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Halloween The moon was full it was the night of Halloween All through the streets children are seen Scarily dressed for the night of the witches Bats, toads and spiders appear from the ditches. Laughter and screams are heard from here and there From children having fun from harrowing scares It is the night of witches in long pointed hats Making spells in their cauldrons from frogs, toads and bats. Children hollow out their pumpkins to light up a fearsome face Warding off evil spirits as they walk from place to place Fancy dress and gory make up give most grownups a fright In their dimly lit doorways on that dark October night In the warmth of those doorways much happiness was found Children eating their treats till next year comes around It was the end of summer ,dark months lay ahead As happy children make their way home to snuggle up in their beds.
Thomas Hosker
Grass Cutting Day Sun had broken through the mist on a mild summer morning which promises a far hotter day The door is open and the grass outside still sparkles with a dew which fell much earlier. A machine starts up in the distance and buzzes like an angry bee. The council workman goes about his task of cutting the daisy strewn grass. Which will it be today? The push along or the sitting on machine? No matter, the job will get done either way. The sound comes nearer and the cats crouch motionless by the door, poised for flight from the noisy monster which is approaching. A flash of mingled white, tabby, ginger and they’re gone. The sound gets nearer, passes the door and dies away, only to return seconds later. Back and forth, back and forth, leaving behind mown grass in misshapen clumps about the lawn. (He has no basket you see.) At last it is finished and the noise recedes in the distance, Birdsong fills the air once more and the sun streams down from a cloudless sky. The air is sweet with the smell of mown grass and the cats creep back to their station by the door.
One, two, three, all there now. Is it safe to go out? Yes and off they go, running, sniffing and assessing the changes in their territory. I sit, coffee cup in hand, relishing the warmth, inhaling the fragrance, listening to the birdsong as life gets back to normal on grass cutting day.
June Barnes
Instructions It wasn’t quite the end we imagined for you, No tranquil ascent to the heavens above, No heralding angels to escort you there, No peaceful acceptance, no tearful farewells, No requests or last wishes to fulfill. It wasn’t your way, you were always a fighter, You’d face any challenge—not easily give in, Determined and strong, you’d see the job through, Meeting good times and bad with equal good grace, Keeping your sense of fair play and humour.
Teasers Folk who cut off t’s are teasing Listen to what they utter: Why do you have second best? You know it’s better with butter. Then they say, “I’ll see you ’amorrow,” When it’s tomorrow they mean. They just can’t lose letters here and there Ignoring how important they have been. They are trying to impose a change, In order to baffle their peers, But while us older people exist, Our language should last a few years. Change is sure to happen, of that there is no doubt, New words will appear in the book, They’ll be pronounced in so many ways, You will not know how the crumble will cook.
John Wright
Oh, Feathered Friend
A bird sat high up, on a fragile branch, Watching soldiers marching across his land. A somber coloured fellow, dressed in black, Who could not these moving figures understand. What were they doing in his calm domain? He thus looked down at them with some disBut now you’re at peace leaving so many mem- dain. ories He seemed to emphasise their coming gloom, Of a life so well lived and loved by so many, The terror and deaths of lads so bold. If you’d left us instructions they’d probably As if he knew what we could not yet know, say: “Be honest and brave, stick up for what’s right, How men survived the horror and the cold, Be tolerant and kind and follow your dreams.” This forlorn soul, with coat smooth and sleek, P. Stevenson Stood chirping from his yellow coloured beak. The imagination of Oh, feathered friend, look not to see them go, For their adventures are not reserved for you. children They travel on to things you know not of, In the imagination of children Of agony and fear you have no clue. all the flowers are smiling Their world is not your world, they had to go, the butterflies are talking Along with comrades, off to fight the foe. as the bees are beguiling. © Ernestine Northover The clouds look like animals any rain is God's tears Millennium Park / Cossall Pit their imagination is endless big hopes and little fears. As I stand alone in Millennium Park I hear the souls of the colliers who toiled in The grass is like a carpet the dark tickling their tiny feet I see the soft glow of lanterns and the shining all the worms in the soil of steel are like lost treasures underneath. I hear the gentle voices of anthems The swans are huge mad creatures As they queued by the wheel swimming with their young I smell the odour of ponies, the sweat and the eating all the old bread hay that both of us have flung. I smell the black of the coal that they fought Their imagination stays endless every day. they see what we once saw From Awsworth they came, just up the hill the confusion of the adult world Others from Ilson and some further still has not yet reached their door. Some marched together, and some came
© Steven Michael Pape
Little faces Whether you are happy, angry or sad, Emoticons can fill that space, If you have a letter, invitation or card, For each feeling there is a face. You can choose a red face for anger, For jealousy there’s green, For sorrow there’s a crying emoticon, The receiver will see what you mean, There’s even a ghost to scare, Thumbs up, kisses and not fair, Head scratch, wink and despair, Whatever your mood, it’s there.
John Wright
alone Pity the luckless who never went home. Now rotten the chocks, and gone are the beams That held the roof back as they slaved at the seams The land is now flattened, silent the steams Gone are the men, just the ghosts and their dreams. But look around you, all is not lost Six apple trees grow From the cores of their snap From which they were tossed.
Sandy
Terrified The terraced house of my infancy has disappeared Now bleak boxes stacked high serve as flats for invisible tenants. But I played in back yards, got dirty, used the outside toilet
with yesterday’s cold, hard newspapers put to more intimate use than reading… Tin bath-time was once a week in front of an open coal fire with one thin, small towel to dry myself. A trip to the local rec once a week if Grandma had the time and energy but mostly I’d play in the street seeing mothers walking with blackened bare feet. Now people say the terraced houses were slums but I don’t remember anyone calling them that when I was young! I’d like to go back to when the only thing that terrified me was being out shopping and losing sight of my mum.
Franklin Charles Bishop
Dyers beside the Leen The car-park is a small wood of elders, thistles and nettles. I stand at the chained gate and view the silence: the collapsed roof of the cycle shelter blocking the path beside the offices, small bushes in guttering, the lawns’ rank grass, sliding doors padlocked. Memories walk the dark corridors, talk in echoes recalling names: Len Brown the storeman, hard Baz Brown – no relation – who could empty a side-paddle of hose faster than anyone else, ‘Tant’ Rick, George, rolling reefers, his nostrils stained with snuff, and Audrey, who suddenly put on weight after working late one Saturday with Ron, the electrician; their daughter in her thirties now. Tomorrow a demolition team will arrive. I rest my head against the cold metal bars remember rabbits nesting in a sand-pit, a woman spread-eagled and floating face down in the Leen one cold morning at the end of a night-shift, the tears in the Chairman’s eyes as he said ‘Sorry’ his long handshake of goodbye.
Jeremy Duffield
Farm House This house was square red brick No frills or folderols here A work place as well as a home As dark red on inside as out Somehow set in the decades before Immoveable in my mind The socks wedged on string over dark smoky fire The table so large The clock ticking loud Flies congregate in the paraffin fumes Of my relative’s rural home.
Jeanne White
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Ilkeston Life, November 2016
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