Your poems

Is your favourite the rose,

Which has a fragrance pleasing to the nose?

No that is not so,

The chamomile as there will be no lawn to mow

You have not guessed it yet.

The hollyhock likes the wet,

Making her grow a good number of feet.

The yellow sunflower likes the heat,

Up to the sky she can nod.

Neither is right, on you plod.

How about pansy, daisy, or forget-me-not,

Though all grow in my plot?

You have not discovered it yet

Another guess is my bet

Now let me see

What can it be?

Stock has an evening scent on a summer's night

Or is it something small in height?

All the flowers are a delight.

I am now ready to tell you what it is

I hope you are ready to hear this.

My favourite is the cauliflower.

I would like to make a tasty cauliflower cheese,

With your kind permission please.

Janet Degnan, Bowes.

Harvest

If you sit in your chair at 83

Look on your life as a victory

That's a harvest.

When you see yourself when young and green

Growing where fallow land had been

To harvest.

If you know your error and your sin

Tried a new life to begin

That's harvest.

If the good years are worth more than gold,

You have not your true self sold

It's a harvest.

See your family in health

Treasure that more than wealth

What a harvest.

Bless God's name at every turn

Know His love is all you yearn

To harvest.

Sprinkle the love seed that he sows

Hope in every heart it grows

To a harvest.

Every spring another leaf

Every fall another sheaf

To harvest.

When you see that field of grain

And know God has moved again

That's a harvest.

Fran Vincent, Skeeby.

Welcome to Midsummer

Winter's long gone and now spring has passed,

The trees are in leaf, the meadows well grassed.

The sun smiles down from high in the sky,

The washing brought in, all nicely dry.

Long gone the dark mornings and early evening gloom,

Now the glorious scent of roses in full bloom.

The children play happily, no school for six weeks,

The sun and fresh air brings a glow to their cheeks.

Out on the village green bat meets ball,

And once in a while 'howzat' is the call.

The match draws to a close, as the sun leaves the sky,

It's honours even, the result is a tie.

Then it's down to the local, for a draught of good beer,

There's no place like England, now that midsummer is here.

Frank Watson, Barnard Castle.

A Pensioner's Lament

How I wish I could win an argument

Just a friendly one at that,

I'd be so happy with myself,

I'd give my back a pat.

I sit with, the lads in Kelloe club lounge,

That's if they move along,

But it's funny how they are always right

And I am always wrong.

Maybe I choose the wrong topic,

Maybe I drink the wrong beer,

Or maybe I don't know as much as them,

It's something, isn't it queer.

There's a manager, overman, deputies too,

Among them what chance have I got,

I wonder who's wrong when I'm not there

For they're such a brainy lot.

It's been like that since my mate Jack passed on,

He always sided with me

Even if I didn't know what I was talking about

He would swear it was right and agree.

They argue on this and they argue on that

Never thinking it could be a sin

To change their argument half way through,

Only to let themselves win.

Two lady friends took pity on me,

Saying: "Come and sit with us,

"We'll let you win even though you are wrong

"Before we go out for the bus."

Oh, what does it matter, I've had a good night

As I drink the last drop of my bitter,

I'll just go to the loo, toddle of home

And say "goodnight to my sitter.

She'll ask me if I've had a good time

And if I've enjoyed the crack,

I'll tell her the truth, I've enjoyed every minute

And can't wait to go back.

The memory is not as good as it was,

The hearing is starting to dim,

But I hope when I reach those Golden Gates

I don't have to argue with Him.

Bill Getting, Kelloe.

The Queen Mother

One hundred years on Ma'am, One hundred words to depict

The changes have been immense, at times they've been tense

Always in times of trouble, your gentle smile shone through

Your warmth touched all hearts, as the nation touched yours.

Through each and every decade, spanning through to times ten

In good times and bad, you've stood by the bairns

Like all families there's changes, coping only as you can

You've been a true mother for all of your clan

A toast to your health, saying thanks for your years

And with this comes greetings, much love and God bless

Bryan Allen, Newcastle.

It Simply Is Not Cricket

It used to be for gentlemen

Who played and loved the game,

Though it wasn't everybody's cup of tea.

It was gentlemen that made it,

And gentlemen who played it.

The likes of Brian Dickenson, and me.

I know that I did not possess

The flair and skill of some,

No mentions in despatches, I'll agree.

I make no claims to fame,

Just a passion for the game.

That has been a source of great delight to me.

I well recall the pleasure

Of taking to the field.

Proudly, wearing freshly laundered whites,

But the word I choose is barmy.

For that multi-coloured army

Playing with a white ball, under lights.

Fair play has long since left the field,

The cheats have taken over,

With their 'Buy a winner, buy a loser' trend.

The losers have been paid

Long before the match is played.

But all of cricket is the loser in the end.

But we old pair will play again,

And proudly take the field,

From that great pavilion in the sky,

For Heaven is the name

Of the way we play the game,

My friend, Brian Dickenson, and I.

C Parias, Darlington.

If Only

When two people are as one, in thoughts as well as deeds.

Struggling through adversity to fulfill each other's needs.

Why should it be a secret when the pleasure's for all to see?

Why can't we do as we wish, be absolutely free?

When both pledged to partners to honour, love and obey

Not realising the significance 20-plus years away.

Rushing into situations, not understanding anything of life.

Financial commitments bringing arguments, trouble and strife.

Why can't we sign contracts like the footballers of today.

And when the time is up be allowed to go our way.

Of course there's divorce, a messy way to end

Two people who were lovers, now not even friends.

Terry Uttley, West Auckland.