Your poems

Holly our treasured Westie

A curly white loving pet,

Who goes into near hysteria

When visiting our vet.

She always smiles to greet you

Fusses to such a degree.

You would think you'd been away

Not hours, weeks, maybe three.

She really loves her holidays

So excited, like a child.

New furry friends to meet

She greets so meek and mild.

She loves to chase Lucy

who hides behind the door.

Holly waiting patiently

Ready for that paw.

She adores our grandchildren

Who still put shoes out of reach,

Remembering her puppy days

Their shoes a chewed-up heap.

The time I love the best

Is curled up on the settee,

She rests her head on my arm

And snuggles on my knee.

Nanette Hamper, Leyburn.

Our Mother

Our mother is 79-years-old

Worked hard all her life,

Bringing up three children,

Been a mother and a wife.

No automatic washer,

Microwave or electric kettle,

Only a black leaded stove,

On which our meals she'd fettle.

Pots, pans everywhere

Panhaggaty in the oven,

Mother setting the table,

Keeping an eye on the Yorkshire pudding.

Dripping tin out the oven,

Panhaggaty on the plate,

Where's Yorkshire pudding, mother

Ya knaw we cannot wait.

Father reading The Northern Echo,

After his hard day,

But not me poor mother

Putting things away.

After we had our teas,

Off we would go to play,

Skippy ropes tops and whips

My, what a day.

Then we would hear her voice,

"Margaret, Joan, John",

It was me mother calling,

Six o'clock had gone.

Six o'clock was bath time,

Jam and bread for supper,

Off to bed we go now,

Me, my sister and brother.

We all are in bed now,

Tucked up under cover,

But before we go to sleep

We say a prayer for mother.

So love your mother now kids

Each and every day,

Because you never get another chance

When she's beneath the clay.

Margaret Robinson, Ushaw Moor, Durham.

Why?

A desperate situation

Where waters flow at speed

A crossing over rivers

Where teachers take the lead.

A desperate situation

As two children are swept away

Whilst friends look on in anguish

Their faces reveal dismay.

We often question why

An event like this takes place

So young, alive and innocent

An inconsolable waste.

But we must all seek comfort

And learn from this mistake

Despite our disbelief

That life so young's at stake.

The parents' lives are shattered

The teachers bear the shame

The public cringe with sadness

But no one takes full blame.

Although we have no answers

We pray for the bereaved

We hope their lives are happy

Once they're allowed to grieve.

V Harrison, Barningham.

Bess

She sat there

Head on one side,

Gazing up high

Eyes open wide.

Bolt upright,

Awake and alert,

Ready to run

To put on a spurt.

What was she looking at?

On top of a wall,

Why just a small cat

Out of reach of us all.

She was Bess, a wee pup

Poised like a statue

There gazing up,

She was all black

With a white diamond under her chin,

Waiting to play,

But the cat would win!

She had to abandon

This fantasy

And walk to the shop

With Robin and me.

How boring, what a let down,

Yet she trotted along,

Seeming quite happy

As if dancing in song.

A real perky pup

A joy just to know

Gamboling about

Eyes sparkling, aglow.

She tugged at my slippers

And chewed on a glove

Then fell fast asleep,

Just a bundle of love.

So I asked God to bless

My silky black friend,

A puppy called Bess.

Elizabeth Tomlinson, Richmond.

Bewitching Night

One night a year,

I am allowed to roam,

To play ghostly tricks,

A warning - stay at home.

A weird apparition - lightning,

A vacuum in the sky,

It could be immaterial me,

As I flash fictitiously by.

My frenzied crazy laugh,

Will have you petrified, screaming,

As I fly my magic broomstick,

Tatty fluorescent hair, streaming.

Do I mean you harm?

Is it all good fun?

Scared, uncertain, doubtful,

Then you'd better run.

A spectre might tug your hair,

A phantom pinch your cheek,

A shadow pop round the corner,

To play spooky hide and seek.

Beware to the courageously foolish,

Bewail the stupidly brave,

For on this unearthly night,

The sane go mad and rave.

Wailing, moaning, supernatural,

Mystical, genial, mean.

Hallucination, strange feelings,

Fear of seeing the unseen,

Are unexplainable fantasies

You'll encounter on Hallowe'en.

Mary Bell, Easington Colliery.

The Last Waltz With You

We weren't at the Oxford Galleries

Nor the Ballroom in Blackpool Tower,

Our dance floor was about one metre square

Even that took all our will power.

Frank Wappat supplies the music we like

As we join in his dance and song,

When I say "We", that's my wife and I

In case you get things wrong.

Our dances last a minute or two

Then we sit a while to rest,

The years are getting the better of us

Of course, we are past our best.

The last dance we had was three months ago,

Many's the slip betwixt cup and lip,

She fell from the chair the very next day.

What happened? She broke her hip.

That was the fault of osteoporosis

And five years of Alzheimer's disease,

While my complaints are vertigo

Plus a couple of arthritic knees.

If you read this on Monday morning,

Don't think we are down in the dumps,

Life would be so monotonous

Without its hiccups and bumps.

Of course, we would rather be fit and well

What you get you have to make do,

On her last birthday she was 78

Alas, I was 82.

So I'm glad we had those few dances

As I finish my story at last

We don't look too far to the future

But we enjoy looking into the past.

Bill Gething, Kelloe.

Reprieve VM

I don't BELIEVE it! Surely not?

Please tell me it's not true.

Of all the people on 'the Box'

How could they murder you?

There are so many others who'd

Not be so sorely missed _

All those chefs, Ben Elton too,

I could make quite a list.

Pension off old Brucie and

Dispense with Cilla Black,

Send Loyd Grossman into space

And never bring him back.

They're all so depressing but,

Old friend, you cheer me so.

Fight back, Victor Meldrew - tell them

That you just won't go.

William Nicholson, Shildon.

A Town Called Darlington

Busy streets with busy people

People who are young and old

Darlingtonians, so I'm told.

I don't come from here, you see

A Yorkshire lass, that's me.

I came to Darlington years ago

And just don't want to seem to go.

It's Christmas time once again

And that is why I'm getting out the pen,

To tell you all about this town

And the people who never let your down,

Shops are lit up with dazzling lights

And there's late shopping on some nights.

Children happy, jumping, skipping.

"Can I ride on that please dad?"

"Oh go on," the man says. "Let the lad."

Tills are clicking there's happy shopping

And men into the pubs are popping.

Have pint and settle yourself

The wife's all right by herself

She'll spend my money, do her bit

She's bound to get rid of all of it.

There's so much to see and do,

Oh look, there's Annie and Hugh

They're here on a day trip, what a surprise

They just can't believe their eyes.

The tree is up with lights and trimmings

Father Christmas and coloured ribbons.

There's a market in this town, you know

And twice a week the shoppers go,

Wind, rain, hail or snow

To see what bargains are on the go.

Brenda Wallace, Darlington.

Pride

There is no pride in the world today

all it is speed, rest and play.

The working man does not give a damn,

as long as he has plenty in his hand,

So he can buy plenty of beer,

for all the girls and lots of cheer.

Pride in work is no go,

that would mean he'd have to go slow,

that is no good for piecework, though.

The more you do the more they pay,

so why go slow, that won't help my pay.

So to hell with making a smart job,

that won't get me a few more bob.

You can stick your pride for all it's worth

I'm a lot better off here on earth

just to fulfill my boss's need

And, of course, his greed.

William Greaves, Thirsk.

The Birth of Time

It's in the air, it's upon the ground

Wherever you go it will be found.

It passes by like tops that seem

To spin in sleep, or dance in dream.

It is not yours, nor is it mine,

The wonder and mystique of the birth of time.

It is still here, and yet it's gone,

They say like the tide, it waits for no one.

It moves ever forward, never back.

We know not why, this knowledge we lack.

It is something we cannot see, ape or mime

Oh, where was I at the birth of time.

It's present at times of sorrow and love.

Ever enveloping us, like a giant glove

It passed us by yesterday as it will today.

It passes us by as we work, rest and play.

We are told to save it, to waste it is a crime

Oh, where were you at the birth of time?

In terms of time our lives are but short.

But the treasures of life can never be bought.

The yardstick of success for me and for you

Will surely be measured by the good which we do.

So let it be recorded by word and by rhyme

How great is he, who created the birth of time.

Frank Watson, Barnard Castle.