The Monday Poem

When the billowing barley bends

Its head to kiss the flaunting poppy

While the golden hearted ox-eye daisy

Gazes wide eyed in innocent purity

And the cream complexion meadow sweet

Shakes her head, spreading her perfume

Around the creeping vetchling who clings

In helpless mirth to the trembling, whispering

Harebell and the sagely nodding foxglove

Stands a-tiptoe 'neath the o'erblown hedge,

Eager not to miss a thing -

Then I know it is full summer.

Jean Collins, Goathland, Whitby.

When Is A Poem Not A Poem

A man in his shop, every Monday,

Seems to feel it is a crime,

When he reads the poems readers have written,

That are not kindly written in rhyme.

"A poem's not a poem, it's an essay,

"If rhyming us left to the wall.

"And a poem's got to scan," said this canny man,

"Or they might as well not write at all."

So I thought I would write a "proper" poem,

For the man who sells sweets, apple and orange,

But I've slipped up somewhere, feel like tearing out my hair,

'Cos...I can't find any word in my brand new Concise Oxford that comes anywhere near to rhyme with the word "orange".

Olga Ramshaw, West Rainton.

Change

When things aren't working,

As often they don't,

If you carry on the same way

It's guaranteed they won't.

So stop and be silent

Reflect on what you do

Ponder on changes

That will affect you.

It comes from within,

The power to change

To cast aside the old

And revel in a new range.

Just one small change.

One small step to take.

Oh what a difference

Your future could make.

Marge Mason, Newton Aycliffe.

Letter To The Foreman

Dear Sir, I am writing this letter to say why Walter, my husband's not working today.

He had some bad luck with a barrow of bricks which ended in him being knocked for a six.

His job on the site was to help Mr Semper - a very good brickie with a very bad temper,

Who shouted at Walter making Walter get madder as, a brick in each hand, he climbed up the ladder.

"Two bricks at a time! You big useless clod! You're supposed to bring 12 in that bricklayer's hod!"

Now 12 bricks are heavy. They hurt Walter's back but he struggled on - not wanting the sack.

He talked to his mates at the old Dog and Duck. With no help from them, he seemed right out of luck.

Then suddenly came a small ray of hope when Michael O'Flynn said: "Why not use a rope?"

"Tie the rope to the ladder and pile on each brick. With a good block and tackle, it should do the trick!"

The first barrowload was hoisted aloft. It impressed Mr Semper - in face he grew soft.

He praised my dear hubby for using his brain. With pride Walter tried to do it again.

But, in too much haste to see the job through, my husband grew careless - as most people do.

He now freely admits - being wiser and sadder - he should never have tied that rope to the ladder.

Of averting disaster, there wasn't a hope, as down came the barrow and up went the rope.

The ladder and Walter just shot off the ground and met the wheelbarrow half-way coming down.

The resulting collision made a mess of his face and the bricks tumbled out all over the place.

With the barrow now empty, it was lighter than he, so Walter fell back to the ground - naturally!

He let go the rope as he hit the ground - another mistake as he rapidly found.

With nothing to stop it, the barrow just fell, crashed down and knocked Walter halfway to hell.

With that Sir, I'll end this very sad letter. Walter says he'll be back if he ever gets better.

WI Cooksey, Newton Aycliffe.

Joy

Oh! The joy of life on Earth - come and see

Climb the stile, follow the path across the lea.

Here - pick that buttercup, see God's gold dust there

Look - that's the sweet milkmaid, shy and fair.

All this loveliness you find when you look

Not like a reproduction in a book.

Hush! That's the peewit pweening on the breeze

Swooping in sudden arcs into green willow trees.

Marvels of God's fingers grow and thrive

All creatures living - God brought them alive.

He chose to make them all, grass, flower, seed and tree

Ants, butterflies, sweet lovebirds, you and me.

Knobbled green chestnuts, oaks knarled and brown.

Sloes, spinning jinnies, skewing on the ground.

What say you? Life is drab and grey?

See - a cloud of dandelion seeds sauntering on the wind

Why, there's the fragile frosted web the early spider spinned.

Do you use your eyes and yet see blind?

Missing life's great treasures there to find?

Bobbing white tails skuttling in the warren

Humming bees foraging foxgloves on the common.

Squawking, cawking noisy rooks behind the plough

Snuffling, grunting great wet snout of a rooting sow.

Oh! Come while there's still time, waste not a day

So short is life - so quickly pass away.

Fran Vincent, Skeeby, Richmond.

Golden Days

When I think of the days at Sunday School

How well I can remember

Sitting round the pot-bellied stove

In the cold days of December.

Of course, it wasn't always cold,

We had lovely summers too

To have our outdoor service

Singing choruses old and new.

We didn't play football on Sunday

No games of "kick the tin"

We were taught to treat it with respect

Taking care of the clothes we were in.

Evening service for our elders

As we grew older, we went there as well

How great to join in singing

And let our voices swell.

Of course we weren't little angels

Driving our teachers round the bend

They must have got through to us sometimes

We learnt something in the end.

It's nice to keep our Sunday

And try to do things right

Join Frank Wappet Sunday morning

"Songs of Praise" on Sunday night.

A good old chapel hymn tune does me good

Joining in is the happiest part

Maybe like me you don't sing so well

But you sing it from your heart.

Bill Gething, Kelloe.