The Monday poem

Maurice had a reputation

for managing his vegetation

His garden always neat and trim

and this entirely due to him.

No weed dare raise its ugly head

for fear of being zapped down dead.

The culture of his flowers and lawns

was geometrically performed.

His skill and husbandry so abounded

friends and neighbours were astounded.

'Tis sometimes said (and rarely disputed)

that gardening can be therapeutic.

As one strives to tame each earthly sod

it brings one nearer to our God,

As much time is spent upon one's knees

amid the grass and flowers and trees.

So here's to Maurice and all those who

give praise and thanks for life anew.

Jane McGowan, Pity Me, Durham.

Little Things

Give me the simple homely things,

A fire whereon a kettle sings,

Little chores at last well done,

Little laughs and bits of fun.

Lovely hot soup on a winter's day,

A bed with quilt of patchwork gay,

A morning spent with spade and trowel,

Hot water and a clean white towel.

A firelit room, the caw of rooks,

Radio and television, friendly books,

A bowl of pansies in the sun,

An easy-chair when work is done.

Little songs to make me glad

Little comforts when I'm sad,

Such a wealth of little things,

To my being richness brings.

Wilf Harris, Fishburn.

A Poem For Lesley

Fidgety and furtive

Upon the frozen ground,

Frightened by the bronchial crows

As, raucously, they wheeze

In chilly-misted sensurround,

Darkly sinister, their shrill unease

Matching the moods of skeletal trees,

And, stark against the sky, their shapes

Scatter to threaten sombre air;

Little bird rummages,

Pecking for pickings,

Meagre scraps snatched down scrawny's beak,

While feeling the fear of a latent foe

With bigger morsels to eke.

David Coates, Shildon.

Carley Cat

Carley, Carley, how you gaze at me

With eyes so big and wide,

What are you saying?

What are you seeing?

What are your thoughts inside?

Are you frightened or curious?

Are you worried or furious?

Or are you just saying "Love me".

"Please keep me, I need a home

"Where I can relax and be free."

Carley, Carley, look at me do

And know without doubt

That I do love you.

So don't worry, don't fear,

Your new home is here

For God has ordered it so.

His own hand has planned

So believe, accept and just know.

Carley, you're beautiful

In black, white and gold,

So I'll keep you forever,

You're a joy to behold.

Indeed, a present from Father above

Giving me, bringing me

Lots of His wonderful love.

Elizabeth Tomlinson, Richmond.

The Poet's Lament

Will the words flow, will the inspiration come,

Or shall I simply sit here feeling absolutely numb,

It's rare that I take up my pen and feel totally inspired,

More oft I'm just staring into space while feeling somewhat tired.

I've read all the famous poets and met a few,

I often think if only I could do what they could do,

And yet, within my mind, I'm sure great epics lie therein,

Lord, why can't I put them down on paper, it cannot be a sin?

Past masters Keats, Byron, Walter de la Mare,

I can't believe they struggled, it just doesn't seem quite fair,

The late, great Robert Browning left legacies to inspire,

Somehow, my own attempts seem feeble, nothing short of dire.

And yet, I'm sure if I could just go that extra mile,

Perchance one day complete my verse, sit back, relax and smile,

Then sign off happy in the knowledge that at last my work is done,

Who did this great compilation? Why - old Derek Hamilton.

Derek Hamilton, Peterlee.

Alan Shearer

At an early age, is where achievements begin

Laid low by injuries, battled through everything

Answers critics, when they have left him with no chance

No defender happy leads them a merry dance.

Scores with the fans, he is the first on their team sheet

Heads the winner, for effort, he is never beat

Ever leave him alone, torture you with his skill

Asleep for a moment, the goal will start to thrill

Run riot when the opposition lose their grip

Excels in big occasion with his leadership

Reliable under pressure got plenty zip.

John Neal, Chester-le-Street.

12 Bricks in the Hod

Dear Mrs Cooksey, I am writing to say

I hope Walter is feeling much better today.

Monday's Echo revealed his plight

Concerning work on the building site.

There was a bad-tempered Mr Semper who

Got up Walter's nose - well, yes, but

He was only doing his job I suppose;

He ordered 12 bricks in the bricklayer's hod

And to Walter's poor back it felt like a rod.

A scheme was devised by Michael O'Flyn, and

When I read of his plan I just had to grin.

Involving wheelbarrow, ladder and rope

He thought his friend now able to cope.

However, it was not to be and ended in catastrophe

Walter is now bruised and battered,

Wheelbarrow, ladder and rope well scattered.

He hopes to return to the site one day

But Walter, I am included to say:

"Do you really think this work is for you -

Remember 12 bricks in the hod not two."

Avril Dawson, Richmond.

Northumberland

A visit to Holy Island it just had to be

My son was camping not far from the sea.

His friends the scouts were expecting their mums

So we did not disappoint them with gifts for their tums.

We stayed at Seahouses for a fish and chip lunch

Saw all the fishing boats arriving in a bunch.

Lovely clean golden sands, sparkling bright.

But no tents or Scouts even in sight.

Back on the bus we travelled a few miles,

All the tents in a field, Scouts waiting with smiles.

After greetings, games and photographs too

We sat on the grass, ate sandwiches, cakes and a brew.

What a memory for us to see the boys in camp

But the goodbyes were soon said and off we tramped.

Then on to Holy Island and tasted the mead

One felt close to God so eerie it seemed.

A short journey to the mainland before the tide

With memories of a day we shall cherish with pride.

The camp, the island, boats adrift and patter.

A lovely day with sunshine and chatter.

Bessie Metcalfe, Leyburn.

A'Am The Queen

While Philip and I were sat at tea,

Perusing over the family tree,

I discovered, with ecstatic glee,

My roots were up in Peterlee.

We holiday in Sandringham,

As all of you well 'knaa,

But all the time I'd much prefer,

A week in Shiney Raa.

When I attend a ceremony,

In robes and all of that,

It's got to be red carpets,

But what's wrong with a clippie mat?

The royal yacht was always great,

For holidays in style,

But, what I'd give for a snap of the bairns

Along the Golden Mile.

I yearn for anonymity,

And if I could only hide,

I'd be a bingo caller,

North of the big divide.

Bob Parker, Newton Hall, Durham.