Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

            The royal family were quick to accept the role of 'prize' on The UK's Finest Fillets TV show.             When the family sat down to sample the cod of Ezra Williamson, the Duke of Edinburgh made a passing comment. Unusually everyone was inclined to agree with it: if only they could organise a meal like this every year.             A proper meal, of course, requires a dessert. The Rule Britannia Cake Bake had been going strong for a little under a decade and the Duke of York had admitted to fancying a lemon drizzle cake made by an ambitious minority.             An agreement was reached with the producers and the Duchess of Cambridge was volunteered to sample the winner of that year: an overly-rich upside-down cake. She had to prove her worth...

I am about to tell you a story. It is the kind of story which, if I entered for a competition, I feel that people would think that this would never happen in real life, because it sounds so far-fetched. They would likely feel that this story is too unrealistic. The irony is, that they would be wrong, because every word of this story is true…          It was one of those blisteringly hot, long days of summer. The days that melted tarmac in the road to the consistency of cookie dough. The air was thick with humidity. Humidity, that seeped into your bones and weighed you down. These were the facts of my childhood summers. Hosepipe bans, dried out, scratchy, sickly yellow-coloured grass that looked as if it had never once been lush and green. Clay baked earth that dried rock-hard and became covered in fissures like mini earthquakes. On days like these, there was nothing to be done but to try to cool off, any way you could. No one had air conditioning in their hou...

From crack and snip, On blue-white sheets, To ash above or dust beneath, There is a force which can’t be broken, By distance or harsh words once spoken. Mother’s touch, The loving touch, The one you crave and need so much, Whose cradling arms stopped wailing cries, When life was merely suckling milk. Whose tender hands caressed your brow, In childhood fever and disease, Those arms which lifted you when down, With ointments and her gentle touch, She kissed away your screaming tears. When you were young your sunny days, Were filled with her sweet singing voice, Her warm eyes gazing down on you, Her Mona Lisa smile of love, To make things right, it was enough. And in achievement, up you’ll look And catch her proud eyes smiling there, When failure nags you in its midst, She’ll smile and tell you not to care, For mother’s love is always there. When time and seas divide your flesh, The cord which still holds fast your souls, ...

A Poem to end all Poems I relished this War, Like no war before, 'Cause it got me away from the wife. There'd be noise, there'd be mud, There'd be buckets of blood, And a stench you could cut with a knife. My two pals and I, Waved Blighty goodbye, And caught the first steamer to France. We were met at Calais, By a band in full play, And a Mademoiselle called Constance. I got a new cap, A compass a map, A rifle, and grew a moustache. Within a few weeks, I got trench foot at 'Eeps', And Willie developed a rash. Some newfangled tanks, Bolstered our ranks, The expected big push was nigh We mowed down the Hun, With a big machine gun, Their bodies piled two or three high. It shook me a tad, And it drove some men mad, Bombs exploding around us all day. There was this one fella, They said he was yella, And shot him the last day in May. On Hill Sixty-One, Our ammo all gone, We fixed bay...

I try to write but nothing good will come and when I speak the words stick in my throat yet still this dream that something must be done. Although you hear me say I’m having fun cold blood is spilled for every word I quote. I try to write but nothing good will come just futile rants, blank pages overrun with streams of adjectives to self promote but still this dream that something must be done. Dramatic night spins threads with scenes begun but dawning light sinks lines that do not float. I try to write but nothing good will come.   Though thoughts are light my pencil weighs a ton grey fog obscures the last few words I wrote but still I dream that something could be done. I fear it is the same for everyone - shouting, ears covered, pleading for a vote. I try to write but nothing good will come yet still this dream that something must be done. This poem, a villanelle, is dedicated to every writer who has struggled to put word...

For years my soul was a raw and bloody thing, fresh wounds opened every day, fresh torments suffered that far surpassed those of the flesh. Pain that runs deeper than any which nerves could ever transmit, my heart and mind sores never allowed to heal – for the first part of my life, this was all I knew. I was the very epitome of misery and anguish, never to know true happiness, never to know true love. Never to laugh or cry, or know what it is to be human. There was only pain and suffering of the kind that damages, the kind that marks. Until I met her. She was divine perfection with a heart that held enough love for us both. Every moment spent with her was a drug to subdue the agony at my core, every caress a healing touch, every laugh a salve to soothe the worst of my aches. And gradually the lesions began to close and scar, the pain no longer constant but only an occasional discomfort. She was my angel sent to raise me up out of Hell, and for a time I knew peace. I am damn...

So you’re down here. You couldn’t sleep either. Not after that bloody light. What light? Come on! It was you who woke me up telling me about it. Hang on – that was a dream – there was this really bright beam shining down just outside the bedroom window. It was in my dream so you can’t have seen it. It was still glaring when you woke me. Weird! But it was no dream. I’m making a cup of tea. Want one? Please – and a slice of granary toast if you don’t mind, with jam. It was a dream to me. Can you switch the radio on while you’re over there? See if you can find some nice calming music. Hey! One thing at a time. Where’s the jam? Oh you put it in the fridge again. Doesn’t need to live in there you know. That’s odd the radio doesn’t seem to be working. You know that thing where it comes on and then goes off almost straight away. Well now it’s decided not even to bother coming on. We’ll have to get a new one. I’ve been saying for ages. Oh Chewy! You’ve decided...