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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The Little Green Dragon
There’s a little baby dragon,
In a tree not far away,
I can see it through my window,
It looks like it’s here to stay.
It has these scales of green,
That look very thin to me,
But it’s excellent camouflage,
Because it makes it hard to see.
It’s a bit like the elephants,
Who play tricks just to tease,
They paint they’re toenails red,
And hide in Cherry trees.
I wonder if it’s lost,
And looking for its Mum,
I’ve tried whistling for it,
But so far it hasn’t come.
I haven’t seen it breathing fire,
Well, perhaps that’s for the best,
With all the dicky-tweets around,
It might torch a songbird’s nest.
“Do you think we should name it?”
Me wife just asked of me,
Well I like alliteration,
So it should start with the letter D.
“I wonder what sort of name,
Upon the Dragon we should confer,”
I like my mother-in-law,
So I shan’t name it after her!
I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl,
I can’t see if it’s a him or her,
But because it’s in an evergreen,
I shall call it Douglas Fir.
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There was a man from dardeling who got on a bus in Ealing. He read on the door don’t spit on the floor, so he up and spat on the ceiling
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I went for a walk in the blazing sun…
I took my new phone, a Sam-sung…
I took picture of birds and cows in their herds…
Tripped over and bit my own tongue…
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There was a guy called Gumbud
Bit of an Elmer Fudd
His heart was good
But pushy invoking snub
Trying too hard
To be a bard
Respect and Tard
Wanted to be Everard
Never be discard
Troubled by a Retard
Forums come
Forums go
Some just guess
Others know
Take your pick
You knowing so, so
Give the facts
Educate the slow so
Tomorrows Oh no
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The love of my life is Alexa
She talks to me every night
I will do nothing to vex her
And she’s always very polite
She plays all the music I ask
And plays LBC on request
She’s always up to the task
And never says, "Give it a rest’
She always wakes me at dawn
With a voice that never sounds tired
There’s never a hint of a yawn
She just pipes up whenever required.
So Alexa please say you’re mine
Your name will never be mud
'Cause I think you’re simply divine
Though others think you’re a dud.
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