WOW dID you just compose that
Its splashing on the window, its splashing on the door;
Water water everywhere and puddles on the floor…
So I’ve just come back from biking, 15 miles in the rain…
I should have had an extra hour in bed, but I’ve only got half a brain…
And I’ll get up in the morning and do it all again…
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Did you write that Foxy?
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Yep Sweetie, a Foxy original…Good to see you by the way…x
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Sweet Sixteen
He met her when she was sweet; only sixteen
well they must have rubbed shoulders on days in between?
But the arrangements were formal; that is what I mean
Can’t remember those early hurried practised wild scenes
If he could have predicted, foretold her sad end
would he have made changes ; efforts to mend?
or would they have drifted apart as time kills
still gone separate ways climbing other souls hills?
There were moments in there where they could have broke through?
but the dice had been thrown and therein lays the clue
She was the risk taker perhaps in it for fun?
Whilst he was confused and hormonally glum?
Can’t recall how it finished?
Time can play silly tricks
They met once more briefly
But sliding doors had got fixed!
He got one final glance before decades came all?
A newspaper cutting thrown down to enthral?
She’d aged half a decade but smiled back dressed in white
A title of ‘Rose Queen’ bestowed over night?
Fast forward three scores years or more?
And the new age like ‘potions’ opened many new doors
she had lain there at peace for two decades or so?
and now her story unfolded he wished he’d not known?
© gumbud 2022
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“Uncle Bill” as my colleagues and I called him was a Pennsylvania farm boy who grew up to be a superb engineer and a great friend of mine. Sadly, I lost him to bone cancer a while ago.
He gave me this figurine of a Pennsylvanian miner made from coal a while back, and as I came through the back door yesterday the sun was shining off the crystal in the miner’s helmet, and it reminded me of a school outing to a coal mine near where I used to live in Yorkshire.
The Miner’s Lamp
Down and down the cage did go,
The Miner’s lamp set dim,
Heading deep below this world,
Noone aboard but him.
The cables sang as air rushed by,
Sounds echoing off the sides,
Ears popping, cage dropping,
Down on well-greased guides.
Pit bottom lights bright as day,
Noise and dust around,
Stepping out to start his shift,
Half a mile underground.
A dozen teenage school-lads,
Were in his charge today,
Nervous laughter, much bravado,
Riding the underground tramway.
On towards the coalface,
“Set your lamps to bright”,
“Check your life preservers,”
“Escape tunnel to your right.”
Coal ripped by huge machine,
Pit props hammered in,
Roof bolting, bones jolting,
Conveyers adding to the din.
Pit Pony stables now stand empty,
“Widow-makers” rusting in the stalls,
Pneumatic drills loosed flesh from men’s bones,
Where deafening sounds bounced from walls.
A river of coal rushing by,
“Keep your elbows in,”
Light reflecting dully,
From a miner’s lunch snap-tin.
“Lamps off and turn towards the breeze,”
The miner he did say,
To escape from here without light,
Face the wind and feel your way.
Up and up the cage did go,
The Miner’s lamp set dim,
Heading from below this world,
Twelve schoolboys make the ride with him.
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That’s a brilliant poem Fruitcake, and although I myself never went down a mine (I expect my Dad didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps) it reminded me of several generations of Foxy’s.
You mentioned ‘Half a mile deep’ and I recall my grandad telling me that Hatfield Main was one of the deepest pits in the country at ‘half a mile deep’…Could Hatfield Main have been the one you visited?
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I went down Rossington Main when I was about seventeen or eighteen. We could actually see it and about four other pitheads from my parent’s bedroom window.
I don’t know if it was a real escape tunnel or not, but there was a tunnel junction sign posted with, Markham Main and a distance of six or seven miles. Markham being the one over your way at Armthorpe, near Danum Grammer hooligan manufactory where I spent seven years as an inmate.
My parents talked me out of accepting an offer of a university place to do a 4-year BSc course with the NCB that included six months of every year dahn’t-pit.
I am glad I took their advice.
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Yes I know Markham Main pit at Armthorpe well Fruitcake, I sometimes get them mixed up with Markham colliery at Haworth. I am not so familiar with Danum Grammer school though as I went to Stainforth Secondary modern for all the no hopers…I always though BSc was the acronym of ‘British Sugar Corporation’…
You done well my friend…
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Heh true blue
Is it mum and dad, is it a cockatoo Is it standin’ by your mate when he’s in a fight Or just vegemite True blue, I’m a-asking you Hey true blue, can you bear the load Will you tie it up with wire Just to keep the show on the road Hey true blue Hey true blue, now be fair dinkum Is your heart still there If they sell us out like sponge cake Do you really care Hey true blue
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I can’t believe this old thread is still going. xxx
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Well, old people keep posting on it. 
I posted quite a few poems I wrote during lockdown, but I had completely forgotten about this thread, so they are spread over lots of different threads.
Quite so, unfortunate in some ways.
could someone bring them al together again like a poet laureat??
wots the point the applause clapometer is busted?
One should never seek applause for ones poetry, more sympathy.
we’ve heaped loads on you spits - sympathy that is - and its still not working? with all that metal around ya maybe you’ve turned metal skinned too? - getoff!
Real Poets are rarely part of a collective
Inspiration comes from disassociated selective
well when ya’ve graduated from limerick school ya can join?
What colour is the wind?
White cotton clouds like inflatable sheep,
Floating by on a gentle breeze,
Yellow tree pollen blown all around,
A red spotted hanky to catch a sneeze.
Mini tornados of fine tilled earth,
Dust devils stirred by an invisible hand,
Waves of brown dirt from a stum-jump plough,
As an Ozzy farmer works her land.
Rainbow colours from the prow of a boat,
Spindrift sparkling in the bright summer sun,
Spray blown over the passengers aboard,
Holiday makers catching mackerel for fun.
Black silhouettes of white screeching seagulls,
Soaring on updrafts from the green hills below,
Picked out in contrast against the sky behind,
A watery sun making a dull yellow glow.
Moonlight reflecting from quicksilver ripples,
As light airs kiss a small village pond,
Trees turn grey in the darkening gloom,
Green lanterns sway outside the pub beyond.
Creaking sounds from a black smocked windmill,
White painted sails turned by the air,
Zephyrs flick the ears of a golden wheatfield,
Cornstalks waving in the bright summer glare.
Heavy gales batter the Atlantic shoreline,
White horses prance on a windswept wave,
Squalls striking red sandstone cliffs,
Howling through a blowhole cave.
A red dragon kite breathes bright orange fire,
Toy cut-out gliders, cardboard finned,
Soaring and swooping above the park,
These are all the colours of the wind.
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