BJF Lockdown Resistance Poetry
My Big Adventure, by Dave
At the age of forty-five – I was happy and healthy,
Life couldn’t have been better – I never imagined it could be so flimsy,
I was riding my bicycle near Nantwich – when hit by a car,
I was helicoptered to hospital – by road ambulance it would be just too far.
I was in an unconscious state – away with the fairies,
Much of what I tell here – is not from my own memories,
I’d respected the NHS – but perhaps took it for granted,
Knowing what I know now – it’s a UK resource that’s truly splendid.
I was rapidly in theatre – where a surgeon sliced and diced my brain,
It’s truly wonderful what was done – but I wouldn’t choose to go through it again,
I was to remain in a coma – that was four weeks of nothing,
When I eventually emerged I was ‘locked-in’ for a week – so I still wasn’t really living.
I spent two further months at hospital – for NHS rehabilitation,
I can comfortably say I worship those folks – without any hesitation,
I was discharged to home – which was amazing progress,
But life had become so different – it’s simply impossible to express.
I looked like me – but I didn’t feel like me,
My brain was in a haze – you could say it was foggy,
I’m aware of people in a similar situation – who said they’ve lost it all,
But I still had the love of my daughter and partner – so there was no reason to bawl.
Returning to my professional career – wasn’t possible for two years,
So I chose to go volunteering – this was much fun and no tears,
My mum saw the good it did me – she told me “you needed to be needed”,
Since mums are nearly always right – her insight was to be heeded.
I eventually resumed working – it was very satisfying,
But I quickly realised that acquiring new skills was impossible – and downright terrifying,
So I retired after two more years – I’d done enough,
I had loved work and thought I’d miss my vocation – but it wasn’t really so tough.
If I was to sit back and reflect – on my life so far,
I wouldn’t change much – not even that bump with a car,
I perhaps expended excess effort – to supposedly improve my lot,
Rather than standing back and appreciating – what I ‘d already got.
I choose to live in the now – while also positively looking forward,
After discovering the joys of altruism – I know I’ll never become bored,
Beyond my positive mindset – I recognise that life’s outcomes owe an awful lot to luck,
I’ll finish by saying I’m enormously contented – so that’s it for now my duck.
Christmas and Winter Nights, by Dave
The Beth Johnson poetry theme this week – is entitled a Winter Christmas,
A time of year that we all love together – even a birthday doesn’t surpass,
I was a Penkhull supremo for making snowmen – rolling them up and down our street backs,
Topped off with coal for their eyes and carrots for noses – only then was it time to relax.
On the evening of the 24th – I remember overpowering excitement,
A time of positivity and pure joy – it was so beautifully innocent,
I knew tomorrow would be special – and I’d be receiving lots of treats,
Everything given was treasured forever – mum didn’t need to keep the receipts.
Early on Christmas morning – I’d wander out of my bedroom to snuggle up between mum and dad,
Passed a pillowcase containing curious shaped parcels – greater anticipation couldn’t be had,
I knew some children carefully opened their presents – but that was never my style,
I’d tear away the wrapping at lightspeed – I guess I wasn’t the most tactile.
A few of my very special pressies – I shall now attempt to recall,
Action man, train set, mouse trap Rubik’s cube – I was delighted by them all,
I’d head downstairs with these gifts – my agenda was perfectly clear,
It was to play and play then play some more – advice to slow down I simply wouldn’t hear.
Like everyone else we ate turkey for lunch – for me though it wasn’t very much of a treat,
I preferred mum’s servings on Boxing Day – the ever so strangely named bubble ‘n’ squeak,
There’s one ritual we never missed – settling down quietly to watch the queen at three,
Despite Liz 2’s unimaginably posh lifestyle we respected her – of that we’d all agree.
Later on TV in the evening – we’d watch the Only Fools and Horses special,
Without it Christmas wouldn’t have been the same – a dose of Del Boy and Rodney was essential,
The day was never just about the birth of Jesus – more so being close to family,
I think of all the things we did together – for me that was just heavenly.
The Potteries, by Dave
You don’t have any influence – on where you are born,
But if you happened to come from the Potteries – you wouldn’t be forlorn,
In receipt of an outsider’s ignorant comment – I’d reply “It’s God’s country”,
The landscape isn’t particularly inspiring – but most of the people are really lovely.
There’s a term of endearment we use – irrespective of gender,
It always sounds nice – and comes across as tender,
Other regions have hen or pet or honey – even luv if you’re in luck,
But nothing can trump DJ Mel Scholes on Signal Radio – saying “up ‘anley me duck”.
When working down south and asked where I lived – I’d say “I’m from Stoke”,
Inquisitors would often snigger – as though I’d told them a joke,
If someone suggested I had a strange accent – I’d ask if they knew “Arthur tow crate”,
I took joy in their unknown acknowledgement – that they didn’t know “how to talk right”.
I once ran the Potteries marathon – following exhaustion to walking I resorted,
The enthusiastic spectators were ace – it was several times voted best supported,
After twenty-three miles I had to stop briefly in Clayton – in Seabridge Lane,
I was given a mug of tea by some roadside strangers – it trumped getting Champagne.
I served an engineering apprenticeship with a rough tough group of blokes,
Aged just seventeen I was often their skivvy – and the butt of their jokes,
Being sent to the stores for a left-handed screwdriver – was a gentle pun,
But being chucked fully clothed into the Trent & Mersey canal – wasn’t much fun.
I played for Thistley Hough high school – in their football team,
Admittedly I wasn’t much good – but I could still daydream,
Eric Bristow and Phil Taylor were darting world champions – an oche they stood at,
But outsiders are probably more aware of Robbie Williams – the guy from Take That.
I’d thought Westlands was upmarket – and Trentham was posh,
Whenever I went to Abbey Hulton or Bentilee – I kept an eye on my dosh,
I have lived in Trent Vale – we preferred to call it Vegas,
Elton John alighted his helicopter at the Michelin grounds – he musn’t have been precious.
If you like fancy fine China – there’s Doulton, Minton, Spode and then Wedgewood,
You won’t find them in actual use as they are fragile and expensive – i.e. rather too good,
Almost everyone has an aunt / uncle / nan / grandad – who worked in a potbank or factory,
They’d’ve had a kitchen with contraband mugs and plates – blithely considered as complementary.
Arnold Bennet wrote a novel about the Potteries five towns – he clearly couldn’t count or add,
He’d left out Fenton, which is my least favourite of the six – but really not so bad,
Captain Edward Smith of the Titanic was born in Hanley – along with Leonardo di Caprio he went down with the ship,
Reginald Mitchell was an engineer from Butt Lane who designed the Spitfire – the WW2 RAF hit.
In our Potteries dialect instead of saying won’t – we’ll often say wunner,
And rather than say don’t – we may prefer to say dunner,
Husbands often don’t refer directly to their wife – they may say “Mar lady”,
To my ears it sounds ace – but some outsiders say it’s just silly.
A friendly inquisition – may be something like “Ah do, ow at, at owe rate?”
Its literal translation (for outsiders) – is “Hello, how are you? Are you alright?”
“Cost kick a bo agen a wo an yed it till it bosts” is probably only a legend,
It’s hard to imagine where it could ever have been used – it’s unlikely to start a trend.
The successful billionaire Denise Coates at Bet365 – is a genuine local lass,
She doesn’t dodge taxes and is passionate about her charity foundation – simply stated, she is class,
We love our North Staffordshire oatcakes – the choice of fillings is immense,
Everyone has a passionate choice – for me bacon and cheese makes the most sense.
The landscape was once strewn with bottle ovens – but now only a few remain to enjoy,
There’s a lovely potteries museum at Gladstone – which I’ve visited as man and boy,
Starting at ‘neck end’ – there’s Longton, Fenton, Stoke, Hanley, Burslem and Tunstall,
Some may be nicer than others – regardless we should cherish them all.
Comedy, by Dave
I’m a Potteries guy – from the city of Stoke,
Many southerners I’ve met – think my birthplace is a joke,
How they confuse the Midlands and North – is really a disgrace,
They think they’re just two names – for the very same place.
I help out Beth Johnson – in a tech buddy role,
If someone’s messed up their laptop – I’ll try digging them out of their hole,
In reward I’m still waiting – to receive an oatcake for lunch,
I’ve tried to drop suggestions – but they just won’t get the hunch.
I’ve loved being in Penkhull – the place where I nominally went to school,
Though truth be told I was rarely there – being a bloody teenage fool,
This is meant to be comedy – so why did the chicken cross the road,
Hopefully it wasn’t to simply avoid – chatting idly to a toad.
There’s a famous Stoke author – who evidently couldn’t count to six,
We know he left out Fenton – perhaps intending to put it in an appendix,
There’s the famous lad Robbie Williams, from the boy band named Take That,
He’s done well for himself and become a star – but to me he’ll always be a prat.
Some people think we talk funny – with our Potteries dialect,
But to my ears at least – it sounds just purrrrfect,
Who can forget the Evening Sentinel – reading about “May un mar lady”,
Anyone who objects or dislikes it – strikes me as a little bit shady.
I’ve now reached the end – of this poetic attempt,
If I tried to write more – it’d be met with contempt,
I acknowledge it’s missed the objective – and not quite made it to funny,
This last line’s really pathetic – all I can think to say is bunny or honey.
Tech Buddy, by Dave
There’s no set poetry theme this week – we’ve been left to our own devices,
Maggie’s entrusted us to use our initiative – it shouldn’t feel like a crisis,
We’ve had the Potteries, my big adventure – winter Christmas and then comedy,
Now I’ve decided to write something personal – my enjoyment from being a BJF tech buddy.
Before reaching my volunteering stage – I’m gonna take you on my vocational journey,
Don’t worry, I’ll miss out a lot out – it’s not a complete history,
Like most people I guess – I’ve experienced an unplanned trip through my working life,
Mostly ups without any real downs – I can honestly say there hasn’t really been much strife.
I began work in a steel foundry – working with metal castings as an apprentice,
But I knew overalls weren’t for me – and mum said I was destined to work in an office,
I undertook an engineering degree – I studied and revised so much I had little sleep,
My first post-uni job was at GEC – we joked how it stood for “Get Everything Cheap”.
After just a year as a young engineer – I realised I had limited skills to offer,
This new career choice was another error – I needed to move on before much longer,
GEC moved me to their London head office in Mayfair – it sounds posh but their computers were rubbish,
I handled this mountain of problems with seeming ease – I realised that I’d found my niche.
The computers had green screens and no mice – nevertheless it was a good first step,
And my timing was fortunate to witness the birth – of what came to be known as the world wide web,
I immensely enjoyed my new role – I travelled the world through my competence in IT security,
After being labelled an expert I went self-employed – being my own boss suited my mentality.
When aged forty-five it came crashing down for me – in a nasty bicycle accident,
I was comatose for a month and my brain was damaged – but my IT skills remained persistent,
I retired soon after realising – I was unable to learn new technologies any more,
It didn’t stop me wanting to volunteer – I guess this gig could be labelled my encore.
I undertook various voluntary bits and pieces – before finding the Beth Johnson Foundation,
I knew they did a wonderful job for Potteries folk – and had a sparkling reputation,
I love that it’s based in my growing up village of Penkhull – that suits me down to the ground,
Where I should have attended Thistley Hough high school – but spent far more time just messing around.
They’ve a program called healthy generations – which is focussed on ageing well,
All of the folk I’ve met are so lovely – in modern-speak you could say they’re just swell,
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed helping folk – some who’ve made numerous IT hotchpotches,
But if the plain truth be told I’ve more so enjoyed the camaraderie – and listening to people’s stories.
I assist on phones, tablets and laptops – basically any type of tech,
Smoothing out people’s frustration and problems – making sure there’s no bottleneck,
With so much that can be done – my principal skill focus has been a little blurred,
But the tech area I’ve enjoyed the most – has been helping folk on managing their passwords.
I want to share with you a few stories – that came up in simple conversation,
They were uplifting and inspiring – like being at a religious congregation,
There’s Helen who was dyslexic – and feared she be unable to help her son to read,
By some miracle of necessity her disorder dissipated – to facilitate satisfying his need.
I met Jane whose friend’s young daughter – suffered terribly on her arms and legs with warts,
When Jane offered to buy them for cash they began to disappear – like gulping down liquorice allsorts,
I met Penelope from Romania – she studied forensic science at Keele University,
She somehow found the time to help out at BJF – an inspirational effort such that I’d rank as mighty.
The meetings stopped in March – after covid put us all into lockdown,
Yet we found a way to keep in touch – we all refused to be sad and frown,
Maggie came up with this great idea – of reciting poetry via video meetings on Zoom,
We unearthed our creative spirits – it was joyful to observe them mushroom.
I’ve come to the end of this poem – there’s not much more to say,
Our time has passed very nicely – on my screen I’ve seen so many smiles today,
Until Maggie declares next week’s theme – I’ll put my thoughts away to one side,
It’s been lovely to see you all and chat – that simply cannot be denied.
Be the Light in the Darkness, by Susan
I can still see the brutality of the buildings, the baroness of the landscape and feel the weight of the surroundings. Auschwitz-Birkenau. The thought “we should never forget” imprinted on my brain with a dull, heavy thud – sombre, menacing, hurting. The soldiers’ boots stomping.
Moving around your prison, I learn the facts. The terrible, unimaginable atrocities that man inflicted upon innocent men, women and children. The power of the words that describe those actions is suffocating. The soldiers’ stare.
The weather closes in as we walk around observing the landscape. The place where the birds do not sing. The bleakness, the cold, the wind, the rain. The pain and despair of your existence. One dreadful day after another. The soldiers’ orders.
A place of fear beyond fear. Of pain and suffering I can never imagine, and ultimately a place of death, your death. The deaths of a generation of innocents. But I sense this is not your only message to me as I wander through just a part of your life. I feel you everywhere.
I look at your pictures on the walls. I see the tears in your eyes and the fear on your face. I feel you in my heart and imagine your life before, before all of this madness. Your life as a child, a son, a daughter, a friend, a lover, a husband, wife, mother, father. I see no pictures of the generation beyond but I know they are close by. I am a stranger to you but I feel you reach out. You touch me. I want to know more. You are not forgotten. You are still here, now existing in my life. In your pictures, by your presence you are the light in the darkness.
I look at your names and the messages you carved into the wood of your bed posts. Your messages are still here. I can read what you have written. You are still here in your words, you are the light in the darkness.
I look at your shoes, your clothes, your toys, your suitcases, your spectacles. I feel your spirit reaching out and grasping your possessions. Items that were part of you, your childhood, your way of being alive in this world. Possessions that meant so much to you, before, before this madness. You are here, I feel you around me, you are not forgotten. You are the light in the darkness.
I gaze upon your hair. A physical part of you that is still here. I imagine the times when it mattered to you how it looked, the style, the cut, the length. The joy you felt when it looked good and the frustration when it didn’t. I try to imagine how much it must have hurt for it to be taken from you. A single act that stripped you of part of yourself, part of your identity, the dehumanising process.
I struggle to comprehend how this could have happened to you but I listen intently to your voice. I hear and understand your message.
I am not a number. I am not a faceless victim. I am the light in the darkness. I am not alone. I am one of the many lights in the darkness. Remember me.
Tonight on this Holocaust Memorial Day I will light a candle for you and for all of those who are lights in the darkness.
Zoom, by Dorothy
We used to meet up once a week,
Our IT skills for us to tweak.
Sadly the world was struck by a bug,
We couldn’t give our friends a hug.
You must not go out we were told,
And only stay in one household.
Whilst among all this despair,
A call came from our friend Clare.
We can all meet up in your room,
On a new app called ZOOM.
It was good our friends to meet,
But they could only see my feet.
We talked about this and that,
And were even joined by Ruby’s cat.
We spoke about the cakes we bake,
And shared the recipes we make.
I told them about my scare,
When I did cut my hubby’s hair.
Alas cutting skills I lack,
At least he cannot see the back.
But then what is this I hear,
Soon we can live without fear.
Then will end this doom and gloom,
Until then we still have ZOOM.
A Little Tin of Paint, by Dorothy
Lock down came upon us oh dear,
What could I do was not quite clear.
I thought, the windows I will clean,
So that the outside can be seen.
But alas what is this on the sill,
The wood is showing, so paint it I will.
Now where can I get this paint,
When I can’t go out of the gate?
My son soon answered my call,
A little tin of paint he left on the wall.
I painted the sill and painted it more,
Still lots of paint was left for sure.
I painted the sills both upstairs and down,
The amount left in the tin gave me a frown.
I painted the stair rails and skirting board,
I definitely can say, that I was not bored.
But that little tin of paint went on and on,
It certainly is my number one.
Now I need to paint the fence,
Can’t get paint it doesn’t make sense.
But what is this that I now hear?
The end of my search is very near.
Two big tins of paint my son will bring,
I think I will be here until next SPRING!
The Wish List, by Dorothy
When I reached the age of seventy,
A sky dive was a wish for me.
I filled the forms and passed the test,
Then went with my son to do the rest.
But at the centre the guide said NO my friend,
Alas your dreams now must end.
For you are a worry for me,
As you can’t bend your knee.
So whilst my son flew in the sky,
I was left to have a cry.
Then to the doctors I did go,
With my tale so full of woe.
Never mind your knee we will fix,
An operation will do the trick.
Although I now can rush around
I still have to stay upon the ground.
Over seventy I am told,
Sorry dear you’re now too old.
Now that I am Seventy Two,
I know just what to do.
A ride on a HARLEY is on my list,
And there is something I mustn’t miss.
But what is this, that on TV?
Zip Wiring, WOW THAT’S FOR ME!
The Lockdown, by Dorothy (Essay)
It has been very hard during Lockdown not able to go out, not being able to see friends and family. The hardest has been not being able to hug the children and grandchildren. The best thing was to try and keep busy. I managed to have some plants delivered, so was able to spend time in the garden.
I should have gone on holiday to Dunoon in Scotland, instead I went to Loch Down in Newcastle-u-Lyme. I decided to have a holiday at home. Typical of my holidays it rained that week. Never mind. I had bought some new pyjamas for my holidays so I wore them that week. Only at night I might add. Then each morning I cooked an English breakfast. One day we had an afternoon tea. Then because it was raining we watched a DVD. David did well as he wasn’t going with me on holiday to Dunoon but I let him share this holiday. I was going to take the dog on a long walk but because of the weather, it had to be short walks. Guess what the next week was? The start of the hot May weather, never mundane.
I have done lots of things during Lockdown, that I haven’t done before. I have mended the pump on the water feature, bled the radiators, pumped up the pressure in the boiler. Grown herbs. Tried new recipes, been on Zoom and conference calls, written poems. Painted with a never ending paint pot, cut my husband’s hair. I have phoned friends who I haven’t spoken to for a while. So some good has come out of this.
I will be so glad when things can be back to normal or as near to normal as can be. I will be glad to go to church again and to the groups and activities and the baths. But most of all to give my family a great big HUG.
Where’s Maggie? by Dave
I first met Maggie – while helping out on Beth Johnson healthy generations,
We were giving assistance on IT problems – so hopefully relieving some frustrations,
After one session in Stoke I gave lifts for John to Caverswall – near Meir,
And Maggie to Hanley – alighting by an off-licence which she may have entered to buy a twelve-pack of beer.
It may freak her out my having knowledge that she’s lived in Shelton and Birches Head in the past,
You’ll read later about her being party to London rioting – among other intelligence I’ve amassed,
In her earlier life as a child – she went to St Peter’s school in Penkhull,
Maggie ran a cafe in North Wales – it’d unlikely be gastro standard as the rarebit would be critical.
She worked as an IT project manager in London – understanding Gannt chart critical path analysis,
So she’s clearly good at planning – and likely dealing with moronic male prejudice,
Maggie has a passion for jazz – a difficult to describe genre of music,
I confess I find it uninspiring – given a choice I’d rather listen to the traffic.
Maggie supported CND – she’s experienced roughing it at Greenham Common,
It was near a Royal Air Force base – that tumultuous time won’t be forgotten,
The campaign was run by women only – undoubtedly the fairer gender,
Any blokes would have been in the way – so the ladies were able to keep it tender.
Maggie’s a thoroughbred labour supporter – that makes her a socialist,
When there was a poll (council) tax protest in London in 1990, she couldn’t resist,
She organised buses and trains – of her purpose she was in no doubt,
She needed to stand in Trafalgar Square – to yell “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, out, out, out”.
She’s retired from work now – but enjoys Beth Johnson volunteering,
As far as I know she’s done nothing – which could be described as embarrassing,
She’s found a niche during covid downtime – enjoying poetry via Zoom,
It she finds someone is boring like me – she can just turn down the volume.
The following page contains numerous odes which I created, during lockdown periods.