Readers’ Poems Spring 24

Put Out to Grass

BY ERIC HARVEY

Restlessly he leans upon the picket gate
clutching fresh picked carrots, standing there in wait,
Sporting his best waistcoat, best Sunday cap on head,
sixty years a farmhand and fifty-five years wed!
The dirt of sixty seasons – ground into his face,
he’d still be out there working, but couldn’t stand the pace,
In all those laboured years, he’d never left the farm,
now he stands there at his gate.. away from any harm.
Today it was different, another friend retires,
the horse he worked twenty years, Trooper, was a Shire,
So patiently he’s waiting, standing there alone,
In the garden of his cottage – built with Yorkshire stone.
Then a familiar noise, heard coming down the lane,
those sounds of clippety-clop – good to hear again,
Into view his Grandson came, holding Trooper’s rein,
they stopped outside the cottage, his wait was not in vain.
They fed old Trooper carrots – his nose upon the floor,
the Grandson knew his Granddad wanted nothing more,
He wiped away a stray tear and let the moment pass,
as two trusty working friends…were put out to grass.

 

Sweet Memories

BY SUE WILSEA

Sherbet lemons, pear drops
mint humbugs, chocolate limes,
Nanna kept them by her
for us to dip in to anytime.

Sucking hard, our mouths fizzed,
lips puckered, tongues furred,
teeth were chocolate coated.
We raked through the jar,
sulked if favourites were gone.

Her brother, fourteen, knocked
down by a car on his
way to the corner sweet
shop. Killed outright just before
the Great War.

‘Have another!’ she’d urge,
‘Take some away with you
for later.’ Cheeks bulging,
we greedily obliged. She
kept us sweet, kept us close.

 

Remembering Grandad

BY VIVIEN FOULKES-JAMES

I last saw you sitting in one of the armchairs
that lined the walls of the featureless drab room.
The atmosphere was hushed, resigned,
you puffed on your pipe and didn’t seem unhappy.

You were the stranger who came to stay,
my father’s father, the only grandparent
I got to meet, the others, all long dead.
My father had said you were cold and distant,
there was no close bond between you.
In your old age, my parents took you in-
you needed care, my father felt obliged.
My poor mother was soon worn down
by the demands of the increasingly frail stranger

I remember we played board games together,
I was at a loose end, my older sisters at school.
My favourite was a game called ‘Sorry’
which I’m sure you let me win.
My elder sister had been unkind,
she said that you were too fat,
said that you should move around.
Then one day she presented you
with one cornflake for breakfast.

Eventually your needs became too great.

I remember our weekly trips to visit you,
my father and I, your only visitors.
The memory stays with me,
residents sitting round the edge of a large room.
You told my father I was a good little soul,
I remember being pleased by that.
I wish I could have talked to you
about your life, the experiences you’d had,
but I was too young and then – it was far too late.

McGough in Morecambe

BY ALLAN BOLTON

So you’re eighty-five, still writing and gigging.
That does impress me, very much.
You didn’t die a young man’s death
and wrote on, never lost your touch.

Stomping on the scaffold — my theatre’s hollow stage,
with deep-voiced harmonies you, Mike and John
intoned your big hit Lily the Pink
at my first gig.

That joyful song, a parade of afflictions
physical and mental, imagined
and ‘cured’ (or not) by medicinal compound,
could never be played today:

Seen to make light of real sickness
evoked in vivid words and killer rhymes,
its authors censored and denounced
in these scared, humourless times.

You still inspire youngsters, as you did me,
with Tomorrow has your name on it,
Kipling’s If poem for the twenty-first century.

 

An Early Bloom

BY LUCIA KENNY

 

 

On a dark gloomy day in January
I seek the outdoors,
these weary winter days
do nothing to raise my spirits,

as I jog along
the wind and rain join forces
to batter my body,

but I defy their strength
and run faster,
the adrenaline is with me,
my mind and body are as one.
I feel good.

Suddenly I see something that
stops me pounding the pavement,
for there under the hedgerow
is a solitary daffodil,
tall and in full bloom.

Like the return of the prodigal
I feel joy,
my spirits soar
for this golden flower reminds me
that soon these sunless days will pass
and a brighter season is fast approaching.

 

Barstool Know-It Man

BY DAVID DRIVER

He is the barstool know-it man
The CEEFAX of all knowledge sought
He’s been in every World War,
and every battle and every campaign fought
Spoke at leading universities and every Professor taught

He’s welded up the Titanic,
been James Hunt’s Formula 1 mechanic,
tamed a Bengal tiger and didn’t panic

He knows your mum
He knows your dad
He knows where you have worked

He knows your brothers
He knows your sisters, even though you don’t have any
And says that you look like his best mate,
which would be ‘Allotment Benny’,

Barstool know-it man has a Woodbine aged old face,
with nicotine fingers that remind him to light up once more
His suit’s not bad, but fashion dates,
maybe needs a good dry clean
Memories flit within his eyes, a loss of wife,
who went by the name of Jean

Conversations never empty,
but his pint glass never a matching pair
A nod, a smile
“Aye lad, right lad, cheers. I’ll get the next round.”
But you never will,
because you are the barstool know-it man;
with conversations, occupations, folk alive, folk dead,
cars bought, latest fashion, the war and the ration
All lived through a pint and a cig,
down at the local pub, with the bar as your constant gig.

 

Dream Old Miner

BY JOHN PLATTEN

Dream old miner, as you catch your breath,
from the wheeze and rattle of your coaly chest.

Dream old miner of the father,
you followed down the pit,
and the career you would rather
have had, if, you hadn’t made the best of it.

Old miner, is it a dream or a nightmare?
This life over which you had no choice,
this job that used you up without a care,
taken, when you were young, and had no voice.

Dream old miner of your work at the face,
in the dark, the dust, and the dangers.
Hewing coal with your marras in grace,
when accident and injury were no strangers.

Dream old miner of these days gone by,
and the long hard hours underground.
The relief of a blue, grey or cloudy sky,
safe in the knowledge you were homeward bound.

Dream old miner of happier times,
with your marras in beer at the Club.
Living in the moment, not reading the signs,
the future was shrinking, there’s the rub.

Old miners didn’t want to leave the pit,
but leave you must when it was shut.
MacGregor and Thatcher made sure of it,
and left our communities in a rut.

Dream old miner of a world that’s lost,
Newton, Lancs closed in ’93.
Who was counting the cost to the community,
when Yorkshire shut with Kellingley.

Dream old miner of work extinct,
now preserved in Coal museums.
Along with fossils from your precincts,
so, people can come and wonder at them.

Dream old miner, as you catch your breath,
from the wheeze and rattle of your coaly chest,
of the days and the times when you cheated death,
as you lie and wait for your final rest.

 

Great Uncle Albert’s Fortune

BY DAVID BUXTON

 

My Great Uncle Albert were German,
‘e lived in Berlin – that’s abroad.
‘e wasn’t your typical Prussian,
As ‘e ‘ad no spiked ‘elmet or sword.

Now you’re wonderin’ why my great uncle
Were foreign – not English like me.
‘e married my grandmother’s sister,
A free-thinkin’ woman were she.

‘e were strollin’ down Unter den Linden –
They say it were love at first sight –
‘e paused, raised ‘is ‘at, and said shyly,
“Good day to you, Miss.” So polite!

Of course ‘e addressed ‘er in German,
With words she could not understand.
She blushed, looked all coy, dropped ‘er ‘ankie –
‘e retrieved it – just as she ‘ad planned.

She thanked ‘im and said she were English.
‘e answered with accent most clear,
“I know a few words of that language.
Would you care for a coffee, my dear?

“I’ll show you a really nice café –
It’s where all the best people go.
Café Kranzler is quite a swish venue –
It’s the best in Berlin. That I know.”

So that were the start of their friendship,
And when people asked, “Where’d you meet?”
They both said ’twere at a fine concert –
They couldn’t say “out in the street.”

They married, but didn’t have children,
And sadly she died in the War.
They’d lost touch with us during conflict.
No letters changed ‘ands any more.

Imagine our shock when we got one
Some fifty years after the War.
It were sent to my parents in Bradford,
And written in German, what’s more.

My mum and my dad don’t read German,
But saw Albert’s name at the end.
They asked me to read all the letter
To see what ‘ad caused ‘im to send.

It turned out that Albert were ninety
And now felt the need for some kin.
‘e’d no-one to turn to in Prussia,
And didn’t know where to begin.

‘e wrote of ‘is wonderful marriage
And ‘ow ‘e were sad we’d lost touch,
Perhaps ‘e’d got someone in England
‘e was hoping so, ever so much.

Now I’d ‘eard about yon Philharmonic,
Seen pictures of Brandenburg Gate,
But I’d never set foot in that city,
And they say that it’s never too late.

I decided to go and see Albert –
I’ll admit I were curious as well
As to what sort of man I would meet there,
And what sort of tales ‘e would tell.

‘e lived in a flat in a suburb.
A smart little sign on the door
Warned off salesmen and other such callers,
And showed me ‘e lived on t’ top floor.

I’ve no idea what I expected
My first glimpse of Albert to be,
A ninety-year-old in pyjamas?
And what would this chap make of me?

I were pleasantly surprised when I entered,
’cause Albert were really quite neat.
‘e were wearing a suit with a waistcoat,
And polished brown shoes on ‘is feet.

I stood in the door, feeling awkward,
Till Albert, a smile on his face,
Said, “Come in, my lad. Tha’s right welcome!
I can see my dear wife in thy face.”

With a tear in his eye, ‘e embraced me,
Gave my ‘and ‘alf a dozen firm shakes.
Sat me down in an upholstered armchair,
Then Albert brought coffee and cakes.

“Ee, I’m ever so ‘appy to meet thee –
I thought I would die all alone.
There’s something I’ve just got to tell you,
Best not done by letter or phone.”

I thought that that sounded dramatic,
But decided to ‘umour the bloke.
“Pray tell me what that is, dear Uncle.
I take it it isn’t a joke?”

“Far from it, young man,” said my uncle,
“I assure you I’m perfectly sane.”
Sat back with a look of contentment
And fingered ‘is waistcoat and chain.

“This isn’t a watch-chain I’m wearing,
And this box on the end’s not for pills,
But you might find the contents quite useful
For curing your financial ills.”

‘e noticed my sceptical manner
And smiled to ‘imself once again.
‘e were ‘aving a great deal of pleasure
In teasing me. That much were plain.

“For forty-six years in this city
I worked in the ‘airdressing trade.
I’d a shop just off Unter den Linden,
And that’s where my fortune were made.”

I looked round the flat in amazement –
‘is riches were not plain to see.
The furniture all looked old-fashioned
And not that expensive to me.

‘e noticed my look of appraisal
And pulled out the pill-box again.
“This ‘ere is the fortune I mentioned –
Try to guess what this box might contain.”

This old man was starting to bore me –
I thought ‘e were losing ‘is mind.
The contents of that blasted pill-box
For my part could stay undefined.

‘e could see I were losing my patience,
So decided ‘e’d teased me enough.
“Come sit thyself down ‘ere beside me –
I’ll tell thee some int’resting stuff.

“I told thee I’d worked as a barber.
My business became quite well known,
When one day, t’was in the late thirties
My peaceful existence was blown.

The door to my shop were thrown open,
And two great big chaps all in black
Went and stood either side of the doorway –
I were thoroughly taken aback.

A third man then entered the building,
Much smaller than either of those.
I recognized ‘im from his pictures –
A face I think everyone knows.

Two customers stood up with fervour
And gave ‘im that stiff arm salute:
“’eil ‘itler!” they cried as one person.
‘e waved limply back, but stood mute.

I were shavin’ a regular client,
But when I looked round, ‘e ‘ad fled
With ‘is face still all covered in lather –
I’m sure it were nowt that I’d said.

Now seeing the chair standin’ empty,
The newcomer went and sat down.
And nobody raised an objection –
Not even the trace of a frown.

“So, ‘ow does tha want it, mein Führer?”
I asked with appropriate charm.
Would “short back and sides” be his answer?
It were strange I were acting so calm.

‘e first held my gaze in the mirror
And gave me a witherin’ stare –
“Tha’s seen postage stamps with my picture?
Well, that’s what I want for my ‘air.”

Now I’m proud of my skills as a barber,
So I started to comb and to clip.
I knew there would be repercussions
If the scissors should ‘appen to slip.

I’d occasionally look in the mirror
To work out this customer’s mood,
But there wasn’t a clue to ‘is thinking –
‘e continued to sit there and brood.

No doubt ‘e ‘ad plenty to ponder,
So small talk was not for today.
The bodyguards stood there like statues
And clearly ‘ad nothing to say.

When I’d finished, ‘e grunted a little
And gestured to one of ‘is men,
Who told me to sweep up the cuttings
And gave me a paper bag then.

I recalled that I’d ‘eard that our leader
Were most superstitious as well.
‘e were scared that ‘is ‘air could be taken
And used to concoct some bad spell.

‘e must ‘ave been ‘appy wi’ haircut,
Though ‘ardly a word did ‘e speak.
‘e would come two o’clock on a Tuesday
Without fail, and ev’ry third week.

‘e would sit there without even blinking
Just once ‘e were jumpy and sore.
‘e’d brought extra bodyguards with ‘im –
That were end of July forty-four.

I were stropping my razors beside ‘im –
Two cut-throats of Solingen steel.
Our eyes met for t’ first time in t’ mirror.
I could tell that ‘is terror were real.

And that were the last time I saw ‘im –
‘e’d taken ‘is business elsewhere.
I ‘eard about bomb plot much later –
‘e’d clearly received quite a scare.

It were on that last visit ‘e paid me
That after ‘e’d gone and paid cash,
I noticed an ‘air on my work coat –
An ‘air from the Führer’s moustache!

“And that’s what I’ve got ‘ere in t’ pill-box –
A souvenir worth lots of cash.
There’s only the one in existence-
This ‘air from the Führer’s moustache!

“I would like thee to have this memento –
Tha’s all that I’ve got for an ‘eir,
And play thy cards right with this pill-box –
In no time tha’ll be millionaire.”

I asked Uncle why ‘e’d still got it,
‘cause surely ‘e could have been rich.
It were burning an ‘ole in ‘is pocket
Much greater than simply an itch.

“In years after War in this city
Denazification were rife.
I were scared they would think me a Nazi
And shove me in Spandau for life.”

 

So I shook ‘ands with Uncle and took it,
Not knowing quite how to proceed.
But one thing that got me excited:
The life I’d be able to lead.

Great Uncle ‘ad signed affidavit
To say what the pill-box contained.
That should ‘elp when I got round to selling,
Now that provenance ‘ad been explained.

I could take it to yon Antiques Road Show –
That nice ‘enry Sandon might know.
But ‘e spends ‘is time dealing with vases
And pots dug up ages ago.

And how about that lovely lady?
You know who I mean – ‘il’ry Kay.
I doubt she’s an expert on taches,
But I’d love to ‘ear what she might say.

Or the internet might be the answer –
’cause on E-bay ’bout anything goes.
Yes, even the ‘airs of moustaches –
I’ll bet they’ve not ‘ad one of those!

But ‘old on a minute – I’m thinking
Just what sort of buyer I’d get.
Not military memorabilia –
Political weirdoes, you bet.

I don’t want no contacts with Nazis.
The past should be buried, I feel.
This ‘air could attract much attention –
From people who ‘old no appeal.

I’m writing this many years later –
Decided my story to tell.
In spite of the wealth I might muster,
I realised no way would I sell.

I took the box out in the country,
And once the wind started to blow,
I opened the box and let ‘air out –
And Great Uncle Albert won’t know.

So next time tha’s out for a picnic,
Remember that out there somewhere
Is the last souvenir of old ‘itler.
Thou’ll not find it – it’s nobbut an ‘air.

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