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Theories

They say our atoms defy destruction

And that's how we'll live for eternity,

But I think I'm of unique construction And the little bits don't amount to me.

.

Some say our souls can float through ceilings

To dimensions of joy, beyond belief,

But who am I without human feelings

Of jealousy, anger, hope and grief?

.

So I'm not convinced by any theory.

My mind can't make that credulous leap.

When this life ends, I'm sure to be weary.

I'll probably welcome the chance to sleep.

.

And when I am swaddled and tucked up tightly,

The world will keep turning, burning brightly.

Joyce Phillips.

_________________________________________________________

SHOWDOWN AT THE ROSE AND CROWN.

Ah buckled ma belt and pulled on ma boots

and prepared for the final showdown.

It was time to ride so I got on my bike

and rode down the trail into town.

.

There was a score to settle with a guy I knew

who for months had owed me a fiver or two,

He was big and mean and kinda ugly too

but a man has to do, what a man has to do.

.

He drank in a bar that is down by the quay

it's known for its cheap beer and gin,

I got out of the saddle and hitched my bike

to a lamp post before goin' in.

.

I could hear Jake's laugh as I entered the bar

so I shouted, I'm Freddie McOuaid

You borrowed ten quid a year ago

it's due, and I ve never been paid.

.

He roared with anger, he pointed a finger

And made the most villainous threat.

The barmaid said, Please, that's enough of that talk

just try to control yourself pet.

.

I said Jake you 're a fool surely you can see

Newcastle's not big enough for you and me,

The bus for Morpeth leaves tomorrow at noon

better be on it - it won't be too soon.

.

He never said nuthin, nary a word was said

at least as I recall from this hospital bed.

Folks at the bar who saw Jake that night

said he didn't fight fair - never done what was right

.

but the moral is this, when you've lost your stake

don't look for trouble if the man's called Jake.

Bob Proud.

________________________________________________________

FEET

Monks walked here,

Penitents,

Bare feet abraded on punishing stones,

Giving their lives to build a community,

Allowing their blood to sink deep to nurture

This land.

.

We walk here,

Ferryloads,

Armoured in rubber and metal-tipped leather,

Trudging the path from cafe to gift shop,

Grinding the holy rocks of Iona

Into sand.

Joyce Phillips

Plain White Teeshirt

He touched my arm.

I recoiled, stung, spilling my wine.

His smile was as white as his plain cotton teeshirt.

His warm skin was golden beside the bright cloth

And beads of jet snaked dangerously round his throat.

But I left with the quiet man who stood by the door

And we chose the path of duty.

Sometimes it was hard under our feet,

But we trudged through seminars and interviews,

And if there were few moments of beauty,

I tried not to care.

But, sometimes, I wish that clocks would reverse,

And I could run, run, run through time,

Back to the man with the shining white teeshirt stretched

taut on his shoulders,

Or left in a heap on the floor by the bed, where we could

make love all day.

.

He touched my arm.

I fell towards him, spilling his beer.

His smile was as white as his plain cotton teeshirt,

His warm skin was golden beside my pale flesh

And beads of sweat snaked dangerously down my spine.

So I left the quiet man with his eyes to the floor.

And we chose the path of pleasure.

Sometimes it gave way under our feet,

But we rolled through barrooms and bedrooms,

And if there were few gains we could measure,

I tried not to care.

But, sometimes, I wish that clocks would reverse,

And I could run, run, run through time,

Away from the man with the grubby white teeshirt

stretched over his belly,

Or left in a heap on the floor by the bed, for someone to

tidy away.

Joyce Phillips

_____________________________________________________________

The Murder of Sir Ponsonby Purdy

The body was found

outside in the grounds

the case for murder was clear.

There was a bullet in his head

he was obviously dead

an inside job, it would appear.

.

Sir Ponsonby was known

for not having shown

decency, honour, or affection.

An inspector who called

was confused and appalled

saying this one will take some detection.'

.

Lady Violet was unmoved

and possibly approved

when she heard that her husband was shot.

She said, 'He was a cad

unprincipled and bad.

If you think that 1 am sorry - well., I'm not.'

.

The parlour maid agreed

She murmured, 'Yes indeed,

one day I'd be rich, is what he said

but 1 never got a penny

on the days - and there were many

that I found myself a captor in his bed.'

.

The gardner had a grudge

he said 'As God's my judge

as man and employer 'ee were worst.

'Ee were nasty, 'ee were mean

worst there's ever been.

I'm sorry someone else 'as got 'im first.

.

The chauffeur's name was Wade

and allegation that he made

concerned the nature of the man that he had served

He was a bully and a cheat

a master of deceit

and in the end he only got what he deserved

.

And there were others he'd offended

who were glad his life had ended

which meant police were really spoilt for choice

until at last an honest man

confessed, and so began

his explanation in a quiet voice.

.

'I am the butler and 1 done it

my life was not much fun, it

was ruined by Sir Ponsonby,' he said.

'For him I aided and abetted

which I've very much regretted.

So I shot him - and now I'm glad he's dead.'

Bob Proud.

__________________________________________________________

SEASONAL MUDDLE

Do winter days of steely grey

Crown February's snowdrop, king?

Do once-scarce golden daffodils

Made common by municipalities

Now wave too loud?

Are rose beds garish, over coloured

Do they vamp like vulgar call-girls?

Daisies in their lawn-filled constellation

Die each year through human annihilation.

Does a Christmas Rose, by association

Go to heaven with all good souls?

John Frostick.

PHOENIX OF LEARNING.

It is made of glass; yes, mostly glass

with a whack of wood, some stone and lots of metal.

Six floors of magic for the mind.

A colourful piece of celluloid gives admittance to space,

light, comfort and the presence of like- minded people.

Lifts will carry speedily

to books galore and musical C.D.

and a floor of computers place the world

on the doorstep of Newcastle.

Parents watch their children find fresh worlds

among the latest, colourful books and remember their favourites.

Everyone's hunger for knowledge is satisfied here and when it is,

the cafe will satisfy with comfortable seats. Good food

and excellent service from a good staff. Newcastle be proud !

Your people flock through its doors already,

as risen steady from the ashes of the past,

this building of light, warmth and glass

captures the people's admiration.

ELIZABETH BURDIS.

___________________________________________________________

WHY DO I NEED TO WRITE? .

IT'S A PART OF MY LIFE

THOUGHTS SWIRL INSIDE MY HEAD

AS I LANGUISH IN BED

SILENT TEARS SOAK MY FACE

MY HEART BEGINS TO RACE

AS I STARE AT THE FACE

IN THE FRAME WITH THE LACE

BLACK CURLY HAIR, FLOWING

TWIRLING CLOAK, EYES GLOWING

COBWEBS, BATS AND BEETLES

CANDLES BURNING, SMOKE, LETHAL

FIRE. FIRE. THE YOUNG BOYS CRIED

HELP. WE DON'T WANT TO DIE

MEN RUSHED IN, PULLED BOYS OUT

SAVED THEIR LIVES, NO DOUBT

IT'S SHOCKING WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

ON THE NIGHT OF HALLOWEEN

WORDS TRIP OVER THE PAGE

THAT'S WHY I NEED TO WRITE. .

STELLA RUTHERFORD

WORDSWORTH. WE ARE HERE

In our sooty city he brought fresh air with a poem about daffodils;

now we are here, where he was once thrilled to see flowers dancing,

beside the lake. Between these majestic mountains lies a timelessness

that seals the soul in tranquillity.

The silence that can be cracked by the scrape of a boot on gravel,

yet does not offend the ear.

We are here Wordsworth

Mesmeric countryside draws the eye while the hum of the engine lulls;

we reach our destination and alight with leaded limbs

on soft grass and gravelled roads which the poet's feet, in his own time trod;

Soon, blood surges, cheeks glow, our legs keep step with Dorothy, Coleridge

and you, Wordsworth.

Elizabeth Burdis

________________________________________________________

The Journey.

When youth's bright light first shines,

It guides the future's way;

The road is clear and straight . No traffic to impede

The journey, or

Change life's intended path.

.

The bus runs swiftly on,

The scene is pleasantly

Unfolding before us.

Sometimes, not so pleasant-

But life's like that;

We must grin and bear it.

.

Imperceptibly, light

Begins to fade, with youth

Slowly waning. And bends

Appear, sometimes causing

Us to slow down:

Deviate from our course

.

The journey's almost done,

Great Conductor says.

You're at the terminus.

Darkness replaces sun,

The Final Phase

It's time to get off the bus.

Jay T Kay

Perfume from the Moon

Perfume from the moon drapes over me.

The scent of the stars fills the air,

As the fragrance of the night drenches over me,

I lie on grass with not a care.

The darkness hangs heavily around me.

Like a cloak wrapped tightly from above,

As the mist of the night envelops me,

I close my eyes and dream of my love.

Nikkilee 16 June 2009

________________________________________________________

BLUE BOXES, WHAT'S INSIDE?

Cylindrical boxes

Made of wood.

Large, medium,small.

Two of each.

Painted blue,

A curious hue.

.

What's inside?

No idea.

Not a clue.

Makes you think!

Bonnets or hats?

Furs stolen from cats?

.

Dishes and plates or

Wedding cakes

That mother bakes?

Which break into flakes

When the Blue Box shakes,

And the lid falls off

On the table cloth?

Whats inside?

I give up.

Jay T Kay

__________________________________________________________

HUBBERHOLME

(Inspired by Larkin’s Poem “Church Going”)

Leaning against the churchyard wall,

the old bike rings no bells

until the crossbar-clinging clips

evoke a memory.

.

A ghost glides past the graves to slide

through solid stone into the nave and lifts its eyes

up to the rood loft - Larkin wrote of them –

and of the two in Yorkshire, one is here.

.

Is this the shrine, then, where he doffed

his cynic's hat in ‘awkward reverence’

for the silent stones, yet claimed

‘the place was not worth stopping for?’

.

Why the denial after deference?

Did he, who'd long relinquished heaven's hope,

stand close to Priestley's ashes in this holy place

and yet again receive not bread but stones?

.

And was it here the riven man, provoked

by altar peddled lies, short-changed himself 1

by triggering a shabby parting shot –

a sniping Irish sixpence in the offertory box?

Bryan Harbottle

A TIN OF BISCUITS

A tin of biscuits in my den.

It's been there since I don't know when.

Leering at me from the shelf,

Tempting me to risk my health.

.

All my homework, yet to do.

No harm would come if one or two

Should pass my lips; it's inspiration.

Not giving in to mild temptaion.

.

Surely two won't make me fat.

And when they're missed, I'll blame the cat

So, just a couple I shall take.

Two Gob Stoppers, and a lump of cake

.

Dieting is such a pain.

Loss of weight is all you gain.

And feeling smug, when you stay thin.

So what the hell, hand me that tin!

Jay T. Kay.

_________________________________________________________

SUPERMARKET SONNET

My trolley sulks, its wheels refuse to steer

passed little ladies prodding cut-loaf bread.

A buggy-mum with child whose face glows red

as nappy fills despite parental glare.

One teenage grazer eats without a care

then drops ajar to satisfy street-cred.

Staff smile at little man they all call Ted

who leaves because his wobbly wheels won't steer.

.

A meeting place where high-fly lovers leap

down aisles of instant food the couple crave.

Established, jaundiced pairs in silence creep

to bicker through the knock-down veg marked,'save.'

Your restless supermarket knows no sleep

its TV eyes ensure we all behave.

John Frostick.

APORKALYPSE

What's the fuss all about

What comes out of a snout?

Or what comes from a sneeze

It's some sort of disease

That is causing unease

It is now Pandemic

Is it Aporkalypse?

What a hullabaloo

It's called the Swine Flu

Stella Rutherford.

__________________________________________________________

THE SIX

It was a sticky glue-pot of a pitch

and after twenty overs he was seeing them

as big as cannon balls.

But tight spin and a skinflint field

had skittled seven scratching batsmen

while runs refused to flow.

.

Ball after ball his textbook shoulder

faced the wily spinners

and his patient bat kept tapping out a hollow

just behind the whitewashed crease.

At last the loose one came.

Too full, it hovered on the sight screen

like a radar blip - a shiny rolling apple

of a ball, just pleading to be plucked.

.

A nifty three-step skip was good enough

to beat the bounce.

It hit the meat and sank

into the linseed-supple blade

for a split second

till the lofted drive despatched it

to the thin blue edge of air.

It hung an age before it fell,

a carillon of clang and clatter down

the corrugated tin pavilion roof,

ringing defiance at the fielding side.

.

He carried his bat for twenty-seven –

and twenty-one were singles.

It was the only six that Stonewall

in his single season ever hit –

to him a long-remembered joyful stroke,

but nothing to the world,

only a fading pencil mark

hid on a mouldering score-book page

locked in a never-opened drawer.

Bryan Harbottle.