THE FIVE SENSES

Seeing is believing,

Observe the changing sky,

Notice bright sun leaving,

Obscured by cloud to die,

This old world still turning,

More you seek, more learning.

The ear listens to sound,

hearing aircraft, in the sky,

When perceived, it is found,

Then hear a train, clanking by.

Voices of children playing

Please hark to what I am saying.

Smell the perfume of a rose,

And other smells with candour,

A wonderful sense your nose,

It wrinkles up, such odour.

Some fragrances aromatic,

Others really catastrophic.

Taste appraises the flavour

The tongue and palate,

This test is one to savour

Your taste buds congratulate.

Chewing slowing on your food,

Sipping wine, as you should.

Touch is a sense of feeling,

To touch wood: to hope for luck.

Your fingers attain a ceiling.

When your hand is cut - you suck

Contact and concern

Touch is what we learn.

Alfred Smirk, Darlington

GETTING OLD

I'm getting old, I am often told,

And given I can plainly see the mirror image,

tells no lie, a map of time across my face,

of many weathered years implies.

I'm getting old,

but word that etched in another year seems slowly now to disappear

Excuse me, thank you, after you, please, to name a few.

Is this Shakespeare land that coins a phrase like gutted,

does your head in, are these more better than before or but without the T?

It's my fault,

My eyes and ears have seen and heard it all before,

And each generation thinks it's all so new that only they can understand.

So could I, an old, old man presume to change its flow?

Alastair Cameron, Darlington

COUNT DRACULA

In the swirling mist, my path is lost,

No turning back, that's the cost...

To the darkness, forever, I am bound,

For me, final salvation is found...

My darkest secret, black veil of death,

In its cold embrace, I take no breath...

Final sacrifice, spilt blood,

Out from veins, just see it flood...

Everlasting hunger, my final cross,

In the misery of the past, it is no loss...

Last drops of life, poured out, blood-red,

Sacrifice for this night, made for the undead...

Sharp fangs shining in the moonlight,

For living creatures, causing great fright...

Vampire of the mist in bloodlust.

To drink the fluid of life, he must...

Not for him your pity and tears shed,

Through death, continues his life, undead...

Sacrifice yourself, so easy to make,

Give your blood, let him your life take...

Let go of your life, let him drink away your pain,

Then you are not lost, alone, in this vein...

Tim Jasper, aged 13, Sedgefield

THE WHITE HORSE OF KILBURN

'They come from near and far to sit upon his eye

And stand upon his back on the hill so steep and high.'

(Thomas Goodrick)

Flying out of John Hodgson's brilliant mind,

inspired by Harrison Weir's artistic pen,

it took Tom Taylor to land you here

in the ancient limestone

of wind-mocked Roulston Scar Cliff.

Thirty two laboured to craft you,

driven by the very Soul of Creation.

They gave you the gift of witness from this hill

and you have seen an awful lot

and are not left alone.

Your fine legs are pinned

to the side of Yorkshire

and these Tykes have mounted and whitewashed you,

drawn on you out of loneliness,

abused and treasured you.

The rough days have flitted across your face

and the sun caressed your back.

Lovers have tried you on for size

and the skies have opened over you.

What wars, what landscaped wounds,

have passed you by.

Soldiers of God have marched on below you: to stop your great heart hurting,

they hid you from the Nazis,

covered up your hail-lashed feelings.

Still, we will look after you,

knowing that you live on for future boys and girls,

while we turn to rubble in Kilburn churchyard, our eyes burn out,

our pulsing hearts close.

White Horse,

White Days

and Nights,

White Yorkshire Rose

in a colourful world:

this great steed belongs to all the universe.

I do believe that

John saw that.

And we will continue

to feed this Horse's lovely spirit

and, through its grace,

grow beautiful ourselves.

Keith Armstrong

NORTHERN ROCKY

There was a queue around the block,

Waiting anxiously for cash

When their bank, the Northern Rock

Seemed to be heading for a crash.

They'd imagined Northern Rock

To be a strong and solid brand

So, it came as quite a shock

To find: this Rock was made of sand

TRANSATLANTIC

Guns and knives: the escalation

Of violent crime, in my young day

Was seldom seen; these days our nation

It seems, is like a mini-USA.

Ken Orton, Ferryhill Station, Durham

STANDING ROOM ONLY

The crowd standing by the door

Hardly any room for more.

People pushing to get out

Wonder what it's all about.

Is it a shower of rain or hail

Or the start of a spring sale?

No, you're wrong, no brollies or bags

It's people wanting to smoke their fags.

Betty Watt, Durham.