February 5th, 2008

10:09am Tuesday 5th February 2008

HELL

The place of hell

Is a vortex in the mind

It's a warp in the control of thought's decline

An abyss of a downside syndrome unseen

A hallucinant, consuming, ugly dream

The darkness enfolds and all thoughts constraints

Until only the remnants of thought remains

From the mirrors of the soul no visual scene

There is only the introverted hallucinant dream

Here in the depth of this all-consuming well

Is the tormented frustration and hopelessness Called hell.

Jack Arthur, Darlington

THOUGHTS

So much can be written,

On a blank page,

A ball of wool with kitten,

Or birds within a cage.

Close your eyes and see places,

Built long before our time.

In a coal fire see faces

Of people in their prime.

Imagination creates magic,

Read of Merlin's wondrous power,

Solomon's wisdom was not a trick,

And leaning Pisa, still a tower.

Thinking clearly brings a smile,

Thought makes life worthwile.

Alfred Smirk, Darlington

A MUSICAL EVENING

I went to see a concert

At the Dolphin Centre.

A big band and a string orchestra

Playing together in harmony

A solo singer and a choir

Sang great, in sweet melody.

Three cheers for these young people,

Who worked so hard

For our entertainment,

They deserve every praise

For giving us three hours

Of pure enjoyment.

Emma Thomas, Darlington

MY KIND OF TOWN

Take a walk in Spennymoor

Do not take it for granted

In this little town of ours

Please throw your litter where stated.

Let's keep it tidy and smart to the eye

For local residents and casual passers-by.

We have a wide and safe road

Nice shops and cafes too

Lots of free parking and an easy route straight through.

The park is quite spectacular

All glowing with coloured flowers

Lovely tall trees and shrubs

There for you to spend a happy hour.

It's an easy-going place, I guarantee,

Meet a friend, have a chat

Buy your bread and milk and all that

And still get home in time for tea.

Elizabeth Sayers, Spennymoor

HELLO AGAIN

I haven't had a poem in the Echo

For a while, so I thought I'd write

A note to see if I was bottom Of the pile.

They must have their work cut out

Of that there is no doubt,

Deciding what to print each week

And what it's all about.

Mine are about different things

Of everyday affairs,

From cooking, dress and make-up

And when to shave your hairs.

Now shaving off the leg hairs

Is a very tricky thing

Cos one slip of the razor

Can cause ambulance bells to ring.

And peeling all that wax off

Oh my God, it hurts.

It's like a torture chamber

And you're tugging at your shirts.

Well, folks, there's not much more to

Write about at this moment in time,

So when you're waxing, just you shout

It's neither reason nor rhyme.

Betty Watt, Durham

THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE MUST BE SAVED

I remember the day they sent me away,

Haversack strapped on my back, four foot eight, older boys

New shirt and tie, no time to cry,

And boots so clean, my parents' dream.

Three pence in hand, it felt so bland, ask for Eden theatre.

On split-screen bus, not Bellerby's,

What's all the fuss?

And walk to meet your teenage years.

A brand new school, nobody's fool.

And listen to their golden rule.

The grand old house in pristine prime

And Gothic gates that sealed our fates

A brave new world,

The grammar school.

Nerves like steel, they had to be,

Because this would be my destiny.

My friend Stan and tunes so loud,

Mud and Sweet in '73.

Three blocks of school, it wasn't cool,

Across the field to sit and read.

The tuck shop in the middle block,

You walked for miles, then out of luck.

And then at last the school bell rang,

Kids running out, the way they shout.

The Coundon gang fighting with the Woodhouse clan

On Oks and Eden to take us home.

We had to face the world alone.

Paul Evans, Shildon

NATAL 1947

To the south of Durham City

In a valley, by a rill

Lies a quiet, little hamlet,

Not a mile from Sherburn Hill.

It's the perfect, peaceful village:

Just one pub, the church, the farm

And a dearth of motor traffic

Accentuates the rural charm.

In a modest general dealer's,

On the corner of the green

Sits a cat beside a window

Looking snooty, yet serene.

In this sleepy, sylvan setting

You would scarcely see a soul:

Early morning until evening

It's deserted on the whole.

Although nothing much exciting

Every happens here, it's true,

On the rare (these days) occasions

When I have to travel through

This bucolic old backwater,

I can sense my feelings torn

For this hamlet's name is Shadforth

And it's the place where I was born.

Ken Orton, Ferryhill Station, Co Durham

MADELEINE

If you go away on holiday

Keep a look-out, if you can

For missing little five-year-old Madeleine McCann.

Stolen from her bed one night

While she was fast asleep

And now a silent vigil

The world and her parents keep.

Is she somewhere, safe and warm,

Or lonely, afraid and sad?

Is she missing her brother and sister,

Does she cry for mum and dad?

When you have a quiet moment Say a prayer, if you can

For the early and safe return of Little Madeleine McCann.

Val Patterson, Brandon, Co Durham

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