Accrington Poets.

[Wynonie Harris]

I've seen that poem before, too. Was it in a book called "An Accrington Miscellany", published around 1970?

[Terry]

I couldn't really say Winonie. From the date you mention I would have to say a friend must have sent it to me. I really appreciated the fact I have it. The coppice to me was a constant source of delight, winter or summer(eek did I say summer)

[Terry]

Willow. If you can find the copy of this poem you will be able to tell me if I got it right. I may have got the verses wrong way round or even missed one. It was just from memory. The EEK for summer is because at the mo I am used to at least 24 degrees C during the day

[WillowTheWhisp]

I haven't had a chance to look yet. It's been a funny day. I've spent most of it on the phone to Americans. Why do elderly American women always sound so infuriatingly sweet?

[Robdunn24]

I suppose all my personal songwriting is about accrington( or maybe people, who frequent it) or stuff like that....Not about the town......Could write a song about afrika's thank god it burnt down!!!

Heres something i wrote as a poem/lyrics...I dont usually write words first usually write whislt playing but this i wrote.



Short song about you
_________________

Your the sun that shines in through my window
your the pot of gold that can be found at the end of a rainbow
your the fresh clean water at the spring fountain
your the first prize waiting at the top of a mountain
your the cool breeze on a hot summers day
your the soft touch of the ocean spray
your the moonlight on a clear blue sea
your the tide that is washing over me


R

[Stumped]

Hi Folks . . . I too have a bit of a knack for writing poetry. Have had several published over the years and featured regularly when the Observer ran it's poets corner.. Maybe we should petition to have it back!

Regards, etc . . . Stumped

Counting Sheep

I’m sick of counting sheep at night,
The critters won’t keep still,
They’ll jump the hedge, then turn about,
To run back down the hill,
They mess around and chew the cud,
Whilst I just toss and turn,
I simply cannot concentrate,
I wish the beasts would learn.

I’m done with counting sheep at night,
The theory don’t work,
The stupid creatures test me so,
Then vanish in the murk,
They trample on my every whim,
Conspire to turn me blue,
Till daylight filters through the gloom,
And finds me in a stew.

End

[cashman]

i'm quite well versed............ but kids read this.

[Stumped]

This is another sample of my previous efforts, written following an actual incident which I did not find so amusing at the time.

Cheers . . . Stumped

Mayhem
or ‘**** Happens!’

I was cycling along in my lycra,
Oblivious to all, but FM,
When a daft dog announced it’s objections,
And caused me no end of mayhem.

Snarling and barking, the animal charged,
With much lunging and snapping of teeth,
And caught unawares, I took to the air,
To land in a desperate heap.

With skinned knees and a gravel-rashed elbow,
A sprained wrist and jarred shoulder to boot,
I watched the dog vanish from whence it appeared,
It plainly did not give a hoot!

Quite embarrassed, and shaken up badly,
I reflected a while on my plight,
Exploring my bumps and my bruises,
Which at first glance seemed ever so slight.

When you get to the plus side of sixty,
And you feel like a teenager, still,
Your aches and pains tell you your past it,
Whilst your ego lends grist to the mill.

As the tow path at Rishton was empty,
Save crestfallen me and my bike,
I took a deep breath and remounted,
Still cursing my woes and such like.

Then my efforts to pedal were blighted,
Forestalled by each turn of the crank,
Yet stubbornness helped my endeavours,
And helped put some grit in my tank.

Drained by the effort I made it back home,
Once there, I examined my scars,
The bruises and bumps I had suffered,
When I went arse o’er tit o’er the bars.

The missus tut-tutted as stiffness set in,
She ran me a steaming hot bath,
And broiled like a turkey I wallowed,
As she stood by and stifled a laugh.

So there I was stuck in the bathtub,
Rendered helpless by wrenches and sprains,
Unable to raise myself upright,
Whence my pride took a tumble again.

Try as I did, my sprained wrists prevailed,
Hence the wife launched a shrewd master plan,
‘Throw your legs o’er the side and I’ll lift you,’
She said. And I said, ‘I don’t think you can!’

Imagine the comical drama,
What a picture to tickle the mind,
My bits o’er the side of the bathtub,
The wife’s giggling a trifle unkind.

The count, ‘one - two -three,’ was the trigger,
That hurled me once more through the air,
To land in a heap with the missus,
And end my dilemma four square.

On reflection, I cannot be blameless,
For the ludicrous state of affairs,
And Classic FM contributed,
By filling my head with it's airs.

End

This incident actually happened on Tuesday, 15th May 2007, on the canal towpath at Rishton, Lancashire, where it crosses the M65 Motorway. The black & white sheepdog involved was unattended and may well have come from a nearby farm.

[jaysay]

It appears that tomorrow 9th Oct, is national poetry day, anybody going to brek out into rhyme to mark the day, and before anybody asks no I'm useless at poetry

[Stumped]

With Hallowe'en approaching, I thought it might be a good videa to resurrect a poem I wrote in 2000.

The Coven

Squatting round the cauldron
With their shoulders bent and spare,
The Coven dispense mayhem with their magic;
A dozen black rat's tails,
Five and twenty salted snails,
And a maidens tears to bode the potion tragic.

Stirring in succession
With adulterated glee,
The Coven lavish homage on their potion;
A pint of cuckoo spit,
Umpteen drops of dew to whit,
And a clump of seaweed dredged up from the ocean.

Chanting arcane babble
With their features grim and set,
The Coven look to implement sedition,
A splash of adder's blood,
A sprig of rotted wood,
And a curse or two to ripen their rendition.

Weaving spells at random
Minus recourse to sound thought,
The Coven inadvertently sow folly,
A cup of aphid's milk,
An arms length of spider's silk,
And a spot of mischief posed as melancholy.

Feeding in the punch-line
Without charity or grace,
The Coven look to reap what they have sown;
A flash of lightning fire,
Heralds consequences dire,
And The Coven face the wrath of the unknown.

Reeling back in terror
With no standing or defence,
The Coven flounder in eternity anon;
A potent contribution,
Dispenses retribution,
And The Coven, with their cauldron, become one!

End

[Benipete]

I see you go to the Richmond Medical Centre as well.

[Stumped]

Here's another composition I wrote some time ago to 'celebrate' the advent of Hallowe'en'

Regards . . . Stumped

Ghosts

They hide inside the wardrobe,
And patter 'cross the floor,
They wander through the corridors,
And rattle on the door,
Though you may never see them,
You'll know that they are there,
For should you chance upon a ghost,
You'll feel it raise your hair.

They steal beneath the carpet,
And bind themselves in chains,
They holler down the chimney stack,
And leave suspicious stains,
Though you may never see them,
You'll know that they are near,
For should you chance upon a ghost,
You'll sense a touch of fear.

They lurk behind the curtains,
And snigger in the dark,
They flit about amongst the trees,
And cause the dog to bark,
Though you may never see them,
You'll know that they are here,
For should you chance upon a ghost,
You're like to shed a tear.

End

[Stumped]

Christmas comes but once a year, sad though to note that Accrington never changes!!!

Shabby Town
( May be sung to the tune:
‘Oh Little town of Bethlehem‘ )

Oh shabby town of Accrington,
How sad we see thee lie,
Along thy dull and littered streets,
The disenchanted ply,
Oh what on earth is happening,
To this one thriving place?
Years of neglect and ignorance,
Add to the town’s disgrace.

Oh Hyndburn Council get a grip,
Before it is too late,
Clean up thy foul and littered streets,
Lest voters seal thy fate,
Oh use the monies that we pay,
To counter local ills,
Don’t auction off our heritage,
To pay your civic bills.

Amen

[Stumped]

The Poetry Pages seem to have dried up. May I be excused my attempt at reviving same with a little ditty I penned in 2002 when I was fast approaching my sell-by date. Though the poem largely concerns the town of my birth, I plead exception as it is not strictly Accrington, but Great Harwood does play an important part in the make-up of Hyndburn.

The Passage of Time


The passage of time yields us moments,
From reveries sealed in our minds,
Of places and faces akin to our youth,
And the foibles we thought left behind,
Though the mask in the mirror is older,
The heart of the child beats on still,
To stir up those brief recollections,
That sentiment prompts us to fill.

Like Pandora, time opens up boxes,
That rightly should not be displaced,
For the mellowing, rose tinted passage of time,
Disguises the truth we once faced,
With the lessons of childhood inherent,
To the adult we sooner become,
The genes of our parents cement us,
To the bounds of their strict rule of thumb.

Whence the formative years of our childhood,
Determine the role we enact,
So the lessons instilled in our juvenile years,
Assign us the price we contract,
Since the place of our birth is important,
To the ultimate role that we play,
Let's take time to acknowledge Great Harwood,
'Less the good things in life fade away!

End

[katex]

That's really sweet Stumped .. thank you ... x