The Westgate Run (Re-Run).

“Get the round in John!”

Upon the Merrie Cities oldest street

when twilight creeps across the Yorkshire sky,

traditionally friends and strangers meet

and let the velvet darkness pass them by.

In pictures from a dim and distant past,

as gaslight spilled from heavy shadowed doors,

to neon tinted bars of Friday last

the sound of liquid l...

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The Ballad of Robert Hode

In the year of 1332

After the Despenser War

Robert Hode of Wakefield

Become a famed outlaw

He’d been an archer for Lancaster

(who was executed by the king)

And had his lands forfeited

For daring to fight for him

Now you may know him better

By the name of Robin Hood

Who some say came from Nottingham

But I would say you should

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The observant amongst you will no doubt have seen my latest poems being posted as music tracks. That's because I've rewritten a number of poems that I had previouly posted about my home city of Wakefield and added music. I've done this alongside a brilliant guitarisr/instrumentalist, John Kettle, from indie/folk band Merry Hell.
There's a range of music styles on the album - and although the subj...

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The Beast Beneath The Beck

The beck at Westgate End is full of reeds,

its water is a muddy shade of brown,

confused ducks die within anaemic weeds

as sunken shopping trolleys pull them down.

Sometimes you hear a cold slithering splash,

as though some ancient creature has slid in

to feast upon the centuries of trash.

Who knows what evils are contained within?

It...

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Laila Liqourish

Well, the black robed friars grew the sweet root

At St Richards and St Johns in Pontefract

And the local folk called the black gold Spanish

After travelling monks who brought it back

It was used as a medicine to cure a wide range

Of ailments of the gut and of the lungs

And the only side effect of treating the diseased

Was the colour of their lips and t...

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Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb

When I was very young it wasn’t very hard

You could find rhubarb in every back yard

A ruby red treasure growing from the ground

Worth its weight in gold and so easily found

Your mother would cook it and put it in a pie

But its very best use – and I tell no lie –

Was to dig it up and treat it like grapes upon the vine

By turning it by magic int...

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Down In The Hole

My father said it was this life or the dole –

so sacrifice ambition, heart and soul

if our family was to earn a crust

then I would have to work until I was bust

Years of hardship finally took its toll

I had danced to the tune of Old King Coal

and I was laid off, let into the light

a blessing to escape eternal night

I was sixteen, they thre...

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Spinning Jenny

When times were hard old Reg Malone

Sent his daughters out to work

And they all went out diligently

Not being ones to shirk

Maria went to Hagenbach’s

And helped to bake the bread

While Jenny went to Albion Mills

To weave the worsted thread

She worked the uncombed worsted yarn

As swift and skilled as any

And those who knew her said of her

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The Blue Lady

This is the tale of Mary Bolles who lived at Heath Old Hall

And died there in 1662 and was buried ‘neath the soil.

But still her spirit walked Heath Grove the story has been writ

Until conjured down into a hole that’s still called Bolles Pit.

The spell was not so powerful to keep her there for long

And soon the tales were told of the sound of her plaintive song

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The Weeping Angel

She passed this way and tended to our pain,

administered our wounds and eased our fears

telling us that we would be home again.

stayed by our beds and whispered in our ears,

She was gentle, but never weak or frail,

Remember Nellie Spindler from Wakefield

the only woman killed at Passchendaele

An angel weeps for her in Flanders Field

Once...

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Dreadnought

We crossed the Chantry Bridge

As the Calder boiled beneath

And a drifting, chilling mist

Hung heavy on the heath

We came from far and wide

Marching all together

To gather at Belle Vue

Despite the dank, inclement weather

There were grandfathers and fathers

There were mothers, daughters, sons

Hand in hand in heavy coats

As bitter cold caresse...

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Cuttings

Here we go 'round the mulberry bush,

The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.

Here we go 'round the mulberry bush,

On a cold and frosty morning morning.

They took a sprig from Hatfeild Hall

And planted it in Wakefield Gaol

A Mulberry bush grew on the spot

Its humble origins forgot

And there female prisoners exercised at night

Beneath the pale Yorkshire...

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Marketplace

This space is like a ghost town

Trestle tables row on row

Echoing with the hustle bustle

Vendors cries of long ago

I hold my mother’s hand

And listen to them shout

‘apples sixpence a pound

Come on get your money out!’

I went back there when I was home

All that was left were wooden frames

And rotting boards of each seller’s plot

The faint le...

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Wachefeld

Let’s start at the beginning

In a land of ice and snow

Where a brave band of armoured warriors

Set sail with sword and bow

To forge a new life far way

And settle in a land

Where the gods had promised riches

For each and every man

We sailed the mighty North Sea

And  by the grace of Odin’s beard

Landed safe in England

Where our kinsmen were ri...

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The Merrie City Serenade

Behind the market hall, riding the Ark

Hand in hand lovers strolling through the park

Carving their initials deep in the bark

on this Merrie City Serenade

Old men and teenagers sitting in The Chance

Ian and Peter refusing to dance

Across the mighty Rafters dance floor expanse

to the Merry City Serenade

On Cannonball hill beneath a ...

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Citizens

The Bakers, the Millers, the watchmakers.

The clerics, the priests and the reeves.

The plougher of fields and the sower of seeds.

The bankers, the scoundrels, the thieves.

The farmers, the tailors, the shopkeepers.

The woman who sits home and weaves.

The godless, the hypocrites and sinners.

The bishop who prays and believes.

The innkeepers, drunks and ...

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Cuttings

They took a sprig from Hatfeild Hall

And planted it in Wakefield Gaol

A Mulberry bush grew on the spot

Its humble origins forgot

And there prisoners exercised at night

Beneath the pale Yorkshire moonlight

Round and round the tree they went

Those sinners who could not repent

Before that Mulberry tree had died

They took some cuttings to the outside

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I'm hosting a new poetry and comedy open mic night in Wakefield on the 2nd Wednesday of the month starting on Wednesday 12th February.
Entry is FREE and everyone is welcome.

email me to reserve a spot or sign up to perform on the night from 7pm - 7.30pm

Performances will start at 7.30(ish)

More details on the events page or the link (below)

https://www.writeoutloud.net/public/eventvie...

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Raising The Standards (With Banners Held High) [MUSIC VERSION]

You said that you wanted a land fit for heroes,

a place to call home that they’d show off with pride

but somewhere along the way you forgot

the reasons they fought and the reasons they died.

They thought they were fighting for honour and justice,

suppressing the tyrants and saving our land -

but returned ...

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I don't usually do pre-amble, but in this case it's necessary. I took part in a city team slam last night where one of the requirements was to 'roast' the opposition city in a warm up exercise.

In West Yorkshire, particularly in Rugby League, one of the historic rivalries is between Leeds and my home city of Wakefield - we co-exist just 7 miles apart. I was asked to 'roast' the city of Leeds - ...

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The Weeping Angel

She passed this way and tended to our pain,

stayed by our beds and whispered in our ears,

administered our wounds and eased our fears -

telling us that we would be home again.

Once, in her hands, I saw pendant and chain,

I will remember that for many years,

an angel weeping solitary tears

that made me think of the oncoming rain.

She sent it to her ...

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Once Upon A Time

Pop wagons
rattling and clinking
with their gaudy shades
of potions slopping.

Coal lorries
groaning up the hill
breathing their dragons breath
of carbon dust.

The aged magik
of a ramshackle
cobblers hut
and the clanging of the last.

The shout of
“Rag and Bone”
echoing down
a Monday morning.

Tobacconist 
selling chocolate cigars
to little mimics
of the...

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The Westgate Run.

Upon the Merrie Cities oldest street

when twilight creeps across the Yorkshire sky,

traditionally friends and strangers meet

and let the velvet darkness pass them by.

In pictures from a dim and distant past,

as gaslight spilled from heavy shadowed doors,

to neon tinted bars of Friday last

the sound of liquid laughter gently pours.

...

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Northern Lights (54th)

The Northern Lights are ablaze tonight

And, oh, I’m feeling down.

You never could just treat me right,

You always played around.

This fallen angel’s lost his wings

And come, at last, to ground –

While all the while my world turns

And those Northern Lights go round.

The heavens glow with neon arcs

The skyline blazes brigh...

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