The Monday poem

My plans were temporarily delayed,

By the work of a tiny spider,

And the web that he had made.

Tiny droplets of early dew

Clung to his web of lace,

Every thread that this mite had woven

Was neatly in its place.

The rising sun awakened,

I saw a web of jewels bright,

The colours of the rainbow

Sparkled in the morning light.

The glass of one full window pane

Was covered with his web.

How could I destroy this intricate work

Of spinning spider - my heart bled.

So I left this one window pane

As spider weaved on at full throttle.

I hope his web works wonders for him.

May his lunch be a big bluebottle.

Olga Ramshaw, West Rainton.

Moving House

A man went into a pet shop

With a most peculiar quest,

Although the assistant was caught by surprise

He promised to do his best.

The order was for cockroaches in a box,

A couple of hundred or more,

Plus half a dozen of those rats he'd seen

In the cage behind the door.

Then he thought he'd better have some mice,

A score would satisfy.

Knowing mice for what they are

They soon would multiply.

There was a simple answer to the order

As the man went on to explain,

If he didn't abide by the council law

They wouldn't rent him a house again.

He was moving out the very next day,

There was no way he could get around it.

The small print on the rent book said,

He must leave the house as he found it.

So always read the small print,

Don't try to go one better,

Or the housing manager will have you,

You'll receive a solicitor's letter.

Bill Gething, Kelloe.

So That's What It's All About?

It's not about a plump old man

With whiskers and a red suit,

Or train sets or Scalextric sets,

Barbie or a toy flute.

It's not to do with Tweenies,

Combined video and TV,

Monopoly or Cluedo games

Or Westlife's new CD.

It's not about a massive feast

Of turkey, stuffing and sprouts,

Or Christmas pudding with hot, rum sauce

And flames that need blowing out.

It's not to do with over-eating

Cake, mince pies and sweets,

Dates, satsumas, chocolate bars

Or varieties of cooked meats.

It's not about a Christmas tree

Or tinsel round our homes,

An angel, lights and baubles

Or the latest mobile phones.

It's not to do with mistletoe

Or cards or candles or chimes,

Carol singers, visitors

Or the films in the Radio Times.

It's not about our Christmas lists

Of who gave what last year,

The office workers' party

Where they all drink too much beer.

It's ALL to do with Jesus Christ,

In a stable manger curled.

That's what Christmas is all about;

God's present to the whole world!

Timothy Jasper, Sedgefield.

Relatively Speaking

Einstein had a theory, called Relativity,

E = MC2. It is double-dutch to me.

In school it was explained to me exactly what it meant,

But always the explanation just got up and went.

On the day that we had physics, I used to stay in bed,

Or study up biology, behind the cycle shed.

Magnetism and mechanics, quantum or otherwise;

Cryogenics and geophysics, brought tears to my eyes.

To me, the term Relative conjures up the family.

So here is my understanding of Relativity.

The bull hippo is an ugly beast. At least he is to me.

But, to a lady hippo he's as handsome as can be.

If everything is relative, it explains why my brother

Is all alone in thinking, he has not an ugly lover.

LP Brighton, Darlington.

Giraffe

She's sleek and slender,

Tall and composed,

Craning swiftly towards the luscious green leaves,

Oozing with fresh, cool juice,

Refreshing and quenching as it slips down her long neck,

While she devours the evening sunset,

Glowing over the pastures,

And sprinkling the perspiring cracked earth with soft golden droplets,

As she strides, discreet and tranquil as a breath of air,

Across the African sun-dried grasslands,

Sweeping to the ground and slowly back up, grazing on the crops for the final time.

Obliviously crunching her bountiful cuisine before the sun goes down,

And all is still,

Swathed in a blanket of hushed midnight,

And so the exquisite giant gracefully slips to the ground and, still in her elegance, sleeps softly till the sparkling golden dome appears on the horizon once more.

Sally Robson, Bishop Auckland.

Frostbite I saw the tree in the winter's sun, saw new life already begun.

Fat buds, brown and ready to break when balmy spring bid them awake.

I saw the tree in its leafy dress blossoming pink for fruitfulness.

A sudden wind blew icy cold, such fragile wings could not unfold.

I saw the tree as summer flew, no mellow fruit on branches grew.

Promises of springtime gone and the cold north wind blew on.

I entered the church on Sunday morn as parents gave thanks for a child newborn.

I felt the promises of such joy that could embody that little boy.

I entered a school one summer day and saw that little child at play.

His eyes were clear as bluest skies as happy hours went ticking by.

I saw the child become a youth, no one told him the holy truth.

He had no rod to lean upon, it was so easy to go wrong.

I saw the youth become a man, but didn't see when sin began.

For it grew so slowly day by day from the moment he first learned to play.

I entered the church one Sunday night, his parents knelt in sorry plight.

They had not taught their child to pray, they did not know the words to say.

I saw them kneeling side by side, tear-streaked cheeks they could not hide.

"We did not know he took cocaine," over and over they said it again.

I entered the church one Friday past, the final curtain, the final act.

I placed my flowers on his grave, I prayed my Lord his soul to save.

I entered the church on Sunday morn to give praises for a child newborn.

Oh heavenly saviour, in your arm, shelter him from any harm.

His father died from lack of faith, he never knew your love and grace.

As the flower turns to fruit let no evil seed take root.

Touch his mother, let her know the way to teach her child to grow.

Show her kind shepherd, holy truth, then Satan cannot steal his youth.

Fran Vincent, Skeeby, Richmond.

Someone Gave Me A Hug

A little hug,

And understanding smile

Make such a difference

Make my life worthwhile.

A sympathetic word,

Someone to really care

Helps us, each burden,

To more bravely bear.

Because sometimes

We can feel so alone

But we have a Friend

And are never on our own.

His name is Jesus,

His love is constant true

He sticks closer than a brother

And He is there for you.

Elizabeth Tomlinson, Richmond.