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Poet's Corner


Welcome back to our Poetry Feature Page

Are you a bit of a bard?

Do you write poems? Perhaps, like me, you used to contribute when the Lancashire Telegraph featured a Poet's Corner on their letters page? If either of these describes you, we would like to offer that opportunity here on your Acorn News Website. here you will see some old poems from before but there are a few new ones to read here also and we will endeavour to include new poems on a regular basis, so please get writing.



Miss Abigail worked at the bank:

A sensory deprivation tank

 for those who only dealt with cash.

Took quite the push to make a splash;

But something different came her way

 and brightened up her boring day

A man with plastic bag in hand,

 a ponytail tied in a band

 and eyes that sparkled like the ocean;

Perhaps some promise of devotion.

He set the bag upon the ledge where Abby sat behind,

 and told her with a little smile, 'That's all that I could find.

 My house is filled with bits and bobs, all lost at my expense.

 Today I turned it upside down to gather pounds and pence.

 I've got no clue of the amount but I must ask you kindly,

 to add it to my bank account, I'll follow your lead blindly.'

The money didn't matter, Miss Abigail looked past.

She locked eyes with the stranger and felt her heart beat fast.

But everything continued in a fairly fluid action.

 She processed every penny and it made a nice transaction.

After that the man came every day,

 he seemed to go out of his way

 to see Miss Abigail and then,

 he wrote his number with her pen.

He slipped it underneath the slot,

 her stomach tied into a knot.

Miss Abigail looked at the card, her heart filling with glee.

'This stranger's need for change,' she thought, 'has caused a change in me.'


By Natasha Jane Harewood


The willow goddess

Hanging like tresses over a Goddesses shoulders,

The silver grey leaves gently sway.

Around the caresses of her willowy fingers

The angry white foam spits in spray

Bubbling like stresses of a thousand pained voices

She will soothe their deep worries away.


Beneath the dark shadow of her flowing grey mantle

The cool green pool hides away

The bright and stark sun of the developing morning

Burns into the mind of the day

The matriarch bends as the breeze whispers quietly

Please guard us forever we pray."

© Barbara Milne



A tired old man sat all alone
Companions the poor soul had none
Only his shadows on the wall
His loved ones long since gone
His heart was sad, full of dread
As he brushed away a tear
Tomorrow he was going to leave
This house he loved so dear.
His eyes had grown dim
The old legs very weak
He knew the time had come
For other help to seek.
Into a bag a few possessions
Packed with loving care
Some photographs and letters
From his beloved Clare
With a tender smile, he fondly gazed
At furniture old and worn
Scratched and faded through the years
The couch all tattered and torn
But he could only see and hear
Sounds from long ago
His young wife gently rocking
Their baby to and fro
By the morning light he said a prayer
Then softly closed the door.
Oh Lord, I pray give me strength
To Weep again no more.

Written by Mrs Hilda Thompson
aged 90  from Accrington

The Snow

The snow alights on the ground,

Fluttering on the trees and all around.

Snowflakes dance and prance in the cold air,

With the milky moon an ornament up there.


Inside it's  warm as we gossip and sip.

Outside it's cold as we slither and slip.

The frozen puddles crack under our boots,

The owl in the trees happily hoots.


I love the thick jumpers and the hot homemade soup,

Shoppers pack the streets in their Pre -Christmas swoop.

The paths are crispy underfoot,

Fires burn furiously churning out soot.


Wheels spinning before they gain traction,

Gritters noisily springing into action.

Cyclists muscles begin to quiver,

Winter is here lets all shiver!

Branches hang low with the weight of the snow,

Its hard to think that the grass will still grow.


Suddenly the illuminated sign of the bus appears,

Trundling slowly down the road to the passengers' cheers.

The passenger in front pays with  a £20 note,

The driver digs patiently for change in his float

I show my pass and quickly grab a seat,

Clap my hands with joy, sharing the heat.


The snow alights on the ground,

Fluttering in the trees and all around.


Hugh Davies




The old animal

Stalks alone

His prey watched by his scavenging children

They muse whilst he brings down the kill

Hunting with quiet experience

His respect for the muffled sounds

Feeling the sun on his back

Watching the shadows

Listening with intent

Being part of the whole

That he has walked all his life

His blindness and deafness

And painful joints no impediment to his


But no defence against the onslaught

Of those he thought loved him

Barbara Milne


The Letterbox Go Pop!

The Town is now barren, not a seed shall grow.
Plants once so proud, now wither away and go.
You were once the garden visited by the many.
Once loved by all, by investing their last penny.

But now you are grey hiding behind the boards.
For Sale and To Let, are the commonest words.
Once a town that flew high a flag of ones glory.
Now just a vacant ghost town in a horror story.

Could you come back from the brink of a defeat.
Will you once again sit proudly on the county seat.
Sadly over the years you rode all of the punches.
You've tightened your belt, and skipped lunches.

But the world has changed now it's found online.
Where once we were the fish, and you the brine.
You kept us fresh and we felt so very much alive.
But you'll need more than platitudes to survive.

Sadly in some cases you the high street will be no more.
The customers weekly shop shall be delivered to a door.
Gone are the days of a trip down to enjoy the local shop.
Instead of the ring of a till we'll hear... The letterbox go pop!




From pasture to plate

In meadows green it spends its day,
Then strolls to the barn to pay its way.
The rent is just a pail of milk,
Rewarding the farmer with “pure silk”.

In every farm the cow will graze.
Its calmness never ceases to amaze.
But despite the music of its moo,
Few will give the beast its due.

As cows calmly chew their grass,
From field to plate they soon will pass.
To eat their flesh to some seems mean,
Depriving them of meadows green.

From pasture to plate the cow must go,
As into the restaurants hungry customers flow.
Maybe out there for a birthday treat,
To savour and enjoy their tasty meat.  

Hugh Davies



Uncontrolled illumination
Dances attention on
A black, velvet background.
Well defined roads
Illuminate the heavenly map.

The splashes of light,
Interspersed now
With a crescendo of sound:
Like God’s Bowling Alley.

Violently the two combine together:
An orchestrated display of pyrotechnics
Building up to fever pitch,
Then slowly abating.

Silent now;
The sky returns
To black normality.
Nature’s show is over.

Peter Jones



My Fair Lady

You are my fair lady, the only portrait in my time,
You stole my heart by the way, isn’t that a crime?
My heart repossessed by your wicked little charms.
My life is complete when I hold you in my arms.
Your beauty always radiates at a dangerous high
Surely one day I will explode, and that isn’t a lie!
Your eyes are like the torch that re-lights my way
I’m your guardian, your teacher, believe in what I say.

I pledge to never fail in my duty, whatever life sends
When you are down, I will lift you, by making amends.
My tears will build up, even to imagine life without you.
A long life time in your company, deserved and overdue.

Regretfully I must lay you softly, back down in your bed
Please covert my tender words, whilst I kiss your pretty head.
Now is the time where we must say farewell unto the night.
You are my little daughter, so beautiful and ever so bright.

Good night my fair lady xx






Poetry, they say, is a dying art.
Most poets don't arrive until they depart.
But I just cannot contemplate
Having as long as that to wait.
What good if my words are read with wonder,
When I'm already six feet under.

I don't wish to die at ninety-two,
Not having received my first review.
I would like to see my first work in print,
Before I'm old, or dead, or skint.
"Publish and Damned", goes the patter.
I'll take the former, but not the latter.

Why can't we achieve immortality
Without dying first, it makes sense to me.
It would be nice to receive some acclaim for my toil,
Before I shuffle off this mortal coil.
Surely it won't appear brazen or brash,
If I hope for fame, and a little cash.

If other art-forms can reap earthly rewards,
Like singers and actors, then why not the bards?
Is it too much to ask that I may make a living,
Doing something that pleasure, to people, is giving?
Is it so wrong, a member I don't want to be
Of the famous, "Dead Poets Society"?

 Peter Jones


The nits are back!

The new term is here and the nits are back,
Planning together how best to attack.
Ready to crawl from head to head,
On teachers,  children and inspectors from Ofsted.
We have six legs each with a claw at the end,
We feed on blood and round schools panic send.

We love thick hair whether dirty or clean,
For attacking us with nit combs, we think humans are mean!
I was once caught on sticky tape and shown to a G.P.
But managed to escape and quickly crawl free.
We cannot fly, jump or swim but we love to share,
We lay our eggs and cement them to kids dark and fair.
We only reside on humans and are easy to please,
Never on dogs, we absolutely hate their fleas.

The new term is here and we are after a treat,
New heads to crawl over, fresh children to meet.

Hugh Davies




When I look up and see you there.
It’s at this time, I feel that life’s not fair!
Standing proudly with your chest out.
Your arrogance of life you truly flout.

You will sing through life all day long.
I don’t understand a word of your song.
but to you it’s your righteous noble call.
That should be shared with one and all.

Your finery may I say, perfectly designed!
That will attract a mate, if you are inclined.
Your stature tells me that you’re not a fake.
Confident with life, and the steps you take.

So my sweet songbird, you made my day.
I will savour your beauty before you fly away!


World War I


World War I touched my family

like all families back then.

My mother was six when it started

when it finished she was only just 10.

It was mystifying for children

family members going away,

those left behind were quite uninformed

so there was little they could say

in answer to frequent questions.

By most folk nothing was known,

they just had to suffer in silence

and hope that their loved ones came home.

Many years later my mother divulged

That an uncle had given his life,

He’d signed up with the army alongside a mate

With the K.S.L.I. they would fight.

With consecutive numbers by which they were known

these two friends fought side by side,

then on the Menin Road not far from Ypres,

at Bellewarde Ridge, they died.

Sometime later when the telegram came

my mother knew something was wrong,

her mother, his sister, was silent and sad

and their home was no more full of song.

Life continued, but something was lost

smiles were now hard to find,

folk supported each other day by day

but distress still filled their minds.

One day, three years later, at 11 o’clock

a lone bugler was heard to play

at the “Volunteer “ Pub just down the road

and my mother heard her mother say,

“Thank God, oh thank God, it’s all over.

The war and the killing has ceased.

Bring home the men to their families

to live forever in peace."


Olive Riley


Authors Note:

These two young men who served with the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry, were two of seven from the Herefordshire village of Pixley and Putley, who were killed in WWI. 

They are remembered by the village on a memorial plaque on the wall, inside the small village church.  A poem titled “The Pixley Seven” written by the Vicar of the time, is also displayed.

The villagers raised funds for each of the seven families to be given an inscribed silver photo frame.  This frame with photo of my great Uncle Allen is still in our family.




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