The Monday poem

Sometime this year,

A ceremony shall occur,

Coronation time's long gone,

We're now 50 years well on.

All this time the Queen has reigned,

Yet always worked and always gained.

So now at this time we give her our thanks,

We hand her a golden key,

And say Happy Golden Jubilee.

Lyndsay Oxley, aged 11, Evenwood, Bishop Auckland.

The Raging River

After the rains,

The raging river

Flows in torrents,

Its strength to deliver

Old leaves and branches

And worn-out trees,

Borne on the back

Of the fierce River Tees.

The sound of the river-worn

Boulders hustled along,

Scarce heard above the water's

Loud, frightening song.

The water's headlong panic

To get to the sea

Sometimes means sorrow

For you and for me.

Fred Wallis, Barnard Castle.

A Metaphorical Line

Those were the times,

And we would perch on cliff tops

To admire the view;

Sea sparkling like early dew.

Kicking away the stops

Across the sands a fresh-faced child hops.

It somehow reminds you of you.

Asking each other what we'll do

Tomorrow, raising a glass to all that's new,

Still wondering what we'll do.

Reminding each other we're still young

And will stay that way a long time.

Taking an imaginary stick,

Drawing a metaphorical line

Along the sands, with open hands.

Ryan Grey, Middleton-in-Teesdale.

Me Granda's Old Topcoat

The pictures were painted quite clear in my mind, a mixture of people and places.

Some were old like me granda but it was difficult to recognise faces.

For little lads with growing pains it was hard to remember a name.

But places with ice cream and swings and rock came easier, it was more like a game.

I didn't cry when me granda died I never really knew him that well, but I knew that

he once told me grandma he'd be happier if she went as well!

I remember him best for his old topcoat, it was bought at a big shop in town.

When he'd finally gone it was then handed down to me dad, it was navy and brown.

Me dad looked smart when he wore it, especially with his new Sunday best.

But by this time I really fancied it 'cos it fitted me well round the chest.

As me dad grew older and began to fail, me mother would cry reading get well mail.

Then we started to lose him bit by bit from awful diseases he'd caught at the pit.

The days now swiftly speed on by; the memories of the past grow cold,

I'm told by friends that when me dad died they got up and just broke the mould.

But by far my most treasured memory and the occasion on which I dote, is the day

that me mother handed me granda's old topcoat.

Alan Clement, Woodham, Newton Aycliffe.

Reflections

Is it just a meaningless memory,

Faded, readjusted with passing time?

Was it love enduring -

Or just fond dreams of mine?

Do I look and see a stranger now

And wonder, 'was it really so?'

Or just a meaningless memory

Now time to just let go?

Were those tears I cried

Really mine with pain of heart?

Was it really so very painful

When we had to part?

Or is it just with passing time

It makes it all seem that way;

To be something to reflect upon

During the quiet times in the day?

Marge Mason, Newton Aycliffe.

William Shakespeare

Without the modern technology, world wide acclaim

Invented the word entertainment, created fame

Language struck a chord, to amuse you or pierce your heart

Love in all its splendour, his pen mastered the art

In tragedy, silliest farce, humanity's there

A feast for the senses, towering talent, no compare

Millennium man, extraordinary and timeless.

Such accolades bestowed, the inspiration endless

He never flagged, dried up, churned out play after play

Audiences acknowledge his greatness, to this day

King of the theatre, master, way out on his own

Expert, was a true professional, he sits on the throne

Stories gripping, written like no other dramatist can do

Poetry contained a mood, fed the deepest part of you

Expressed a desire, with words you couldn't muster

Awakens passion, witty remarks, all a fluster

Registered famous one-liners, they slip off the tongue

Eternal, lights, music, action, production's begun.

John Neal, Chester-le-Street.

A Place of Tranquility

I found a place in the country,

Remote from the sounds of traffic and people.

How difficult to describe in words,

Its enchantment and beauty.

The warm breeze faintly carries the sounds

Of cows and sheep.

A cock pheasant in the woods

Makes his raucous call.

Birds of all sizes call to each other.

Some seem to be singing to each other,

Others create a chorus.

A small stream flows silently.

Above its smooth surface no stones to

Create a gurgling or rushing sound.

I sit and look at the clear flowing water.

Small fish in their hundreds dart about.

The sun creates small flashes as it

Reflects on their tiny silvery forms.

This place is an environment of peace.

Words may try to describe this tranquility.

Only being here to feel the serenity,

Give me peace of mind.

I must come back again.

TM Keegan, Ripon.

The Cycle

From scarred hill and winter storm

A virgin rivulet is born.

She hurries down round rock and stone,

No life in her cold water bound.

She journeys on to curlew sound.

On sleety moor she tumbles down.

She joins her sisters born the same

And by man is given name.

Then over cliff the waters pour

Watched by men who stare in awe.

At last she stills, life to support.

For duck and dace and trout to sport.

She works for man for no reward

And lets him cross at bridge and ford.

At journey's end she meets the sea

With no restraints, at last she's free.

By wind and sun she ascends once more.

Are these the hills she's seen before?

Peter Ford, Darlington.

Our Jill

Poor Jill had an accident today

It seems her nose got in the way

While reaching for something

On the shelf

She banged her nose and hurt herself.

So off to the hospital our Jill goes

To have an X-ray on that nose.

No bones broken have no fear

Just badly bruised and swollen, my dear.

So next time Jill

When in the fridge you go

Bang somewhere else

Where it doesn't show.

I Gard, Norton.

Spring

Suddenly - after the cold, dark days of winter

Comes a change

Outside - the earth is brown, but underneath

Roots are stirring.

Look closely - and beside the brook, the first green grass

Peeps through.

The days grow longer and at twilight, the song of a blackbird

Heralds the coming of spring.

Suddenly - the day is upon us -

A clear blue sky, a dazzling sun,

Gentle breezes.

You smell it - even in the house,

You feel it in the air

You are aware of new beginnings

And somewhere - somehow

Deep within you

Life is renewed

And spring works its magic again.

Joyce Williams, Darlington.