ONE WET DAY
It was early on one Saturday morn,
When I quickly made my way
Across to the allotment to bring
Some vegetables for dinner next day.
The carrots they were wet and dirty
Like that they were no good,
So I took them to the water point
To wash off all the mud.
I leaned across to turn the tap
To wash the carrots off,
But I caught my foot against the edge
And fell into the trough.
I floundered about like a drowning rat,
Soaked through to the skin.
I quickly took a look around and wondered
If any was about and seen me falling in.
I squelched my way back up to the shed.
This wet I'd never been,
But out of every tragedy comes some good,
At least the carrots were clean.
My wellies full of water,
Back home I made my way,
Hoping I didn't meet anyone
Cos I wouldn't have known what to say.
My wife was waiting at the gate
To take the veg I'd brought her.
"Good heavens," she said. "What's happened to you?"
I feebly replied: "I've fallen in the water."
Cyril Humphrey, Cockfield, Co Durham
CHILLIN ISLAND
I'm off work now for 12 days
For some well-earned R and R.
No need for a carbon footprint
Cos I'm not going far.
There is no need to fly,
For it's not over the sea.
Off to Chillin Island,
That's where I'm going to be.
Let me tell you about Chillin Island.
It's a place I regularly go.
It's not spoiled by tourism,
Cos about it they do not know.
Chillin Island is not over-crowded
And not heavily populated,
And unlike most resorts,
It's not over-rated.
The surf creeps up to the beach
In a melodic sort of way.
There are no dark clouds in the sky
And the sun it shines all day.
If you ever go to Chillin Island
No pollution you will find,
Only tranquillity and peace,
For Chilllin Island is all in the mind.
Robert Routledge, Ludworth
MOVING ON
An episode of my life has now passed by
And I'm ready to move on again.
I'm considering I'm a bit of a nomad
As my fate to change places is quite plain.
My travels have found me in many places
From towns to villages, moors and coast.
Twenty six different dwellings have been my lot in life
With a boarding school complete with its ghost.
Three different bungalows have I known
Two-up, two-downs, some good, some bad.
Big houses, small houses, cottages and mansions,
The names of them relate to a pad.
For 70-odd years I've been on the move.
My roots as such don't exist.
Gardens I've created and left behind,
Lost forever in time's mist.
How many more moves must I endure?
Surely the impending one must be the last.
My bones are weary of all this unsettling,
I just want it to now lie in the past.
I don't want to see another moving van.
I just want to stay in one place.
Please let me enjoy what is left
And be part of the human race.
Jean Naseby, Darlington
BARRY WHITE
I lost a good friend the other day.
He has gone. He has passed away.
His name was Barry White.
He gave his illness, cancer, a hell of a fight.
Barry was a member of the RAOB.
He was a good friend to many, especially me.
Barry was a miner at Thirslington and Easington pit.
He was full of good humour and intelligent wit.
Barry fought hard and long to beat the illness he had.
He never complained, he never said he was bad.
Barry worked tirelessly for cancer research, I found.
He would say, put your hand in your pocket, give my a pound.
I only hope Brother Barry is in heaven, a place of bliss.
Sadly, too many friends you have left.
You will be a sad miss.
Jimmy Taylor, Coxhoe, Co Durham
OBSERVATIONS
As one door shuts, another opens,
and so it's been for me,
As no longer I can hear,
The clearer I can see.
I see the beauty of the flowers,
The shape of every tree,
The changing blue of the sky,
They way the clouds go skidding by.
The birds that fly with joy on high,
The planes that go whizzing by,
Or hang suspended in the sky.
These things are there for me.
A Fisher, Spennymoor, Co Durham
SCHOOL IN WARTIME
The air raid siren
Gives the alarm,
With gas masks on, we head for shelter
And hide from harm.
We've just been playing
Outside on the grass,
But now we huddle underground,
Waiting for the raid to pass.
In the darkness,
It's safe without light.
We hear a plane passing overhead,
Its angry engine giving fright.
Boiled ham and bread and jam.
Let's hope we'll be home for tea,
And wonder how many years from now
We'll remember times like these.
Eileen Idrissi, Peterlee
Comments: Our rules
We want our comments to be a lively and valuable part of our community - a place where readers can debate and engage with the most important local issues. The ability to comment on our stories is a privilege, not a right, however, and that privilege may be withdrawn if it is abused or misused.
Please report any comments that break our rules.
Read the rules hereComments are closed on this article