SURPRISE, SURPRISE!

A gentleman sat down to dine

At a famous restaurant.

His head was bald, his face was pale

and his features rather gaunt.

He ordered an expensive meal,

One fit for royalty,

And finished off his fine repast

With a pot of Earl Grey tea.

The waiter handed him the bill

He looked and it and sighed

You know, he said, with what I've got

I really should have tried

To exercise more self restraint.

I should have had more sense.

The waiter said, What HAVE you got?

The man said, Twenty pence!

Bill Cooksey, Newton Aycliffe

PEACE

The summer fields were gay and bright with buttercups and celandine.

The cowslip sweetness on the air was heady as a costly wine.

On mossy bank I took my ease and made a daisy chain.

As did I when I was a child, relived a moment once again.

In reverie I made a crown and slipped it on my head.

And Oh! Sweet Jesus, suddenly it seemed the flowers bled.

The summer garland changed to thorns, I felt a peace supreme.

I shared your resurrection as in a living dream.

The birds that carolled gaily became angelic choirs.

And the song was one the Angels sang to lilting golden lyres.

You took my hand and led me through pastures fair and green.

Soft was your touch as velvet as we reached the crystal stream.

Oh! Take me to the other side my soul enraptured yearned.

"Not yet! Not yet, its not time" a sweet voice returned.

On the soft couch mossy green I waked as from a dream.

I lingered long in ecstasy on where my soul had been.

I lifted off my daisy crown, 'twas as a jewelled halo rare.

I took each flower in my hand and saw the face of Jesus there.

And never have they fade for I pressed each precious bloom.

'Twixt the page of God's holy book, the Bible in my room.

A garland of holy promises, of final victory.

The love my precious Jesus promises for me.

Fran Vincent, Skeeby, Richmond.

HIGH FORCE

At the finest waterfall in the land,

Is where I love to be.

Alone and quietly musing,

Admiring God's majesty.

The beauty of upper Teesdale,

Where the river roars on its way;

Dropping with deafening tumult.

I could stand and watch all day.

Seventy feet over Great Whin Sill.

Foaming and crashing down.

Towering trees on either side

With High Force,

the jewel in the crown.

Wild flowers... and birds in abundance;

Wind in hair, spray carried along.

Awe inspiring scene, my favourite.

We visitors can't all be wrong.

David Jasper

No address supplied

OUR FATHER'S ARMS ARE STRONG

I watched my little granddaughter.

Fall into her daddy's arms.

She had no doubt twas safe

Could never cause her harm.

For her trust was total.

Knowing he would hold her tight.

Never let her fall

Cos she is his delight.

For her Daddy loves her

So very, very much

And she feels secure

Within this gentle touch.

So God is our Father,

His arms are always there,

So let's place our faith in Him

And trust his loving care.

Elizabeth Tomlinson, Richmond.

TO DESTROY NATURE

What a way to treat a flower or a tree,

I was walking my dog on the 24/5/2001,

And there lying on the path were some Daffodil heads,

Now what enjoyment can there be, To destroy a flower, it beats me, What an enormous thrill it must be,

To destroy a flower like me,

To slip one finger on either side,

And pull as you go walking by,

Then just drop it on the ground

And not make any other sound.

These will not be bobbing any more, like they do beside the lake beneath the trees,

Bobbing and dancing in the breeze,

By W Wordsworth, I wandered lonely as a cloud,

And a Roan tree I planted on my dogs' graves,

They do not look happy any more,

The branches were broken, just lying on the floor,

The tree is trying once more,

they are just little twigs now,

It is a bonny tree with white blossoms in the spring,

And bright red berries in autumn,

I do not know what they teach them at school,

this higher education must have forgotten the golden rules,

I know there is no discipline any more,

People spend hours in their gardens,

Trying to make a good show,

And these nuts come along,

It is go man go, there are the flowers out on the road,

They have not got the brains of a toad.

W Greaves, Thirsk

LUCKY

I am Lucky a little calf,

I have lost my Maaam,

I am left here all alone,

I want to go to a new home,

This Farmer does not care about me,

He did this for the publicity,

To say that he did not know that I was due,

I don't believe that, do you,

He should have records, don't you see,

He should have known within a few hours,

Of when I was due,

That does not say much for modern technology,

Please someone give me anew home, I feel so all alone,

With no other stock to wander round,

And there is no other sound,

Only me bawling for my Maaam.

W Greaves, Thirsk.

A LONG LINE

One long line of little ducks,

Going across St James' Green,

I thought they were heading for the river,

But they were not they are still around,

They were born in the chapel grounds,

There is one or two batches every year,

This was eleven little ducks,

All in single file, following their mum,

But the other afternoon,

They were all laid out in the sun,

Of cause with their mum,

She was standing guard.

W Greaves, Thirsk

THE WEAKEST LINK

Tormented, attacks your ability to do

Humiliated, knows how to embarrass you

Expected to leave without a penny to your name

Work for absolutely nothing, that is shame

Exit as runner up, or the first to go

Evil eyes, drain blood from you, at your failed conquest

Save the best till last, try to keep your nose clean

Time to vote off, now lets show some understanding

Lets not get excited, you could look quite a drip

Intimidating host, starting to crack the whip

Nearing the end, stakes beginning to get quite high

Keep all the teams takings, or time to say goodbye.

John Neal, Chester le Street.

OVER THE HILLS

When I looked up

From the water-meadows,

By the river, under the rolling,

Lakeland hills near Sedbergh,

I'd watch the sheep.

Like cotton wool balls, wafting,

Across the greenness of the slopes,

Like a polka-dot bandanna

Against azure cirrus skies.

At a distance,

They seemed like maggots,

Munching up the hills,

But sadly now, the maggots,

Are eating up our sheepies.

And the hills are silent,

Except for the crows,

Chewing out their eyes,

Like a gorging of,

Shellfish on the sea shore.

Nick Potter, Hackney, London.