EARTH

Earth is something that everyone can hold

Earth is always hot or cold

In the world there are lots of things

Dragonflies with pretty wings

Horses, ponies, dogs and cats

Frogs, toads, birds and bats

In the winter lots of snow

In the spring things start to grow

Summer comes, we love the sun

Autumn follows and makes us glum.

Then it's Christmas with lots of cheer

And after that another New Year.

Sophie Ward, aged nine, Darlington

LOVE

Love is pure gold, it smells like the mountain air

It tastes divine, like hot chocolate fudge cake

Love sounds like a heart being strummed by an angel

It feels soft and warm, like a duvet

Love lives in heaven

Joseph Turnbull, aged nine (Sophie's cousin).

MY TOWN

We used to have a dance hall

And cinemas aplenty

But that was in the good old days

When I was only 20.

In sport we had good players

In football, cricket and darts

But now it is a different tale

Of mostly broken hearts.

We have our share of petty crime

But no worse than any other.

We look after our neighbours

And treat them like our mother.

So if you're looking for a place to live

And don't know where to look

Why not pop along to see

What we have got in Crook?

Fred Mangles, Crook

KENNY DALGLEISH (NOT)

It was a windy Thursday

On the tenth of May

On the pitch at bait time

We'll never forget that day.

With the score at 0-0

And only seconds to go

Kenny got the ball and then

Decided to "have a go".

He lashed it in from 40 yards

It flew into the net

Did he really mean it?

Oh yes he did, you bet.

His team mates congratulated him

You should have heard the roar

His head had swollen so much

He couldn't get through the door.

Peter Davidson, Byers Green, Durham

TO THE MARCHING DISPLAY BANDS

In precision, colour, sound and pomp,

These well-matched jazz bands are on parade,

Displaying vibrancy, verve and skill,

Through marching movements proudly made,

So stylishly entertaining us

With drumbeats and combined kazoo,

Enhancing the thrill of this eminent event

And all that its pleasure can yet imbue.

This fusion of music and brilliant performance

Is proceeding smartly in uniformed ranks,

As a drum-major, mace-bearing, leads each ensemble,

And pompons and flags array every phalanx,

With mascots assisting, their batons impressive,

The bass-drummer in rhythm, the embellishment of bells,

A banner resplendent, a shield of identity,

The relish of the rearguard's lively decibels.

Through the thronging streets they are wending their way

To Hackworth Park, a Shildon setting sublime;

They are glad to take part, as occasion fills the air,

A gathering assured to have a real good time.

In these great world championships, eagerly awaited,

Excitingly special, unique and in unison,

A wonderful spectacle of splendid competition,

That is ours to support and is theirs to be won.

David Coates, Shildon

AFGHANISTAN

As I walk the streets of Afghanistan

Searching for the Taliban

Acting as tough as I can

Feeling as scared as I am.

Wondering what I'm doing here

Biting my lip, hiding my fear

Wishing I'd eyes in my rear

Contemplating another career.

It's so lonely walking with fear

Thinking of home, and a pint of beer

I reach the corner, it looks clear

No there's someone there, acting queer.

Is it the Taliban

Or just another man

Confusing signals in my head

If I guess wrong, I could be dead.

He's looking at me

I wonder, what does he see?

A soldier tough and strong

Or a young boy, not been here long.

It's my first day in Afghanistan

Growing from a boy, into a man

Why am I here, what is the plan?

I only hope he's not the Taliban.

The stranger slows his pace,

Stops and says: "How you doing?" in Afghanistan

I wipe the sweat from my face

And with a sigh of relief, I answer "Canny man".

N L Kellett, Sunnybrow, nr Crook

YESTERYEAR

Nostalgia is the hearth-stone of love-locked memories, from which mist-clad spectres shed their ethereality and emerge bright-clad to enjoin again with living hearts immersed in years of love.

"Get a Life, Don't look back, Forget the past" and all such dreary

exhortations, of those who have yet to live, and love and lose, or dwell in the dank, dread-drenched depths of desolate loneliness are dispelled in house-coat warmth and the toe-toasting comforts

of curled up love and the radiant glow of pulsating reminiscence.

Who cares for callous progress and the emotional desert of jetset toil and money-grabbing modernity, when a haven of loving warmth and soul expanding joy is there for the thinking, and the sinking into the all-enfolding embrace and iridescent love of Yesteryear?

Donald Fraser, Newton Aycliffe

BY TIME

In the woods of forgetfulness,

I sigh,

The years pass, as I inhale the scent

Of wood stock bracken scents of growth

That dance, stems twisting with periwinkle blue forget-me-nots.

Alison Carr, Bishop Auckland.