The InkwellSalford, 23rd August 2020
Moving across the sky
Magnificent clouds of grey
Move to offload their cargo
Angels tears dropping
As the creator drops something heavy
And says something angry (and naughty)
Collecting in crevices on community streets
Creating puddles and in some cases mini reservoirs
Children playing in plastic macs and colourful wellies
Salford 1st July 2020
#writeclub #monsters #poetry #kidspoetry
as part of my write club challenges, i wrote a piece about a “Monster” with claws and teeth and horns – more like a caterpillar with 100 Feet!
(Anyone with kids remember a Lotsa-Lotsa-Leggs ? 🙂 )
I know , you know its not halloween
but i’ve got to tell you about this thing i’ve seen
snaking round Salford’s streets
with over a hundred colourful feet
A fluffy centipede , orange fur, purple hair
grown ups walking past they stare
at multi coloured spikes on his back
they move on quickly – in case of attack
If they had thought – they’d would have seen
those spikes were just fur
he want’s something to munch on
to sleep and to purr
And who does he bump into ? – our neighbours cat
who gives him some room in the upstairs flat…
so before going to bed, he eats leaves and shoots
resting on a mat, his hundred or so boots
And during the dusk, you’ll see them both play
with a ball made of wool – in a particular way
playing under the moon and having some fun
and enjoying a nap – when the day has begun
#writephoto #thejourney
Salford (via Rochdale and Oldham), 17th August 2019
a tale of a rambler , by inky for the writephoto challenge
He went a walk with an empty backpack and staff
off to get a loaf of bread
many hadn’t heard from him for days, some
even thought him dead
For his boot prints went on and on
for what others saw as miles
past footpath and valley , hill and dale
and spot of nature where he’d stay a while
enjoying the fine weather
the silence and peace
and wildlife around him
it was a release
Drawing a scene half way up a hill
taking in sunshine and cup o’ tea till
time came to face his fate
coming back home far too late
In response to Fandango’s One word Challenge
They say if you can remember the sixties – you weren’t there
but fashion’s a fickle thing
Millennials walking down to the disco
in an homage to their Mums and dads
with some wide flares and knee high boots
listening and dancing to tunes on played on vinyl
that mum danced with dad when they were young
there’s something missing with that digital stuff
no feel, snap , crackle or pop
hearing the groove from the record player – its top!
Creative clouds
In the sky, create
Round, watery artworks on the
Roadside edge, forming little lakes
Umbrellas and wellingtons at the ready
Something wet has made a splash.
In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. Their leather is worn from the passing of time…
Source: A Tale of Old Boots
These Boots Were Made for Walking
March 2011
In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. And if their owner were truthful – they could do with a bit of a clean. The hooks holding the laces crusted with dirt, their leather is worn from the passing of time having seen many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.
But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.
Rugby Boots and Training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.
They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, and leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.
Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.
In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. Their leather is worn from the passing of time and many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.
Now, Rugby boots and training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.
They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, observing the melodic snoring around them. And leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.
And when they got home, they created a bit of a fuss. Left outside on the evening news on a step by the Garden lawn. Local politicians now have the boots treadmarks of mud and clay imprinted on them. But then again, wi’ these boots – they’ve no interest in politics – unless it’s rights to roam. The bucket and wire brush look threatening, next to the bin. But these boots know – you can scrub em till the cows come home – this mud sticks!
Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now – having had a ‘tidyup’ – they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.
