Poetry Thursday 83 - Gulf of Sunderland

t1As I've been referring to memory being rather like an inland sea, I am continuing that metaphor this week but have named the body of water as the Gulf of Sunderland. What's good enough for the TT is good enough for me. 

Out of the Depths

 

From the gulf of Sunderland,

out of the deepest part of the sea,

occurrences affecting the family,

hidden for eternity.

Stored in the gulf of Sunderland, 

tucked away for future reference,

not intended for general conference,

meant to maintain the balance.

Out of the gulf of Sunderland, 

for occasional historical share,

for those for whom you care,

for trials of life to prepare.

Inside the gulf of Sunderland,

to wallow in warm nostalgia,

part of later life’s agenda

or to dispel a thorny dilemma.

Illusive as the gulf of Sunderland,

a source of pure enjoyment,

daily trial abandonment, 

fostering life’s accomplishment.

© David L Atkinson March 2025  

God Bless 

Poetry Thursday 79 - OO hands off Seaburn

 So the Gaza Strip is going to be Mar-a-Lago 2! Is any strip of sand next to the sea safe? 

OO hands off Seaburn

 

Here bonny lad, what d’yer thing yer deein’,

its nivver red hot in Seaburn,

the watter’s alwes freezin’,

you’ve a better chance of windburn rather than sunburn,

it’ll nivver mek a golf links so hands off our Seaburn.

 

Hang on there marra not yours to tek,

just cos there’s a lorra sand and sea,

disn’t  giv yer the right to mek,

changes to where we plodged with family,

it’ll nivver be a posh spot so hands off our Seaburn.

 

Hold yer hosses yer not from rund here,

yer knaa nowt of collectin’ coal off the beach,

or even of where to get the best beer,

what to dee with the sand in yer sandwich,

a word in yer ear hands off our Seaburn.

 

Wee der yer think yer are with yer flash claes and fancy tan,

yer probably divint speak the language,

let alone knaa wot a lass needs from her man,

so draw your horns in, we winnit budge,

craal back in yer hole, hands off our Seaburn.

© David L Atkinson February 2025 

God Bless 

Poetry Thursday 72 - Mackem Xmas

 Best wishes to all for a happy Christmas. 

Santy Claws

 

Santy is a Mackem,

of that ah have nee doubt,

its plain from when he burnt his bot,

the accent of his shout.

Dad had banked the fire up,

to stay in for the neet,

Santa made a slipup,

and also burnt his feet.

ah’d left him leeks and beer,

also a carrot Mam said,

divint forget the reindeer,

ah thowt he’d prefer a Fed.

Suitably replete the owld man got busy,

stacking presents beneath the tree,

continued until he felt quite dizzy,

leaving stuff for you and me.

 

Up he got, prepared to leave,

and continue on his way,

to please the bairns who still believe,

in the magic of Christmas Day.

They slept in until 5 o’clock,

and all the leets were on,

stared at the pile of toys in shock,

but Santy Claws had gone.

The pile of bonny paper grew,

there was glitter everywhere,

perhaps in little hearts they knew,

it was mam and dad who care.

Did the bairns get all they wanted,

Playstation 5, new bike or foal,

Santy’s sack with prezzies abounded,

but some received a lump of coal.

If yer’d been bad throughout the year,

and were on his naughty list,

Christmas Day nee time of great cheer,

toys and games would be sorely missed.

After, Santy can put up his feet,

share a glass with wor lass,

consider salad an off duty treat,

and look forward to Happy Christmas.

© David L Atkinson December 2020

God Bless