Latest Poems

Afternoon Tea

The family is having afternoon tea oh what a jolly jape, we sit around the table eating crumpets and chocolate cake .
Mum, dad and grandad are discussing issues of the day , its all so very civilised and oh by the way, if we eat all our tea we may have time to play. Theres oh so many places to hide and pretend to be , cowboys , pirates, gangsters, i bet you cant find me. My sister searches high and low but seems too tired to look, she leaves me where im hiding and goes to read a book. Oh what fun these days are, no stress, no biills , no car, the time passes quickly when we visit my grandma. But all to soon its over and soon its time to be, heading back to Skipton after a family afternoon tea.                                                                                          By Chris Newport
               
Carry Shoulder Daddy
     
Carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. I’m getting very tired and I’m feeling all alone. So carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. Lift me when I’m little and I’ll lift you when you’re grown  
Down the nursery corridor just before the dawn, Small cries in the silence, small child newly born. Proud to be a father, tears well in his eyes, Lifts the bundle skyward, carried shoulder high.  Carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. I’m getting very tired and I’m feeling all alone. So carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. Lift me when I’m little and I’ll lift you when you’re grown.    
Round and round the garden, running now you’re three, Running from the big ones, climbing up the tree. Hiding ‘til the evening as the sun turns red, Gentle hands reach upwards, take you to your bed.     
Carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. I’m getting very tired and I’m feeling all alone. So carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. Lift me when I’m little and I’ll lift you when you’re grown.    
Running from the school room, read a book today! Rush to tell the father, meet him on the way., Walking from the factory, stops to lift you high, Grimy from his labour, lifts you to the sky.  
Carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. I can read and write now, now my work is done! So carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. Lift me now I’m little and I’ll lift you when I’m grown.  
Walking to the churchyard, woman dressed in white. All the children smiling, tearful at the sight. Years turn to a lifetime, weeks become an age, Days become sweet memories, on a faded page.  
Carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. I’m a father too now with burdens of my own. So carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. Lift mine for a little and I’ll lift you when you’re grown.  
Later at the churchyard cold and bitter morn, Rooks proclaim the sadness of the man’s first born. Mourners hide their sorrow, sorrow numbs the pain. He lifts the heavy burden as tears abound like rain. I’ll carry shoulder Daddy, I’ll carry shoulder home. I promised all my lifetime, that I’d carry Daddy home. I’ll carry shoulder Daddy, carry shoulder home. You were there when I was little, now I’ll carry Daddy home.  
By Jamie Kilner 
                  
Beauty of Yorkshire
 
Hills and vales carved by long lost rivers and icy fingered glaciers, sparkling streams and rocky shallows flowing past Alder shaded banks and daffodils in glorious profusion proclaim the coming of Spring to the dales.
A valley filled with swirling white mist where treetops float on an ethereal sea lapping at verdant, bejewelled and sun-kissed meadow lined shores, a magical and mystical scene and up above a lone curlew calls.
Vast and lonely windswept moorland, home of purple heather and stunted trees, habitat of grouse and tiger moth caterpillar, fens and bogs and hidden Roman roads; where grazing sheep and legendary ghosts and strange creatures roam.
Across the wolds to the coast, sandy beaches and cold North sea quaint red roofed villages that cling like limpets to crumbling cliffs weathering the ravages of storm and sea, defiant in the face of erosion.
Yorkshire is a treasury of historic cities and small market towns, picturesque coastal and inland villages surrounded by diverse and magnificent scenery, A county of exceptional beauty and a sparkling gem in Britain’s crown.    

Jackie S Brooks 11th September 2004  




1956. Swaledale :-It all happens on a threshing day. 
We was off to thresh one Thursday so I got up early daws, To get the milking over and to do the routine chores, I went in for mi' breakfast an hour afore ah should, Ah knew that it ud' be alright cos missis said ah could.  
Threshing box was in it's place set up on Wednesday night, By seven threshing crew'd be here to see it was alright, Then't lads from next door farm arrived, they came to help as well, Cos' when it was their turn to thresh we'd go give them a spell. 
At seven thirty on the dot all't men were fit to start, Pickers,forkers feeding man ready to take part, Corn carriers, straw men and chaff lad, waiting for the fray, It always was hard graft thou knows to do a threshing day.   It wor' fast approaching dinner time when Jack found a mouse nest, It wor' full of tiny pinkies so he thought he'd have a jest, He popped one in his pocket just to show his little lad, At nobbut turning three years old, it wor' first he'd ever had.   On threshing days it wor' tradition, that we all eat together, We had'nt a remote idea, that we were in for stormy weather, Jacks little lad was sitting in a high chair to one side, Of his mother at the table, glowing with parental pride. All the men were watching as Jack produced the mouse, He placed it before that little chap watched closely by his spouse, Bairn looked at mouse, then at his dad and then looked back at creature, A pink thing lying on his tray was not a usual feature. 
Everybody stood there wondering what next the lad would do, When he picked up the pink thing and put it in his mouth to chew, His mother gave a piercing yell as she leapt to scoop it out, And turning like a fleeing hare she gave poor Jack a clout.
Regardless of the fuss he'd caused, Jack, he remained unphased, Totally disregarding Jean who was absolutely crazed, We all tucked in to roasted beef and lots of Yorkshire pud, And all agreed that dinner times had never been so good.

Peter Burnell        

Sunset over Almscliff Crag

The setting sun sinks in the west of my imagination’s eye as bleeding clouds on washing-lines hang out their precious dreams to dry upon a flood of burning light that battles with the blessed night.

Unbroken chains of mocking geese fly in formation through the sky as shadows stretch beyond my reach where countless birds and insects fly amid the never ending cries that lessen with the sun’s demise.

A solitary hare looks on towards the dying embers’ glow as early owls in search of prey survey the fields and woods below before they swoop in for the kill and render some poor creature still.

The technicolour summer’s day is slowly turning monochrome as flecks of light from distant stars guide ancient mariners back home to worlds ablaze with bloody skies where hopefully men harmonize.

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