The Monday poem

Geordie bought a budgerigar

Guaranteed to talk,

But all it did was sit on its perch

And squawk, squawk, squawk.

By the end of a day or two

The noise was driving him crazy,

For all it looked like a nice little thing

He was told it was probably lazy.

So off he went to the budgie shop

And bought it a little ladder,

It could climb up and down for exercise

But that made the bird even madder.

Down to the shop he went again,

This time for a mirror and bell.

He'd wasted his money, for those didn't work,

What more could the budgie man sell?

So this he asked the manager

Saying it was beyond a joke,

Had he bought a budgie

Or was it a pig in a poke?

"Give it time to get used to things."

That was all he got for advice,

But sitting listening to that noise all day

Wasn't what you'd call "very nice".

One morning after a fortnight or so

He told them the bird had died.

After all the money he'd spent on it

He could have sat down and cried.

They asked if it spoke before it passed on,

Geordie told them it spoke quite plain.

It said: "Ask if they'd heard of budgie seed"

If he went to the shop again.

B Gething, Kelloe.

The Merchant Men

When Britain stood with her back to the wall,

And the world looked on expecting her fall.

When she hadn't a tank or even a gun,

Not a weapon to meet the on-rushing Hun,

Who brought her good succour from near and far,

And carried the tools and sinews of war?

'Twas her sons of the sea who saved the day,

Those thrice gallant men, so fearless and gay.

Who battled the sub in the black of night,

Who worsted the Huns in many a fight?

Who convoyed the goods to every front,

Braved every danger and bore the full brunt?

Froze in the Arctic - strived on the sea,

Who died in their thousands that we may be free?

No thought for themselves when grim death was seen,

They died at their post, did the merchant navy.

When D Day dawned over Normandy shore,

Who took the troops there and went back for more?

Manned the armada that sailed on "H" hour,

And ferried the army that struck with such power.

Who proved their proud title - the bravest - the best,

"Fourth arm of the service" - good as the rest?

The great Merchant Navy - no better there's been,

The war's greatest heroes - the merchant navy.

B Doyle, Hartlepool.

Dem Dry Bones

Me doctor say, me heart am fine

For a gentleman of sixty-nine.

Me doctor say, me heart am strong;

There's absolutely nothing wrong.

Me heart am brave, me heart am bold.

She shows no signs of growing old.

Me heart, she pumpin' loud and long;

Me heart, she sing a happy song.

Me heart, she bring me joy untold.

She always warm; she never cold.

Me loyal heart am stout and true.

Me heart am gay; she never blue.

No need to worry, no need to care:

Me faithful heart will get me there.

I know I'll reach me century

In two thousand and thirty-three.

Yes! Me heart am fit and no mistake:

It's just be bleedin' bones that ache.

LP Brighton, Darlington.

Memories of Stanley

The Front Street stands deserted, all dreary and forlorn

Can this have really happened to the town where I was born?

The peeling paint on empty shops, their windows grim and bare

Is this the price we've paid for progress, in this street of dark despair?

The Co-operative store stretched halfway down the street

Where you could buy most anything from furniture to meat.

And the glorious excitement when, at the quarter's end

We queued outside the old Co-op Hall to draw our dividend.

The Old Vic and the Palais, what memories they recall

The "Piv" and Trotter's Ballroom and the dear Old Albert Hall.

The Wesleyan Church with lofty spire that towered above the street

Now sadly levelled to the ground, just dust beneath our feet.

The Carnivals that once took place, the jazz bands, what a scene

With Georgie Ford dressed as a Fairy Queen.

The Beamish Busbys, Dipton Chinks, the No Place Nobblers too

All marched in step down Front Street to the sound of the Kazoo.

And Shimelds store with windows bright, what elegance and grace

Silk stockings, fancy garters, and knickers trimmed with lace.

The smell of coffee, roasted fresh from Old Dale Brothers shop

And opposite, beneath the arch, the hard up used to 'pop'.

Beside Brough's shop each Friday night, the Sally Army played

They blew their bugles, banged their drums, and marched in grand parade.

The Christmas lights all shining down, with their multi-coloured rays

Make an even bigger mockery of this town in happier days.

All gone. alas, blown by the wind, and all that's left are dreams

Of a once proud street now laid in ruins by the planners and their dreams.

L Storey, Stanley.

Dot Com Pattie

Here is the place from where I sit,

From here and as far as the eye can see,

I survey all before me,

Especially my friend Pattie.

Beneath this desk my feet,

Bottom sat sitting upon my seat,

Computer, hardware, software, going nowhere,

While purring, wires searching the super highway,

But not going my way.

My girlfriend she's just a Database,

She wears Microsoft Access and lies upon spreadsheets

and IBM power points are the features on her face.

Even her clock has a computer tick tock

and linked to the routine of each and every day,

I type, I'm your suitor, but you're just a computer

and you fancy Reginald microwave anyway.

Your legs are the table and hair all the cable,

Your bark is worse than your Mega-bite

and at the end of my day your files tucked away,

I kiss you and turn out the light.

Goodnight.

J James, Belmont.

Phoenix

Still winter, mid-winter,

Still cushions of snow

Crouch in brackened hedgerow

Deep freeze world, reluctant to thaw.

Still winter, mid-winter,

Still a huddle of beast

Hungrily crowd, three deep,

Round troughs of winter feed.

Still winter, mid-winter,

Still trees, brittle bare,

Dare not yet expose their

Green buds to fickle January air.

Still winter, mid-winter,

But now arrives a day of days,

White sun defeats the morning haze,

And suddenly meadows are streamed with shadows,

And sun-light falls on fertile furrows,

Black earth turns brown in expectation,

New seeds of hope, regeneration,

On every farm anticipation,

Let such a day be confirmation,

That last year's bitter harvest

Has burned, is buried and laid to rest.

J Yuill, Norton.