Readers’ Poems Winter 2025

IN PRAISE OF STAN

BY JOHN CATLOWE

There’s a famous seaside place called Blackpool

That’s noted for fresh air and Stan.

Remarkable player were Stanley –

‘ardly anyone wasn’t a fan.

 

‘e would feint to go one way, then t’other

When starting to make an attack.

Then away ‘e would sprint down the touchline,

Whilst full-back lay flat on ’is back.

 

‘e were known as a left full-back’s nightmare

And many would ‘ope ‘e’d not play.

The first thing they’d do on arriving

Was look at the team-sheet and pray.

 

And sometimes ‘e wouldn’t be playing,

But this was announced very late.

You can see why ‘is club took that action,

As ‘is presence could double the gate.

 

One game deserves special mention –

A final at Wembley, no less.

The first thing I’d seen on the telly,

So that couldn’t fail to impress.

 

They called it the Stan Matthews final,

Though Mortensen scored three of four.

A thriller from t’ moment of kick-off

Till injury time, what is more.

 

That year does stand out in our ‘istory –

The year that Mount Everest fell.

The year Gordon Richards won t’ Derby,

We got a new monarch as well.

 

And Stanley at last won ‘is medal –

For twice ‘e’d been on t’ losing side –

The nation rejoiced (outside Bolton),

Regarding their ‘ero with pride.

 

No doubt that of ‘is generation

The most famous sportsman of all –

Wherever you went ‘e’d be mentioned

If talk got around to football.

 

The Queen must ‘ave ‘eard of ‘is greatness –

They say she were also a fan.

She picked up ‘er sword at the palace

And said “Keep thy ‘ead still, Sir Stan.”

 

‘e were still playing football at fifty

And kept ‘isself fitter than most.

A bit of a loner and modest,

‘e were never a player to boast.

 

This tribute could cause a few ructions

Amongst them good Potteries folk.

They’ll tell you that Stan weren’t from Blackpool ,

‘e learned all ‘is skills down at Stoke.

 

FOREVER, LANCASTRIAN

BY JACK ANDREWS

Lancashire is not one thing,

It’s the Pendle Witches, cups of tea, and rain.

I’ve moved away now, across these seas,

But, being‘ Lancastrian’, it’s my identity.

 

It shapes you, bends you, forms you whole.

It builds resilience,

It creates grit,

It’s your home.

 

I’m proud to be ‘Lancastrian’,

I hope it never leaves me.

The working class values the red-brick terraces.

 

The fond memories I hone,

of dry stone walls,

of canals,

of moors.

of Blackpool’s lights,

of Coronation Street on the TV at night.

 

The ‘Red Rose’ culture followed me across the globe,

Still chasing Lancashire Hotpots, chippy teas,

And other nostalgic thoughts.

 

I’ll always be ‘Lancastrian’,

It’ll always be my home.

I’ll always fly back,

To see the markets, mills and moors.

SNOWFLAKES

BY LUCIA KENNY

One by one they fall from the sky

each one unique,

 

pure and unpolluted,

a testimony of His creation,

 

together they form a blanket of diamond dust

bringing a quietness to earth,

 

and when they freeze

they are a child’s delight,

 

with button eyes and carrot nose

they form an image like ours

 

until they melt away

and weep pools of water.

 

MUMMY CAN YOU HELP ME?

BY MAURA KELLY

‘Mummy can you help me

I need you to come now

For Bozo has gone missing

And I’m going to tell you how’

 

‘His friends were in the toy box

When one of them awoke

To find the snake’s long ladder

In pieces and all broke’

 

‘Oh mummy where has Bozo gone

He didn’t take his coat

Do you think he met the Captain

To go on board his boat’

 

‘But the Captain’s on the shore today

That lake is frozen bare

Now let us think a moment

As he’s hiding out somewhere’

 

‘Do you think he’s left us Mummy

And ran away from home

Oh, Bozo we all love you

You’re lost and all alone’

 

But Bozo was a canny bear

And knew where he would go

But as he left the house that night

He stumbled in the snow

 

Then off he ran across the square

In search of food to eat

And when he saw a doggy’s bowl

He munched on chunks of meat

 

But soon the night was over

When Mummy and her child

Followed all his footsteps

Into the unknown wild

 

And in the woods they found him

Eating berries on a trunk

And as he looked down on them

He threw several from his bunk

 

‘My tummy did a rumble

And a tumble in the night

So I got up and crept outside

When you were out of sight’

 

‘Now come with us you naughty bear

You’ve put us in a tiss

My infant child’s been crying

Don’t you know how much your missed’

 

‘I’m staying here to lay my head

And enjoy the midnight sky

No matter what you think of me

Turn around and say goodbye’

 

‘Bozo you climb down from there

As you will catch a cold

Your friends are waiting patiently

What a story to be told’

 

‘Well, I have one that I can tell

Of a journey I did take

When I went trekking in the snow

To catch a ride upon the lake’

 

‘Until two mischief beings

Came upon my spot

And told me in unfriendly terms

Now move, you’ve had your lot’

 

THE HARDEST QUESTION

BY ALLAN BOLTON

On a rainy summer street I paused to hear a busker

when a smiling young man asked me right out

the hardest question,

the question I’ve asked myself

from time to time my whole life.

Too hard, too large, possible answers too simple,

that’s my confession.

 

Growing up around the Book, songs and furniture of faith –

but is faith just believing something you know isn’t true?

There’s been no revelation, no Damascus road moment –

or have I simply shut out thought, more than I knew?

 

I know what I reject: the Pharisees of all faiths

who define and restrict, close down people’s minds;

atheists who’d reason away the shaky faith

of simple believers: both extremes religiously unkind.

 

What may God be? He, She, They? A loving God

who allows innocent suffering, bad people to succeed?

Which version: God Almighty or Jesus? Old Book or New?

Yet we can understand a father and son who disagreed.

 

So if there was a Big Bang, what force may have caused it?

Look around: our beautiful planet seems the only habitable one.

High levels of faith worldwide enrich lives.

This all is evidence, short of proof, of a willed creation.

 

Are white Britons the most godless people on Earth?

And are we happy? Is even an archbishop a true believer?

But none of this excuses me: I’ve no defence for fence-sitting

all these years. Not thinking is the way of a self-deceiver.

 

Every long walk now a pilgrimage,

every natural encounter a homage to a creator,

every country church rest stop an affirmation?

Re-open the old Bible? What fear might hold me back?

To gain a faith that’s in name only,

held but for a duration?

 

And yet, am I so feeble that I surrender before being tried?

I will give belief a fighting chance,

have a new answer eventually

when a young man asks ‘Do you believe in God, sir?’

I’ll weigh new convictions over old doubts

and say at least, ‘Potentially’.

 

I FOUGHT THE LAWN

BY STEPHEN WILLIAMS

Pegging out the washing in November’s sinking sun,

A slight but steady breeze up in the trees.

A day or two of dryness has me looking at the lawn –

One last cut before the winter freeze?

 

Neglected since September and that final barbecue;

Ignored for Halloween and Bonfire Night.

But now, as Bosch’s finest purrs from garage darkness deep,

Today’s the day I put this garden right.

 

Tufts like mines, lie waiting near the border at the back,

Unnoticed in the shadow by the hedge

Glistening grass pricks moisture through my trainers to my skin,

As balanced tea grows cold on window ledge.

 

A yard or two, or five at most, before the mower’s over

And screwdriver or stick begin to poke.

Then up again, and in reverse I trudge towards the fence

And ignore the smell of burning and of smoke.

 

Still mocking tea sits smugly in the evening’s biting chill,

And figures in the kitchen start to hover.

And winding in the lead I know that soon I’ll have to face

Those eyes that seem to sigh: “Why did you bother?”

 

And was it worth the energy, the cursing and the sweat,

The battle with the brave but bound-up blade?

In Autumn’s creeping twilight, I squint into the gloom

And gaze upon the bloody mess I’ve made.

 

LITTLE EGRET

BY JULIAN ALPER

Photographer stands by the edge of the lake

looking, waiting, patiently assessing.

Little egret stands by the edge of the lake

looking, waiting, patiently assessing.

 

Bird moves its head from side to side

watching, waiting, calmly considering.

It stretches forth its neck

gazing, waiting, quietly thinking.

 

Bird has seen a fish not so far away

stands, poised, ready to pounce

it dives beak first, into the lake

head emerges with fish in bill.

 

Photographer is rushing, eagerly focussing

beak is squeezing, firmly tightening

fish is struggling, slowly choking

photographer is clicking, excitedly shooting.

 

Bird is happily swallowing

fish is in pain no more

bird is quietly satisfied

photographer is quietly satisfied.

 

Bird is looking,

waiting, patiently assessing

photographer is looking,

waiting, patiently assessing.

 

YOU

BY HELEN KAVANAGH

Thoughts become simple, straightforward and neat,

Chronologically ordered when placed on to sheet

There is no disorder, pressure or lies

The truth of the matter brings tears to my eyes.

Why should this happen all this writing in verse?

It does not improve things – just makes them seem worse!

 

I did not deny you, nor leave you out

All discourse I started provoked you to shout

Were things so bad that you just did not care?

You made my life hell, it just was unfair!

Things that you promised were never really meant

Money on alcohol, but not on the rent.

This was your problem we all had to face

It cheapened our existence, brought us disgrace.

 

All you would do was glare down at me,

Your eyes were red rimmed, the bottle on your knee.

Why did you have to be who you are,

leave me alone with my thoughts

It might have been better, more on a par

But my life ended up in the courts.

 

As one gets older the gloss disappears

The cracks showing through the well-worn veneers

I did not change the image you gave

You buried yourself in the ultimate grave.

People and places don’t seem the same,

Translucent and fragile, exposing their pain.

 

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 Dec/Jan/Feb 26