May 14, 2009

We heard so many stories of those long dead,
Brought alive by our guide as our tour he led.
A father who, with his sons went together to war,
Though they returned, their father is no more.

A Christmas walk, an eagle eye, a button found,
It belonged to George Nugent who lay in the ground.
A family he never knew were able to attend
A full military funeral as tears they shed.

The bravery of soldiers but a doctor as well
Twice given the VC, the last as he fell.
It seemed that every turn in the road brought
A glimpse of Portland Stone, Cross of Sacrifice caught.
Epitaphs on stones that could break your heart,
"Mothers' baby son, sorely missed", families torn apart.

We heard the stories of those who were shot at dawn,
We listened in an eerie cell, spines chilled to the bone.
The young, with bravado, who lied about their age,
Dead at 15, how obscene, what waste, what sacrilege.

Death came to them all every race, every creed,
From politicians' sons, from Eton’s playing fields,
To farmers and miners, dustmen and poor mill hands.
No respect of age or rank they went to foreign lands.
They died in their thousands, buried side by side,
While those at home watched casualty lists and cried.

And then at last, when we couldn't take any more
Sights of graves and trenches and feeling heart-sore,
It was the turn of Ypres and the missing war dead.
Thousands of men with no known grave, no final bed
To rest for eternity, but remembered as they should
On the Menin Gate, their names etched for good.

The 'Last Post' sounded at the Menin Gate
To always ring out in respect each night at eight.
Tears again shed as the service to thousands relayed,
Then a haunting lament, as the piper he played.

The weekend over, we'd walked where granddad had fought
But we'll never know the fear, the terror or thoughts
He and the others must have had in that awful bloodbath,
That showed mankind at its worst, in all its wrath.
Margaret Heslington, Bowburn, Durham

SOMEONE SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM
I went to a birthday party, and remembered what you said
You told me not to drink and drive, so I had a coke instead.
I felt so proud of myself, the way you said I would.
That I didn’t drink and drive, though many said I could.
I knew I made a healthy choice, your advice to me was right.
As the party ended, the revellers drove out of sight.
I go into my own car, sure to get home in one piece.
Not knowing what was coming, something I expected least.
Now I’m lying on the pavement, I hear the policeman say.
The other driver was drunk, his voice seemed far-away.
My whole life flashes past me, I can hear paramedics cry
Try and stop the bleeding, am I going to die?
Why do people do it?, knowing it ruins lives.
God the pain is kicking in now, like a thousand stabbing knives.
Think it's time to go now, I pray my family is brave.
Hope you don’t forget me, and visit me at my grave.
My breath is getting shorter, I’m felling very scared.
Are these my final moments, oh no I’m not prepared.
So pass this message far and wide, not to drink and drive,
Wish it could have been sooner, maybe I would still be alive.
Written by A John, re-discovered by Mr Christopher Caldwell

WHITE SAIL
Ebb and flow of the timeless waves
The scent and the spray and the sounds
Moss dappled rock and the seaweed
And the squawking of birdlife abounds.
A glance to the fading horizon
To the gulls winging white in the fret
The course of this ancient mariner
Determined his compass to set.
He dips and he dives the wide ocean
He stands on his plinth and surveys
The folk out there on the mainland
The scrap fish and crab roundelays.
Mystic bird and white sail
Borne on the weathering tide
As your wings beat the air of the morning
O'er your kingdom you'll daily preside.
Dorothy McGregor, Crossgate

DEATH
A footstep trod in the door of the angels.
God wants the innocent, the heroes.
Men and women grieve, children weep.
Death touches everyone, the devil awakes.
The church door opens, waiting.

Death visits us all, friends, neighbours.
A skeleton's cloaked hand beckons.
Bloody tears trickled from its skull.
Awaiting the doorway to hell.
Graves are dug anticipating tenants.

Rain washes the tears, grief cries.
Carved gargoyles watch, crows wait.
Black-clothed mourners slowly walk.
The path of death beckons.
The freshly-dug graves await the sleeping.

God needs us for heaven or hell.
Beautiful flowers, carnations, bouquet.
Wreaths of death, dewed droplets of tears.
Rain greets the funeral, the fog.
Spirits of death shelter the living.

Death is inherited, awaiting everyone.
Susan Proud, Tow Law

MY MOTHER
When I see my mother sitting in her chair,
The gold has gone that once shone in her hair,
Replaced with silver as she has grown old,
But deep inside her beats a heart of gold.

Her beautiful hands worn with work and care,
Rests in her lap as she sits there,
She is a treasure no money can buy,
We love her so much my family and I.
Mrs E Blewitt, Darlington

THE GIRL AND THE GULL
I sat there on the cliff top, looking out to the sea,
My troubled heart felt heavy, had he forsaken me,
I rained my eyes heavenwards and pondered the reason why,
And the only reply I received, was a seagull’s mocking cry.

I watched as this graceful seabird swooped down to the beach below,
Where families were heading for home, tired toddlers in tow,
Like magnets, the gulls were drawn to the beach to rubbish left by uncaring man,
Half-eaten picnics, forgotten towels, plastic, paper, bottles and cans.

Suddenly the scene changed, as the tide came in with a growl,
Fingers of foam grabbed sandcastles, the rubbish, the inevitable towel,
I watched as the waves devoured the waste, dragging it down to the ocean blue,
But as my eyes returned to the once dirty beach, I marvelled at the view.

Stretching as far as the eye could see, was this beautiful golden land,
And I clambered down from the cliff top, to walk on this pristine sand,
Tiny glossy pebbles winked at me, as they sparkled in the sun,
Golden grains of washed sand glistened as the sea its work was done.

Diamonds and gold were within my reach, and the seagull laughed with me,
And I realised earth’s beautiful treasures, were the best things in life - and free,
Had the one up above sent that gull to me, and had he washed my problems away,
Then a voice within me seemed to say, " Walk on my child, tomorrow’s another day."
Olga Ramshaw, West Rainton

STILL PLAYING
Under Old Elvet bridge
That spans the River Wear
Prison cells still remain today.
Where a piper served his sentence
Until his dying day.
Each day as he played his pipes
His music could be heard
As people passed by
A lament if his mood was low
A reel when on a high.
Some say the skirl of pipes
May still be heard
By folk who live near
To cross this bridge at night
Might fill one’s heart with fear.
Maybe it’s just the wind
As through the trees doth whine
Or the ghostly sound of his pipes
As drones with chanter combine.
Gordon McCallum, Bowburn

THE SCALES
I am old, it’s nearly time to take my bow
And the scales of justice stand before me now
On one side my treasure, all my good deeds
And on the other my selfishness, my greed
I look above but to my dismay
See my good deeds are completely outweighed
‘Till I take for my treasure Jesus’ Holy Cross
And happily I have not lost
For the Cross of Jesus outweighs every sin
And turning to him everyone can win
The late Father Ian Petit

NEW LIFE
It seemed as if there was no hope,
It looked completely dead,
But underneath God was at work
To make a flower instead.

For as I took a closer look
I saw a leaf so small
And I realised afresh
That God is over all.

So in our lives let’s not despair
When up against a wall,
For behind the scenes God is at work
In ways beyond us all.

So hold on in the darkness
Knowing light will soon shine through,
And as with the plants and flowers
He’ll give new life to you.
Elizabeth Tomlinson, Richmond

THE PEBBLE PICKERS
When we walk along the seashore
We become addicted pebble pickers
We love to search and find them
In places we’ve never been before.
Beside our front door, beneath the tree
We have a private little beach
With stones of lovely natural colour
All made smooth by the rolling sea.
My favourite came from the Isle of Iona
It’s pink with marbled track
They say do no take away, you’ll be unlucky
Sorry, I picked it up to study, forgot to put it back.
Our little pebbles are placed at will
In pockets, handbag or garden shed
There’s even an ancient stone axe head
Picked up from Richmond’s river bed.
All our stones have a tale to tell
Of happy days spent walking
From our wonderful seashore
To Weardale Fell.
Elizabeth Sayers, Spennymoor

STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART
I find this poetry easy
If copied from a book
But poetry comes from the heart
And not inside a book
Some poems don’t make any sense
or am I just a wee bit dense
I’ll write things from the past
Which so happens to be true
I keep things simple
That’s what I like to do
Finding words to rhyme
Is sometimes a chore
In fact it becomes
A bit of a bore
To be or not to be
Sheaespeare’s not my cup of tea
Finding this poem
Hard to do now
Can’t get myself to think
Perhaps I’ll pop down the pub
And have a few to drink
Sort of lubricates the mind
Or pop out to the library
To see what I can find
Find me a poem
With words that link
But that will be cheating
Don’t you think?
Don’t know why
I am a bit of a poet
Must have had the call
Perhaps I had a previous life
and lived at Coxhoe Hall
Mick Peacock, Coxhoe