi wrong.
An’ I won’t be gerrin’ no awards.
But ahm ‘appy enough wi’ it.
Nay, I’ll say it as it is,
Ahm proper proud.
An’ when thee starts carrying on’
Like you do.
It’s somewhere to get ah’t o’way.
Lest it’s beltin’ it dahn.
Then, I go in’t shed.
Wi a pot o’ tea n’t’paper n’
You should think y’sen lucky.
Some blokes’d be off’t pub.
But that’s ne’er bi’n f ’ me.
I’d rather be growin’,
Tomatoes, turnips n’tatties.
Or them chrysanths I gev’ yer’.

Nay, I don’t think more o’t garden,
Than I do o’thee.

But then again…

Side by Side

BY JOHN PLATTEN

They walked, side by side, down the aisle,
Linked, a couple, happy together, in love.
Her left arm gripped his right elbow,
He cupped her left hand gently in his own.
Him heady, intoxicated by her sweet perfume,
She leaned closer, feeling his warmth.
Another day in the rest of their lives.
They greeted people they knew,
Exchanging smiles and glances,
He winked at a gurning child.
The love they shared,
Hung around their shoulders, like rich velvet cloaks.
They walked, side by side, down the aisle,
As they had, for the first time, forty years before.
Today, amongst the tins, packets and produce.
Today, amongst the tins, packets and produce.
As they had, for the first time, forty years before,
They walked, side by side, down the aisle.
Hung around their shoulders, like rich velvet cloaks,
The love they shared.
He winked at a gurning child,
Exchanging smiles and glances,
They greeted people they knew.
Another day in the rest of their lives.
She leaned closer, feeling his warmth,
Him heady, intoxicated by her sweet perfume.
He cupped her left hand gently in his own,
Her left arm gripped his right elbow.
Linked, a couple, happy together, in love,
They walked, side by side, down the aisle.

Poem For John

BY EDDY RAWLINSON

I wrote this after my cousin John was killed at sea 1941

 

In just three minutes survivors say
with fair maids his bones did lay,
On a lone destroyer in a mountainous sea
to a seabed grave they went so helplessly.

Since his first breath he had survived
twenty short years before he died.
In the engine room below the line
his constant worry a floating mine.

Through an unseen eye above the sea
submariners watched their enemy.
Stings of death propelled into the night
with men and ship lost without a fight.

As the years pass and time goes by
some remember some still cry
Those they loved for whom they cried
had long been dead but never died.

A Glow of Marigolds

BY SYDNEY PECK

Still they smile in cold November:
Cheery children warm as fire
Reject the sadness song of winter
And glow with glory like heaven’s choir.

Golden faces bright and glowing,
Fiery angels fighting death
Through the chill, grim and growing,
Of winter’s unforgiving breath.

The Coal Man Cometh

BY TERRY IRELAND

About the end of times when
Carts were hauled by Shires,
Coal was king and homes
Were heated by open fires,

A seemingly huge dark figure
From my early childhood days
As he drove his horse and cart
Through the country byways

From village to village to village
Delivering sacks of coal
To feed our coal fires, then
Each home’s heart and soul.

One hundredweight of coal
Measured into each heavy sack
Which they’d hoist off the cart
Onto a waiting broad back

To be carried to the coal shed
To be skilfully slipped
And with ease of movement
Very carefully tipped

Not a black lump wasted
As it piled on the coal heap
For money was tight
And coal wasn’t cheap.

His horse patiently standing
By each house’s kerb side
Waiting to be led on or
For him to climb up and ride.

Hours they must have spent
Huddled on that cart seat
Muffled up for winter’s cold
Or soaking up summer’s heat.

One day suddenly, progress,
The Shire retired out to grass
The second hand liveried lorry
Shelter behind steel and glass.

Still a hard dirty job but warmer
As the world moved slowly on
King Coal was coldly murdered
And the job was virtually gone.

Just a figure from history
From a simpler, slower age
Not even meriting a foot note
On a social history primer’s page.

Is there a niche in time and space
Where a coal man and his horse,
Waggon piled with sacks, eternally
Trundles his once essential course

Choose To Remember Me

BY OSKAR LEONARD

There will come a time when my footprints,
traced so eagerly in the snow, are gone;
and I know that time shall come soon,
but I hope you remember the sight–
commit it to memory, if you can–
because that is me–no one else.

You may well find your own footprints
dancing alongside mine; you may remember
how we held each other and waltzed
under the arms of skeleton trees,
without a care for the world, or the eyes
lurking between each trunk–shadows.

Don’t remember your fear of the night,
but remember the sight of the footprints
illuminated by a kind moon’s glow.
Don’t remember how you shivered so,
but remember the warmth of my body
and the steps we took–together.

Prescience?

BY ELIZABETH LOGAN

Ah wen out t’door
me mum dint keep ‘er eyes on mi
I wer only fooar
she were chunterin
wi’ mi nan like allus an
I snuck by creepin
she were reight upset
an called out t’coppers
an smoked a cig’ret
an they brung us ‘ome
in t’afternoon and said
I crossed t’busy road
an they found us wi
them navvies building that new
school an there wer l
singin to ‘em all
you are my sunshine dancin
there’s nowt in
this tale to gi ye
thought that ‘appen there’s summat
of t’ star in mi.

 

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NorthernLife Oct/Nov 2022