Poems

Whatever happened to those summers

That we used to all enjoy

Those lovely, lovely, red-hot summers

That we had when I was just a boy?

We used to get up early with our jam jars

And go fishing down by the brook

We didn't need a fishing rod

With a nasty hook.

We used to go on bike rides

Or watch the cricket on the green

We used to play on the swings and slides

Or just sit and eat our favourite ice cream.

There were lots and lots of things to do

When I was young and bold

Where are those lovely red-hot summers

Or is it me getting old?

A Bennett, Esh Winning.

The Beautiful Game?

A word to all tearful football fans;

Look on the bright side; cheer up!

We were knocked out of Euro 2000

But we won the Hooligans Cup.

William Nicholson, Shildon.

Ode to the Millennium

The Millennium Dome is strapped for cash

The Millennium Bridge will fall and splash

The Millennium Wheel just would not turn

But don't worry folks, we've got money to burn.

Our country's become a Disneyland,

Where nothing's real, do you understand?

Visitors do stand and stare

Where people worked, there's no one there

Factories close while hospitals crumble,

So do churches and schools while we just grumble,

Is it true that no one cares, that so much

Money was blown on a giant fair?

In ten years' time we'll stop and wonder,

Why such a fuss, why such a blunder?

So raise your glass while Britain festers

Grab a lottery grant from the Millennium Jesters!

Stephen Nixon, Shildon.

The Two Bishops

Two bishops in their club one day

Discussing modern morals,

Decided that loose living did

Eventually lead to quarrels.

Said one: "I truthfully can say

That never 'fore I wed

Did I have sex with my dear wife

Did you, old chap?", he said.

The other pondered for a while

Remembering every dame,

"I really can't recall," he said.

"What was her maiden name?"

WI Cooksey, Newton Aycliffe.

The Tree

Did you see the tree; you know the one I mean?

Growing in the garden between ITU and the staff canteen.

Did you see its tiny buds forming before spring?

In the chill of mid February a delicate fragile thing.

With petals like candyfloss and pink cotton wool,

They covered the branches until almost full.

How many walked right past it; never afforded it a gaze

Not stopping to admire, is truly to amaze.

The rain fell last night. Heavily and profound;

And there like spent confetti, the blossom lay around.

Like a woman's beauty gone too soon, I fear,

But unlike a woman's beauty, will bloom again next year.

Stella Marsh, Darlington.

To Forgive

To forgive

Isn't not remembering

Or feeling the pain.

To forgive

Is to let go

To start life again.

To forgive

Isn't not feeling hurt

Or looking behind.

To forgive

Is simply to accept

And leave it in the mind.

Marge Mason, Newton Aycliffe.

Grannybonnets

Put on your bonnet Columbine and dance for me.

Dip and bow and curtsey in all your finery.

Fair maid of grace and elegance how delicate they dress

In flounce of pink and skirt as white as virgin innocence.

Somewhere, chaste Columbine, must be a Pierrot just for you.

In scarlet coat and sash of gold your gentle heart he'll woo.

The soft pale flush upon your cheek will surely deeper grow

And you will dance a madrigal in the moonlight's glow.

You do not hold a hidden thorn as the lovely briar

Nor leave a sting upon the hand to burn as fire

But shyly peep and tremble behind the peony.

Come! Sweet Columbine, come, dance for me.

Fran Vincent, Skeeby, Richmond.

Thirty Years

I was driven through your town one day

I saw you in the street

And although I know it's been so long

I'm glad we didn't meet.

Of course I knew you at a glance

But it came as quite a blow

To see what thirty years had done

To the girl I used to know.

The shopping bag, the curlers,

The old mac with its stains.

The lumpy tree trunks of your legs

With cords of heavy veins.

What are those massive mounds of flesh

So sagging and so sad

Are they the pert upstanding breasts

That used to drive me mad?

I've changed a bit myself I know

For time has not been kind.

I lost my hair some years ago

And one eye is nearly blind

But it was very nice to see you

Be as happy as you can.

And I'm glad you didn't see me

Inside that prison van.

Ray Dickson, Darlington.

White Horses

A folded coat, a vagrant's pillow for his weary head,

Soft, warm sand - a makeshift bed.

Lying there drowsing, caressed by the sun,

Faraway laughter of children having fun.

The hush of the distant sea, like the whispering of peaceful psalms,

Then drifting off to sleep in Morpheus' arms.

Now being rudely awakened by fierce, ferocious forces,

Charging towards him were a line of white horses.

Rushing towards him without a care,

White manes flying high up in the air.

Galloping, charging, now so very near,

His heart pounding, his brain numb with fear.

Skin so nervous, breaking out in sweat,

An awareness his clothes were soaking wet.

Blinking hard against the sun, eyes now open wide,

His vision of "horses" was naught but frothy foams of high tide.

Standing there shivering, wet to the skin,

Relieved that his misfortune was only the unexpected tide rushing in.

Olga Ramshaw, West Rainton.