Golden Wedding

It's 50 years ago today

Since Minnie was a radiant bride,

With her handsome husband Ernie

Standing at her side.

They have had their ups and downs now,

And even little rows,

But they are still together,

And remember their wedding vows.

I wish them much happiness,

On this golden occasion,

To both of them, their family,

And their celebration.

When the years roll on,

As they surely must,

Put your faith in the Lord,

And all your trust.

For your health and happiness,

I do humbly pray,

That you will live very happily,

To your Diamond Wedding day.

I will close my little poem now,

And all my love I send,

God bless Ernie,

And Minnie, my best friend.

Margaret Robinson, Ushaw Moor.

Butterflies Of The Sky

Butterflies, flying gracefully around,

Landing on flowers,

Feeding on nectar, honey sweet

Butterflies all around.

Flight of the butterflies

Many with instant colour,

Dancing here and there,

Over their favourite flowers.

With delicate, pretty angel wings,

Brightening up our gardens.

With the warm heat of the sun,

Our many butterflies of the sky.

Red Admirals and Cabbage White,

Clouds of red and white.

Coming down to nest and feed,

So dainty, our wonderful butterfly.

Michael Clarence, Peterlee.

The Widower

I know he has an unseen sorrow

Sapping the surface of life;

Soft words anointing the pillow,

A husband thanking his wife.

Offering all in a heartbeat,

Through love that endures yet dies.

Illumination and darkness

Implode with submerging eyes.

The final ascent endears him,

To climb 'til the sky's no more,

In search of her face approaching,

Guiding him upwards to soar.

David Coates, Shildon.

Days Gone By

The milkman's horse, Ned

Was a lovely beast.

On stale bread

It loved to feast.

With head firmly in the door

Its big brown eyes

Would plead for more.

The milkman would say:

"Come out Ned, there's

no more.

"Try your luck on the

Folks next door."

With a rattle of bottles

And a clip-clop of hooves,

Dear old Ned knew all the

moves.

An apple here,

A crust of stale bread there.

Old Ned was known everywhere.

But now, the days of

Horse and carts have gone.

And you know now

What the milk comes on.

So when out walking

Down a country lane

Take a crust of old stale

bread again.

When, over the hedge

Comes a horse's head, that

could be dear old Ned.

Don't bother your head,

Just give it that crust

Of old stale bread.

Walter Sinclair, Darlington.

Fragile Beauty

Fluttering lightly on the breeze

Your fragile beauty puts one at ease.

Your delicate colours catch the eye.

I like to see the butterfly.

Your gentle growth took many an hour

Now you fly from flower to flower.

You give to nature a wonderful charm.

Do keep away from things that harm.

The speeding traffic flashes by.

Fragile too, so am I.

In its own time and space.

Fragile beauty must have its place.

Thomas Conlon, Kirk Merrington, Spennymoor.

My Holiday

I'll not go where the others go,

I'll not go there at all, at all.

For I'll go where no others go,

Where storm clouds form and wild winds blow

And lonely sea birds call.

Where streams of dancing waters flow,

From darkening hills, whose cloudy pall.

Hides scenes that only rare birds know,

And rainbows cast a lambent glow

O'er many a waterfall.

Where fretful seas e'er shrink and grow,

With tides full swept from Neptune's hall.

Where curling waves their foam crests throw,

On sand that's white as any snow

And solitude rules all.

I'll not go where the others go,

I'll not go there at all, at all.

But will I tell you where I'll go?

Oh no!

Jean Collins, Goathland, Whitby.

The Cruel North Sea

Opponents, foes, enemies beware,

The sea is our mighty defence.

Deep, wide, sweeping forever,

Stretching for miles in the distance.

Laughing and paddling in the water,

Our children play happily by the shore.

The sea, so peaceful, calm and serene,

What more could we mortals ask for.

Lulled by the soft tune of the waves,

Grown-ups basking on the sands.

Marvel at the beauty of this scene,

Painted by the Great Artist's hands.

An angler relaxing away from his work,

Breathes in air, heavy with ozone and brine.

Watching white horses riding on waves,

Dreaming they hold a catch for his line.

Turquoise blue, sea green and white,

Silver-forked lightning and golden sunbeam.

Thunder like grey, inky pitch black,

Colours mixed together in a well planned scheme.

The sea changes now to a mirror,

Reflecting the erratic mood of the sky.

Who calls on the winds and the gales,

To lift strong waves mountains high.

A wave as big as a skyscraper,

Crashes cruelly down on a ship.

Friend or enemy, this wicked North Sea,

Has the destiny of seafarers in its grip.

The children screaming are dragged to their death,

The angler, strong, fearless and brave.

Fights in vain with the undercurrent,

And they all share the same watery grave.

In the twinkling of a blinding eye,

The water is calm, flat and bland.

It's battered our shores and bereaved us,

The sea that defended our land.

Be warned and heed well,

One minute a friend, then foe to you and me.

Fear, dread, respect and admire,

Never forget it is the cruel sea.

Mary Bell, Easington Colliery.