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Today I’m posting a new poem by Sylvia Anne Jones. Sylvia uses great descriptive language and similes to create vivid pictures – 17/04/2024
Little Crocodile
They sit side by side in leather chairs
their heads bent over a picture book
two generations between them,
today they are joined by words.
He is watching her mouth moving
searching among the shapes it makes
hearing faintly the youth in her voice,
and although she does not stumble
they have fallen together, into the story.
He looks at the colourful pages,
traces with a finger, a picture of
a little crocodile, a lost purse found,
a cowboy hat, some golden coins.
He walks inside this world as she
guides him along an unknown path
connecting things, gathering them up,
giving them to him, like a gift.
Later he tells the story
to the ladies who sit at his table
and the girl who brings them tea
his words falling between blank white china
and the cheerful chatter of silver spoons.
A new light shines in his old grey eyes
from simple unexpected joy.
He has few details left of a distant life
but today he has new memories,
a picture of a little crocodile,
and the youth in the voice of a child.
(c) Sylvia Anne Jones
This week we have two new poems from Eileen Earnshaw, both of which are very potent and well worth reading – 10/04/2024
The Funeral
There was no actual invitation.
None of the pseudo-victorian drama
of black-edged card, emotive words.
Notification was digital, face-book,
my friend was dead. Planned visits need
not take place. Once again, too late.
I wore blue, I often do, blue
the colour of woad, of defiant Celts,
darkening skies, nights and lost battles.
The church, chasm of cold dressed stone.
We sang folk songs as hymns.
Hoped the ending would be soon
before Jesus entered our hearts
his religion corrode our thoughts.
Later, we ate, talked of her,
laughed at remembered situations,
of alcohol, and silliness. I cried for hours,
wondered who I was crying for.
(c) Eileen Earnshaw
Eileen’s second poem is a powerful commentary on our current state in the UK brought to a very personal level.
The Supermarket Queue
The supermarket queue grows longer and longer,
The coins in her pocket grow smaller and smaller.
A last look at the ‘reduced to clear’ shelf,
planning a meal from out- of-date sausage,
strawberry yoghourt and cheap oven chips.
Stacked by the checkout are packets of sweets
£1 for one, buy two, get one free.
The kids can both read, eyes fill with hope,
they don’t say a word, they’ve been taught better.
just watch as she fingers the coins in her pocket.
Here’s a fifty pence piece, oh great, here’s another.
Is this a ten or is it a two? With luck it’s a ten, her
fingertips measure the weight of the coins,
sensitive now to the head of the queen,
the rampant lion engraving.
Don’t take risks, stand in the queue, chin up
try and look confident. Usher the kids through
the checkout soft handed. Only half what you need,
but what can you do? Stand in the queue with
a heart full of dread and a backbone so straight
It simulates steel.
(C) Eileen Earnshaw.
I wrote this poem following an inspirational workshop in Halifax led by Ian Humphries and organised by Northern Broadsides. I am enjoying writing about nature, about time, and about things that we do not (and perhaps don’t need to) understand…. 03/04/2024
Becoming Time
I became a shining stream,
glistening and rippling,
around moss-covered stones.
I became the stones,
sedentary pebbles, rooted
in a bed of rock.
I became the bedrock,
the foundations;
underpinning the world.
I travelled back,
billions of years.
I became time itself.
(c) Seamus Kelly
Eileen has sent this new poem for the website, an engaging piece full of images and memories:
There should be nothing here I don’t remember
There should be nothing here I don’t remember
the fair, helter skeltering down the hill
the music, excited voices,
the smells, chips and ‘tator pie,
clouds of sweat and vinegar.
Here were brick built houses,
outside lav’s, back yards, washing lines
sporting overalls, startling white nappies
and Geraniums, flags of colour
teetering on windowsills.
Hopscotch patterned on pavements
Small girls balanced on one leg,
stones landing safe on number nine.
cricket stumps chalked on walls
my brother slow bowling,
his ball, wet newspaper tied with string.
I should be standing at the crease,
Skirt tucked into navy knickers,
the bat held tight into my body,
Hoping he doesn’t break my glasses.
My mum should be leaning out the back gate
her eyes missing nothing.
Not even the missing buckle
on my sandal.
There should be nothing here I don’t remember.
(c) Eileen Earnshaw
The latest addition here from Ray Stearn weaves together some well used cliches into a new piece of work, deliberately using cliche for comic effect:
Last Night I Stole a Wish
Last night I stole a wish
I caught a falling star
put it in my pocket
wanting to save it
for a rainy day
but the star soon fell
from Number One in the charts
my wish cracked and burned
an unwanted satellite
destroyed on re-entry
never mind
Tomorrow
I shall catch a leprechaun
by his heel
(c) Ray Stearn
Ray Stearn has submitted the following poem titled “Time”. Ray often writes poetry with a strong comic element and is very experienced working with children and storytelling, having previously worked as a specialist children’s librarian.
Time
Yesterday, upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today,
oh how I wish he’d go away.
I think he’s back, it’s hard to say.
I thought that he had gone away.
His face, I think, just rang a bell,
he’s come to take me off to hell.
Tomorrow I’ll refuse to go,
tell him to find another, though
he has a point, though never spoke.
I hardly even know the bloke.
The future’s bright for all to see.
I wonder why he picked on me?
He wasn’t there again today,
please, oh please, just stay away
(c) Ray Stearn
Our first sample poem comes from Joanne Wood, inspired by a recent workshop at Riverside:
In Defence of a Small Town
The Rochdale rain, seems to be always here,
Bringing the miserable atmosphere.
The news is announced, Why is it always bad?
Telling stories that are so sad.
Yet I know, another story of this place,
And all it contributed to the human race.
Stories of politicians, like John Bright,
A cotton industrialist, bringing employment through the day and night.
Who influenced others across the land,
Like Abraham Lincon, who took the American stand.
Instead its Cyril Smith and George Galloway,
Is there no-one else who can represent us today?
We stood for what was wrong and right,
The slavery of cotton pickers and their plight.
But then trafficked young girls, and took advantage of youth,
But that was the small minority that were so uncouth.
We have shoplifters, who just have an entitled view,
I feel like shouting, ‘WE INVENTED THE CO-OP TO HELP YOU’
We are so much more, of just bad news,
All this negative talk, just brings the blues.
So let's look at our foundations and what we are built on,
No one can rob you from the past and all that's gone.
Our identity is in the footsteps of who has gone before,
The family and friends of Rochdale folk we know.
Those who dared to build a grand town hall,
Who brought, railways, canals, trams, would stay small.
Who worked hard and wouldn’t settle for less,
Cleaned up the town, renovated, tidied up the mess.
Lets stop and think, look to all we’ve achieved,
The widest bridge over a river, the biggest pancakes,
the Guinness book of records received.
So, no donkey rides, or a fishing harbour we own,
Instead concentrate on what we can do and how we have grown.
The Rochdale rain isn’t really so bad,
In fact when I look around it makes me glad!
(c) Joanne Wood