Pictures of Memories

BY LINDA SHERLOCK

Once a pinnacle of magnificence,
Now battered by the ravages of time
It stands, half dead but half alive.
It’s slim-fin tower and neon Odeon sign
Just a distant memory
For those who cannot forget.
Defenceless against the jaws of death
As mechanical monsters lurk and hover overhead
And devour it brick by brick
Oblivious to its past.
Yellow clad men dust down the sands of time.
Students saunter and stare at tiny screens.
Market traders tidy unsold wares
And late lunchers clink glasses
or drink cappuccinos outside glitzy bars.
Cars whizz by turning
only to catch a last glimpse of history.
A small child claps his hands in glee
As others pass slowly by
Where once excited children
formed snakes around the corner
Amidst squeals of delight at Saturday Film Club.
Where Hayley Mills searched for her castaways
As young filmgoers munched on candy treats
And savoured onscreen magic.
Where Fred and Ginger shimmied
in a world away from dreary Lancashire mills and cobbled
streets
In glorious technicolour Hollywood.
And Pathe newsreels shared stories
good and bad.
Where Bill Hayley
rocked around the clock
And Elvis swivelled in blue
suede shoes
And Cliff experienced the joys
of a Summer Holiday on a
bright red bus
While Norman Wisdom
mixed tears and laughter
Amidst cries of “Mr
Grimsdale.”
Where Batman and his trusty
sidekick skyscrapers scaled
To become heroes of a bygone time.
And James Bond saved the world
with seconds to spare.
Young lovers held hands
on Saturday nights
On illicit dates with handsome American servicemen full
of promises
As usherettes cast a watchful eye.
Now the doors no longer swallow up
Those eager to escape their dreary days or worldly woes.
Grey corrugated guards surround what once was a
Splendour from a bygone age
Now derelict, dusty, demolished.
Enveloped in memories.
An old lady stands and stares
Reminiscing of first love and daring dates
In bygone days of National Service
and shillings and pence.
Ravaged by time, stooped and painfully slowly,
She wends her way to where she said her last goodbye
To her one true love, her first and last.
And lives again her grief
Of that winter’s day
When she said goodbye.
Autumn’s rays reflect on stained glass windows
As weary shoppers head for home.
She turns her back on the remnants of the past
And sheds a silent tear for times long gone.
For her, only loneliness resides
Where once love and laughter reigned.
And memories of a bygone time
Too painful to remember,
Too precious to forget.

 

‘Er A Borin Bugger Brenda

BY JOHN WILLIAMS

‘Er A Borin Bugger Brenda I’ve said it now, so theer
I’ve been wanting to gerrit off mi chest, for nigh on 15 years
Ver since our wedding night, when you went to bed at 9.00
Wi a mug o’ soddin’ horlicks and gardeners question time

Borin Bugger Brenda av niver liked yer kit,
them big thick itchy tights ya wear, an’t mufflers that ya knit,
I’d a loved a spot a passion only once a year,
Wi-a-chance to dive off-t wardrobe and swing from-t chandelier

But I’m glad I’ve found the gumption, to say what’s on mi mind
Borin Bugger Brenda and I know it seems unkind
I’ve craved exotic travel, praps Egypt, or Assam
But all wi got were camping in Prestatyn, wi yer mam

Borin Bugger Brenda I’m determined to break free,
and I’ve drawn out half ot savings that we ad in’t TSB
I saw this ad in’t paper sayin, don’t live yer life in’t closet
In Thailand tha can be thi-sen. So I’ve sent off my deposit

Borin Bugger Brenda an am trying not to gloat.
But I guess by now you’ve realised, why ev left this note,
I’m gonna swim wi dolphins. Make love beneath the stars
And you can get that bike ya like, wit drop down handlebars

Borin Bugger Brenda but al miss thi, in a way,
Sat-di-neet in front o’t box wi-us supper on a tray,
and that brings to mind, one final thing, be-a-shame to overlook
Borin Bugger Brenda so-al-sling mi bloody hook!!

 

Home Entertainment

BY JOHN PLATTEN

Amongst pit heaps in the cold and dark
when industrial valleys lost the song of larks.
Home entertainment became the thing,
where people dance, and people sing:
songs, stories, poems and tales,
the gathering was regaled.
Joys of this impromptu ceilidh,
where gifts and talents shared, and maybe:
a new party piece was aired.
Banjos, pipes and mandolins,
started the almighty din:
Strip the Willow made the room spin.
Guitar and drums set the beat,
creating rhythm for cascading feet.
Concertina and flashing fiddles,
interspersed with para-diddles.
Jigs and reels got us in a whirl,
us bashful lads even danced with girls.
Roaring voices, some off key,
the boy soprano wasn’t me.
We borrowed and stole from all over:
from John Peel to The Wild Rover
and Border Ballads from cattle drovers,
the Lambton Worm to Ilkley Moor,
the Blaydon Races – sang for sure.
No sense of us being vultures,
picking over Northern Culture.
The odd hymn calmed things down,
Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ brought it round.
Chapel was the venue
for our local revue.
A strong sense of release,
as the community made the piece.
Happy times, well spent:
on home entertainment.

 

My Generation

BY LUCIA KENNY

The guns went silent, peace swept in
the birth rate soared unexpectedly,
these babes radically change the future
‘for the times they are a changing.’
Women were suddenly in the picture
a fashion was fast forming,
skirts were hooped, petticoats starched,
dress lengths met the calves.
Winkle pickers had nothing to do with beaches,
crew cuts didn’t represent the forces.
The Bulge was a new generation
battling for their civil rights,
leaflets distributed in the streets
‘we shall over come’ – this was their time.
Austerity was left behind,
the future active and healthier.
As the babes matured,
four fab boys stormed the world.
Beatlemania took over,
music was never the same.
This generation was ‘all shook up,’
they were to reshape society.
Now in their twilight years,
a generation never to be forgotten.
Will generation Z equal the boomers?
Technology says they will,
but the boomers will have to wait and see!

 

Suspense

BY VIVIENNE LAMBERT

The silent dawn crept across the sky, grey, black clouds
gathered: a soft warm breeze blew, calmly mocking the
fateful day. A figure clothed in black, with a scanty mask,
slowly walked across the fore-court, his feet crunching over
the dew-covered gravel. Slowly, silently, their sombre faces
shadowed with sadness and sorrow, a group assembled in
the cloudy courtyard. Then out of the deafening silence came
the unmistakable grating of a key, turning in a rusty lock. A
tall gaunt figure emerged: as if a cue for a drummer, a clap of
thunder shattered the still, sultry air.He knelt. He positioned
his head in the groove. The blade fell. It was over.

 

MEN IN SKIRTS

BY DAVID TEBB

Men love wearing skirts
But they never get a chance
Every day the same
They have to wear their pants

Men love wearing skirts
Colourful and frilly
But they are always told
It makes them look right silly

Men would love their legs
To see the light of day
But they are always told
They must stay hid away

Men would like their knees
To be open to the light
But rules state very clearly
They must stay out of sight

I’m fed up with the rules
What men can and cannot do
I’m going to wear a skirt
And, guess what, so can you

 

WITCHES BREW

BY IRENE NUTTER

Betwicst, bestow, a spell this night
From cauldron round so deep and bright,
With flames aglow, so high, alight,
Tucked deep in the trees, just out of sight.

This witches brew it tastes so foul,
Stay close by me, wise tawny owl,
Watch and wait, encompass me
Whilst together we sit, on old oak tree.

I’ll cast my spell, o wise old one
Another day of work is done,
The fires embers slowly die
As smoke disperses in night sky

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NorthernLife Sept/Oct 22