The Monday Poem

O little town of Bethlehem

Where Jews and Arabs shoot;

The hopes and fears of all the years -.

We worship Beckham's foot.

E. Turnbull, Gosforth.

Geordie Had A Barrow

Ask any old Raintonian,

He will tell you, my friend,

How Geordie kept the village clean,

From its beginning to its end.

In the village streets and lanes,

As a council roadman he would stride,

Keeping Rainton well maintained,

Was his greatest joy and pride

And woe betide if a dandelion

Were ever to be seen

On Geordie's clipped grass verges

Or his immaculate village green.

If you ever wonder why Mark's Lane

Becomes flooded by and by

Then ask Geordie (in Heaven's Garden)

And he'll tell you the reason why.

There's a tiny sparkling brooklet

Hidden twixt grass verge and hedge.

It's unable to live its babbling life

Because of rubbish and uncut sedge.

And any self-respectful dog

Would have hidden his head in shame,

Were he to drop foul 'poopers'

Down Geordie's pretty lane.

A former elementary school lad,

No education at Eton or Harrow.

Not possessing gown or mortarboard,

But a sickle, spade and barrow.

Olga Ramshaw, West Rainton.

WWW Dot Comm-ode

Are you on the Internet, or not?

Are you another surfing serf, or what?

Are you an information highway slave?

Or, are you like me, who doesn't give a jot?

The world is out there, floating in the sky;

But I am happy letting it float by.

To all those devotees I say, 'Good luck.'

Fulfil your dream! I won't ask you why.

Go see the world, from Singapore to Rome.

Download the Taj Mahal and Quonset dome.

I have been around the world for real;

And it's much more fun than doing it from home.

The library is still the place to go,

If there is something that you need to know.

In golden silence, browsing with the Bards;

Or finding out what makes the planet 'go.'

My children have got 'dot-com' on the brain.

And I sometimes wonder, which of us is sane

They can go World Wide Web dot commode;

All I ask is, when they're done, they pull the chain.

L.P. Brighton.

Ode To Allison

Sat here alone 4am in the morning,

A reality check consciously on me dawning,

That my lover, partner, soul mate and wife,

Has now forever walked out of my life.

Your one major indiscretion,

Yes I truly could and would have forgiven,

In self-denial you opted for the walking

When really you should have come to me for talking.

You've broken my heart by remaining apart,

All it took was a call and I'd give you my all,

We stated our vows towards everlasting relationship.

Now after four short years you don't even want my friendship.

You sought solace from the Internet, your escape from reality,

All I asked was for your loving, you could have been there for me so easily,

Given time our marriage could have grown so much stronger,

Instead now I'm devastated your mind and body went a wander.

The best present you ever gave me was to bear me a son,

For this I'm truly grateful, it's just a pity it's now all but done.

Although in words no Poet Laureate, I felt a certain need to show it,

Exactly how you've made me feel, so alive, I thought it was for real.

Spare a thought in the future, in what and when you say I do.

As the next may not be so different from us previous two.

Name and address supplied

The Cottage

Deep in the countryside all on its own

Stands a quaint little cottage, made out of stone.

The thatch on its roof is thick and warm,

It's bonded so tight, it can withstand any storm.

A thin whisp of smoke, from its chimney doth rise

And soon disappears into summer blue skies.

Under its eaves, little house martins nest

They fly in and out, with hardly a rest.

Though its windows are small, they give a good view

Of the trees that abound there, such as the oak and the yew.

A bower of roses grows around the door

And on the step sits a cat licking its paw.

A gaggle of geese go honking by

With their necks outstretched and their heads held high.

Behind the cottage there's an old wooden shed

And sheltered inside is a donkey called Ned.

It's watching the chickens as they scamper around

Pecking at bread crumbs that have been thrown on the ground.

Although they are well fed with corn and wheat

They like to gather around for that extra treat.

A cockerel starts crowing as it heralds the dawn

It's telling all who hear it that a new day is born.

Alas the cottage is just a dream of mine,

But if you close your eyes, it could also be thine.

Matthew Balderson, Hartlepool.

Spuggy and the Pig

Spuggy was my name when I was a kid, 'cause I was like a bit sparra' that had fallen out of its nest.

And I think you would agree, if you could have seen me - in my underpants and vest.

Anyway, about '42 or '43 we'd been working on a Dig For Victory dig,

My dad said: "Spuggy, we'd better get ready - it's time to see to the pig!

Now we'd had this pig for a year or more, fed it on leftovers and scraps.

It was fat. Fattest pig around? Maybe and perhaps.

Harry Siddle had been sent for, 'cause he was the best for the job.

He was good, he was quick - and he called a shilling a bob.

Well, I helped my Mother, busy, boiling water. You needed that to soak its bristles.

We cleared a space to do the job. Cut down all the nettles and thistles!

Well the job was done, it had to be done - I couldn't have felt any sadder.

But mind! I soon cheered up, when Harry cleaned and blew up its bladder.

Mother was busy, what with making tea and then she had to start making black pudding.

And Dad was pleased. Ever so pleased. He said: "I think that pig was a good 'un.

Doug Porthouse, Ferryhill.