Readers’ Poems Summer 25
by Northern Life
ARE YOU A BUDDING POET WHO WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOUR VERSE IN PRINT? THEN SHARE YOUR WORK AND SEND YOUR WORDS TO POEMS@NORTHERNLIFEMEDIA.CO.UK
WITHOUT YOUTH
BY HELEN KAVANAGH
Homing, howling, caressing vast iridescent skies
Seagulls float on sea wind.
Children giggle, incessant laughter above the subdued prowling water Waves creep and stir, clutching powerless noisy limbs
Crashing heavily against the silent potent force,
Dogs bounce, scattering sand, barking harsh reverberating sounds.
Her thoughts disturbed hard to forget, looking at the present
She does not see but remembers clearly past events.
Sitting and staring, smiling to herself, so others think.
A slow sardonic cry from within, …remembering, running through water,
Kicking up sand
Pushing sun kissed hair, glinting golden strands
Caught and impregnated as the sun sets.
Smiling, life mirrored in deep blue eyes
Cheeks stained by salt filled touches of translucent sea White opaque feet anointed,
washed as creeping seaweed breaches the shore’s defence. She loves the air coursing through her being,
Soul enriching her life will always be
Wishing to run naked and free,
Her innocence transparent, water clinging to every contour, her dress weighs heavy on body and mind…
Cold seeps through, shivering, clutching life
Chilled and bitter she remembers…
Freedom gone, age is her keeper
Memories fade, she realises
Pushing straying, grey hair, the fading light casts shade
over hard fought life struggles.
Cautiously darkness falls, illuminated the inflamed moon soon her eyes wet once more,
Ebbing sea no longer the provocation, tears of sadness sting Screaming away a threadbare existence,
Who cares?
Who hears a scream from the heart?
SALFORD
BY BERNIE SHAW
Salford were great in the good old days.
You could have lots a fun, in lots a ways.
It cost me nowt when I was a kid.
You might find a penny down someone’s grid.
You’d get a bamboo stick, split the ends,
keep ’em separate with one of your friends.
You’d put in a match stick, it worked a treat.
Then off you’d go down both sides of the street.
You’d poke about in the grid’s rubbish and grime.
Maybe clutch some prize, it wasn’t a crime
to lift out a gob-iron, a mouth organ if you’re posh.
But oh, what joy. It were free, no dosh!
You could play football, twenty a side.
Maybe mess up a step,
someone’d brown-stoned with pride.
‘Ticky-it’, whip and top.
British Bulldog, hey up, here comes a cop.
Skip with girls, just to show off.
Smile, maybe wink. Try to ‘kop-off’.
Salford were great in those halcyon days.
Sunny and happy but now there’s a haze,
that blankets the mind, see.
’Cos the Salford I knew, has ceased to be.
WAGGIN
BY CHRISTOPHER ADAMS
This poem was previously published in the Offa’s Press anthology ‘The Poetry of the Black Country’ (2017). ‘Wagging’ is a black country term for skiving school.
It’s Tuesday so we’m down the cut.
We ay ever caught anything but
that dow bother us.
The Fridge ay out today.
Got a whack and an earful from his old man,
waggin his learnin at the Great Almighty.
His dad had to gew up the school for a meeting
and lose a day’s pay
and I day think that was fair.
Just the three then.
Gewwin about like Ishmael,
rods caggy at the sky and the world filled close.
Quick stop at the offy then bolt down
our nan’s street.
There’s two knackers as usual,
Gewwin where we’d come.
Bloke grabs his missus’ arm and pockets his own.
Hand in hand like the day they was married.
Heads full of future,
weekend breaks and Brucie-bloody-Forsyth.
Nice to see you, to see you nice!
We day see them on the way back.
There’s cider and sick and piss in the subway.
Chip packets and dithery muck in the subway.
But our pitch ay far.
I set down me kit and dump John’s bike.
Cast out to the murk.
Wait for the mackerel
The squid
And the lobster.
Lip Abi’s fags and wait for the haul.
But these other lads come down then.
Grade one swellheads and far off looks that meant they
day know when to stop.
Got that from seeing a few things.
Like us.
Eyes born tight and tired to the world.
Wore gloves when it wore even cold.
We come back early and John woe ride his bike much.
Mom says school’s been on the phone
and smoke was in my hair.
‘Wait till your Dad gets in!’ she said.
And I day have to wait long.
WALKS OF LIFE
BY VIVIEN FOULKES-JAMES
I picture the scene, you as a small boy
scurrying along at your mother’s side.
Your little legs going so fast, running
to keep up with her brisk strides.
At school, you ran races,
cross country events – winning prizes.
Your competitive streak to the fore.
In your teens, seeking out the wilder places,
rock climbing and mountaineering.
Looking through an old album,
black and white images show you
young, dark and handsome.
You intent on a precarious ascent,
boulder overhanging, keeping your nerve.
Places with strange sounding names;
Buachaille Etive Mor, Suilven, The Cuillins,
Stac Polly, Tryfan, Wester Ross,
dates and names all neatly recorded.
Soon after we met,
we walked up Kinder Scout.
Unaccustomed to such heights,
I lagged behind you,
complaining all the way.
Now our walks are unhurried affairs,
on the level and much shorter.
Now, I slow my pace to yours.
YOU STOOD ME UP
BY ALLAN BOLTON
We’d take off to a better place, that was our plan. I got to our meeting point, up on the by-pass road, hung around like a fool waiting for you.
No text, no call, not picking up, you never showed.
Did your feet get cold? Did you drink too much?
Did you discover another engagement?
Did your van conk out? Did your mum say don’t? Did you aim all along to wimp on our arrangement?
Don’t bother. I’m sick of your sad-ass excuses. With a sob and a curse, I’ll travel alone.
I’ll make it, be someone in the City,
never look back on the life I’ve out-grown.
In half a year, never fear, I’ll live the life at the coast, commute when it suits, from my beach house in Salcombe.
In many years you’ll still be here where you’ll be forgotten,
jetsam all washed up, in Morecambe.
ROUNDABOUTS
BY JOHN PLATTEN
They’re here! Arrived. Excitement grows,
trucks pull up and start to unload,
rides and booths all on the go.
They’re setting up the travelling shows.
Helter Skelter, Fortune Teller,
Dodgems, hoopla, ticket booth.
Roundabouts, ice cream seller,
Shooting gallery – some win – most lose.
The Ghost Train doesn’t have much fright,
pasty faces, shrieks, and ghouls.
Skeletons, skulls, and flashing lights,
punters scream – but no one’s fooled
Prancing horses, waltzers, swing boats,
all the fun of the Summer Fair.
Big wheel views from in the air.
New rides keep the business afloat.
Dodgy burgers, rancid chips,
diesel, neon, music, permeate.
Candy floss lingers on the lips.
My belly aches – something I ate.
Our money’s spent, time to go,
as we leave, they’re closing down.
We all enjoy the travelling shows,
one more night and they’ll leave town.
They never outstay their welcome,
now ready to move on.
Stripping down overnight
and by tomorrow – they’re gone.
THE STONE STEP
BY TRICIA MARES
Beneath the surface, a rich tapestry of sediment,
Rising out from the profound depths of the earth.
Minerals and crystals forged from fragments of time,
Capture moments from a world millions of years ago.
Encased and imprisoned by cold indifference,
Rocks, as enduring as the cliffs they’re destined to be.
Sculpted by nature’s chisel, precision, and artistry,
From the quarry to the craft, the stone’s given new form.
A beacon of virtue, strength, and solace,
Beneath the cold surface, hallowed heart beats,
Enigmatic purity, celestial commitment to belief.
A conviction in energy and the power of sorcery,
Possessing mystical powers sets some stones apart,
Offering spiritual healing, guidance, and support.
Rocks with godly powers, saving souls for all eternity,
Others transformed with purpose, chiselled and
Carved into headstones, flint axe heads, and alters.
This stone holds the greatest significance,
The threshold to our family home.
Cradling a myriad of memories,
Watching on in silence as we all grew old.
Nestled deep within its eternal core are
Echoes of our youth—from our first days at school to
Weddings, new arrivals, and our final farewells—
All have passed over our sacred stone step.
Are you a budding poet who would like to see your verse in print? Then, share your work and send your words to poems@northernlifemedia.co.uk or go to northernlifemagazine.co.uk/contribute.
NorthernLife June/July/Aug 25
