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Send us your Poems for publishing below...

If you like any of the poems submitted below please e-mail the Poet in question an tell them, it will make them feel great. However if you don't like them, keep your comments to yourself and keep your gob shut!

Happy Reading...

By Pauline Campbell
Winter's over, summer's come
To the seaside. -"Let's go Mum".
Punch and Judy's on the beach,
Donkey rides a penny each.
Straw hats, bare feet, bucket and spade,
Sandcastles with turrets all neatly laid
At water's edge; flag atop the tower tall--
Tide comes in and covers all.
Ice cream cones and fish 'n chips,
Pieces of rock and liquorice sticks.
Frocks hitched up above the knees,
Paddling and splashing in summer's breeze.
Mum in her deckchair looking on.
Dad watching holiday-makers on the prom.
Teatime's here "Oh must we go?"
It's past the fairground, penny a throw,
Bumper cars and threepenny rides,
Dad says we might just win a prize.
On the horses round and round
"Have a balloon" laughs a red-nosed clown.
"Roll-up, roll-up" comes the call,
Toss-a-Ring, Throw-a-Ball.
Sticky fingers in our hair
Clutching a great fuzzy teddy bear.
Home we go, we're on our way.
It's been such a lovely summer's day.

I loved you in the sunshine

Wrote a long time ago
By James Stirrat

I loved you in the sunshine, I loved you in the rain,
And I knew when I first saw you, I'd return to you again,
It's the place my mind returns to, when I need a happy thought,
And accumulated memories, I never have forgot, (and never will)

Yes, it's really made me happy, every time that I've been there,
It's the place I want to go to, if I could choose anywhere,
For it's never disappointed me, as all the years went by,
And there's no place can compare with it, no matter how they try (they never will)

Though I feel that I'm a Nationalist and there's beauty in my land,
The love I feel while in this place, you could never understand,
And although I love my birthplace, no matter where I roam,
I swear the day is going to come, this place shall be my home (forever more)

They can have their cruises round the world, or fly off to the sun,
And I know that when it comes to taste, it's different for everyone,
For although I love dear Scotland and it's very dear to me,
When I retire, then Morecambe is the place I want to be (eternal bliss)

Under the Table

My childhood memory
by Keith Stewart

Under the Table,

The music from the radio drifted through the rosy gloom,
The flickering, cracker ling, fire sending shadows dancing
On the walls, heat on my face, cold on my back, toast on
The fork. Time ticking blank.

Under the Table,

Mum said nothing, her furtive eyes moving with the pulsing sound pushing
Through the night sky high above, the menacing sound grew louder
And louder, directly above now, dizzy with galloping fear we held our breath
Lest it stopped “Please don’t stop” mum whispered.

Under the Table,

The Bang! Bang! Bang! On the door took us all by surprise, my
Dad’s tin hat fell to the floor, “Blackout! Blackout! “The warden
Shouted, I watched my Mum fix the blanket to the window the
Chink of light covered she rushed back to the table

Under the Table

The pulsing engine coughed and stopped we clutched each other, the room
Shrinking “four minutes to crash” Dad shouted we all began to Count, ho God,
Dear God, The explosion Seemed surprisingly distant, thank God, music drifted
Back into the room with the reassuring sound of the all clear as we stood from beneath the table.

One Moment In Time

Dedicated to Robert Harvey Whitehill
By Viet-Cong

Wrecker Bob!!!!
This is what Bob was.
One Moment in time.
One Moment in my time.
Bob is ------ Bob was
Bob was my boyfriend, mentor, friend
Everything in one.
Having known Bob, having spent almost half my life with the guy.
You get to know what he is all about, where he was coming from.
Bob was a great believer in living life to the fullest.

Making the most of the worst situations.
Bob was a loner,
But yet everybody was attracted to the way he was.
The way he said things ,
He had a lovely way with words.
Unique to Wrecker himself.
He said what he thought, straight to the point.
He looked out for me, I for him.
Life went on, we split...........went our separate ways.

But,yet there was something which held us together
I couldn't live with him, but couldn't live without him.
I will always carry a piece of Bob with me.
He is part of me, and me of him.
We knew, one day we would get it right.
Maybe our wish will come true.
We all have our own memories of Bob
My memory is of a man I loved, a man whom I could trust with every fibre of my being.
I love him.
I will miss him.
"One Moment In Time"
Never forget.
As Bob would say.
"Shed No Tears, Drink Plenty O' Beers"
Yours Always Viet-Cong Sue.

Dear Peter,

I came here 23 years ago with a broad Cockney accent, never having seen the sea or even a seagull before. I married a Sand- grown un' and have never forgotten the impact Morecambe had upon my soul. I love Lancashire it is surrounded by sheer beauty. I love the quaint dry stone walls that I have never seen anywhere else and I especially love the Morecambe accent, it has a poetry of it's own! They can change a thousand buildings and roads in Morecambe - but if they never change these Lanky folk, then I am truly happy! As a once city dweller, Morecambe is a haven of treasured things and history.

Keep up the good work on this site - it is really interesting.

Marie Tyson

P.S I am not too good at poetry, but Morecambe inspires me to write about it....

Marie Tyson

W'ell have to change your name to Modesty Tyson because I think it's very good! I'm also good at poems: The boy stood on the burning deck,..well perhaps another time!

by Marie Tyson

As I stand looking out to sea,
I feel the wind rushing, cool and free.
The Bay, it sits - inviting admiration,
Says ‘I’m the finest in the Nation!’

The view of the velvet nestled hills,
That once held the whir of mills,
The waves splash with secret treasure,
Shrimps and prawns, culinary pleasure!

A place with the past and future together,
Fishing boats bob up and down on rope tether,
Children playing on the horse of stone,
This place which I proudly call my home.

If you stand by the sea at night and listen,
To waves which gently glisten,
You can hear a boats bell gentle chime,
‘Sail with me and forget the time’

I came here from a big gloomy city,
But, I don’t look back with pangs of pity,
I feel the pull of Morecambe Town,
A Lanky place –‘Beauty surrounds, health abounds!’

Marie Tyson

Keir Wells - Burwood - Australia

Written while in a 'Black Mood’, sitting in a pub in North Sydney and drinking straight Scotch.

We Should Know

What is it we should know?

Who holds back the answer we need?

The answer that provides the ultimate delivery.

Delivery from an environ and society that seems destined to bring itself to such an awful demise.

There are children who weep over their parents’ bodies.

Animals of grace and beasts of might. Fading fast from this once green earth.

The old man who, through no fault of his own, killed in a war, walks alone along the city streets.

A bottle in his hand and his trousers stained with days old urine.

He remembers when a flower meant peace and not the proven absence of poison.

He remembers Woodstock a time of love and three days of being in another world.

He remembers then the distant crack of a rifle shot.

The panic.

The confusion.

His best friend dead.

He remembers the satisfaction of firing back at the unseen enemy. His US-made M60 thumping rhythmically, almost sensually back into his shoulder.

He remembers the sweep.

He remembers the sight.

The sight of children weeping over the bodies of their parents.

He remembers no more…why would he want to?

The bottle’s better.

Better than the bodies.

Better than sex.

So what is it we should know?

Who the should we blame?

It sure isn’t God. After all, he’s an invisible prick who wants nothing to do with us.

It’s more a case of where rather than what is the answer.

Ask the old man…he knows.

That’s why he drinks himself to death.

Eric Morecambe

By Parry Maguire, (Published Poet) Bacup, Lancs

Poured a million words
Into one knowing smile
And home
Where salt and spray
Perfumes the rain
And the seagulls
Wouldn't dare
And home
Where the heart
Can rest easy
And leave for a
Better stage
And the t.v?
A box in the corner
Of the room
That gave the world
A glimpse of your
Beautiful soul.

by Craig Laycock, 2000.

It was one of those days,
We were packed in the car.
My sister just laughing,
"Ooh, har har har."

Up ahead was one big thing,
An item, a vehicle,
A number to ring.

"How's my Driving?"
The sign did say,
Enough of that - man,

The tractor was blocking,
The whole flamin' road,
If we stayed here much longer,
I'd wither and grow old.

Let's go! Hit full speed!
Move ahead at Warp Factor!
I'd like to move faster than that smelly tractor.

"Smelly, you say?" My sister declared.
"Can't be as smelly as your greasy hair."

Settle down, settle down
Came the inevitable cries,
I looked at the rear and thought,
Why oh why?

Let's go! Hit full speed!
Move ahead at Warp Factor!
I'd like to move faster than that smelly tractor.

At last! He's gone! He disappeared!
The ordeal with the farmer may have been over-feared!

Alas, he came back - in the form of another,
A less-powerful, slower, old grandmother.

This poem was constructed by Craig Laycock. Any similarity to events or persons either living or dead is purely co-incidental. No animals were harmed in the making of this poem. Eat spam and enjoy a long, fruitful life. Life is like a box of chocolates... etc.

Brian Wilson, -Toronto, Canada - e-mail :

Another short poem from the pen of Auntie "B"

FULL MOON June 1975

Oh, Thou hitherto inviolate moon

I watch thee speechless from my room

How can it be that man has trod

In places that were meant for God

I have no words that can explain

Why knowing this gives me pain

I sit and write, I know not how

Who guides my pen-Can it be Thou?

Beryl S. Hopps

Elizabeth Jolley, - Venice, California, USA -
e-mail :


There was a very funny man
a comic I fondly recall
He did a most enjoyable act
at the long ago Music Hall

He told some jokes that made me laugh
sang songs that were quite wry
many songs he wrote himself
so talented was he thought I

He had a lovely speaking voice
so deep and rich and clear
a voice that would eventually
as an actor on the stage appear

One of his acts was such a scream
I thought it his best by far
he wore black tights and long dark wig
as the Professor he was the star

He did a silly little walk
back and forwards on the stage
then to the piano he did go
pretending to be quite a sage

All kinds of funny things did he
at the piano he made quite a show
a flea he pretended bit his leg
his right arm appeared to grow

One time a book he decided to write
he named it: The Fool on the Hill"
it told us all about his life
sounded to me like a bitter pill

Many years have passed since he was here
at the end had a tragic fall
fell down some stairs and cracked his head
that was the end of the fabulous MAX WALL

by Elizabeth Jolley

Elizabeth Jolley, - Venice, California, USA -
e-mail :

Dreaming of Morecambe

Sitting here and dreaming
Of days that used to be
Happy days, Joyful days
at Morecambe-by-the sea

Wishing I could be there
walking on the Prom
Kites a flying
Seagulls crying
Children on the sand

Eating Brucciannis ice cream
the best I have ever known
fish and chips in newspaper
A cuppa tea and scone

Life has many changes
Yet in my heart I know
I always ,forever will feel the same
wherever I may roam

Dear old friendly Morecambe
Maybe someday, hopefully real soon
I'll be back again to see you
It will be like jumping o,er the moon

by Elizabeth Jolley

by Louis Lloyd-Judson - Lancaster
(I wrote this poem about 2 years ago for my GCSE's.)

Once there lived a single parent,
That lived in the centre of Shril Lanka,
Alone she cared for her only child,
For the father was killed in an accident with a sewage tanker.

The baby was cute and playful,
But unfortunately 2 lbs under weight,
Her name was Rapunzle -
A name that would end in fate.

Rapunzle was none too clever,
But she had her childhood sense,
She was a freak for her hair grew too quickly,
she also had a problem with flatulence.

Next door a mentally disabled women lived,
Who was horizontally chanlanged,
She lived in a run down old caravan,
Despite this she managed.

Outside her caravan she had a green house,
Where she grew fresh avocados,
She had a tall fence around her boundaries,
with a small driveway for her Larda.

Rapunzle's mother spied these avocados,
She thought they would be nice to eat,
So she broke in at night and pinched the lot,
Her plan worked like a treat.

But in the morning,
On the door a knock she did hear,
It was the old lady from next door,
The mother was struck with fear.

"You nicked my goodies,
And now you must pay!"
The strange little old lady said,
"I want my avocados back,
But I'll take your daughter back instead!"

The mother was distraught,
She loved her daughter lots,
Plus the fact that the avocados,
Had given her the trots.

Rapunzle grew up with her new stepmother,
Until she couldn't get a baby sitter,
So she she took punzle far away,
And a 100ft tower she was left to fritter.

The tower was cold and damp,
But had the bare essentials,
Such as a toilet, a bed,
And stain less steel kitchen utensils.

Everyday her stepmother would visit,
To Repunzle she would shout,
"Chuck your hair down lass,"
Repunzle obeyed without a doubt.

Of cause the hair was renenforced,
With several steel strips,
Also a safety harness hung,
All surgically bolted to her hips.

She would climb into the tower,
For no apparent reason,
Everyday she would arrive,
despite the weather and season.

But then one dull October day,
A fire fighter appeared at the tower base,
And shouted up to the window,
Where her noticed Punzle's pretty face.

Despite all his trying,
He couldn't find a way to enter,
He was just leaving when the e old lady came,
And to Repunzle a message she did send her.

"Chuck down your hair lass,"
Ah so that was the way to access,
So the fire fighter ran back home,
and stayed up all night to practice.

Early the next morning,
He gave it a go,
"Chuck down your hair lass,"
The hair came down with a single throw.

Holding on tightly,
He began to climb,
It was an upward struggle,
But he got there after some time.

When he came through the window,
poor punzle got a fright,
But there was nothing to worry,
It was love at first sight.

Just seeing Punzle,
Made the fighter want to kiss and hold her,
Though she not too attractive,
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Rapunzle knew,
What she was doing was right,
But she was out of her head,
And she asked to see him the next night.

All that day she made a rope,
With an attached bungee cord,
In case it broke.

When her stepmother,
Came that day,
Punzle wasn't thinking straight,
And a mistake she did say.

"Oh how much heavier you are,
than my brave fire fighter,"
"So that's your game,
I'll catch this little blighter!"

So at night,
When the fighter came to call,
The old lady jumped out and pushed him,
Into his 100ft fall.

Down he went with a high pitched cry,
He wasn't killed,
But a thistle went in his eye.

The fighter was blinded,
And the old lady at the end of her tether,
She chucked Rapunzle out,
At last they could be together.

Rapunzle cut off her hair,
And sold it to Dame Edna,
Just so that her partner,
Could have cosmetic surgery on his retna.

They got married,
And a house they did share,
But after only a week,
Her husband had an affair.

Rapunzle had to live,
Among the filth and muck,
Until the day she was run over by a garbage truck.



Hi Brian!

A poem by my Auntie B.
Beryl S. Hopps
(The Cliffs, Heysham)


The child
She is not mine
Stands, looks, speaks
She is divine

With candid glance
From soft brown eye
She asks me "How"
And sometimes "Why"

She dances round
Or plays a game
Says I'm her friend
And speaks my name

She smiles at me
Then sings a song
Her childish treble
Shrill and strong

I know her worth
And think her fine
Though as I said
She is not mine.

Brian Wilson, -Toronto, Canada - e-mail :

The following is a poem written by my Auntie B
(Beryl Hopps)


Have you been to Levens
To see the salmon leap?
They climb the rocky staircase
But not to go to sleep

The salmon swim upstream
As if by compass led
They struggle on so bravely
To find a gravel bed

Dogged and determined
To follow natures plan
They set a good example
To less courageous man

They glitter and they glisten
When leaping through the air
Oh, have you been to Levens
To see the salmon there?

Beryl S. Hopps

Is there a way i can get comments about my poem?


Bud my angel
you've turned my life around,
I was headed down a dead end road
things will get better, I was told.

My pain was put to an end
when you walked into my life,
boy am i glad i whispered
pssst..are you single?

You've made me realize
not all men are cruel,
is there such a thing as to happy?
or is this how life should be?

Its hard to explain my smile
the smile you put on my face,
the little girl inside me is jumping up and down
cause now my smile is no longer a frown.

People said I expected to much
there would never be a man,
like the one in my dreams
hee hee did i show them.

I couldnt see his face in my dreams
although i think i have found him,
how am i to know? How can i be sure?
What am i saying, Im sure but is he?

Please e-mail our friend at with any comments you have about her poem (constructive please, not just it's great or crap!)

(PS author what is your name?)


Bud my angel
you've turned my life around,
I was headed down a dead end road
things will get better, I was told.

My pain was put to an end
when you walked into my life,
boy am I glad I whispered
pssst..are you single?

You've made me realize
not all men are cruel,
is there such a thing as to happy?
or is this how life should be?

Its hard to explain my smile
the smile you put on my face,
the little girl inside me is jumping up and down
cause now my smile is no longer a frown.

People said I expected to much
there would never be a man,
like the one in my dreams
hee hee did I show them.

I couldn't see his face in my dreams
although I think i have found him,
how am I to know? How can I be sure?
What am I saying, I'm sure but is he?

Hazel Egan
(for John Egan)
Tambellup, Western Australia e-mail :

This is a poem, written by my husband John ..he was working in Germany at the time for Mowlem's Centrsline .... (I noticed there were Mowlem's contractors doing the promenade - the last time I was home in '97

regards Hazel Egan

PS ..I have just been on a month's visit to Queensland where I met up with ex-Morecambrians ...Linda Gardner (nee Crinion) and her sister Josie Cook (nee Crinion, of course!) we had a couple of wonderful evenings ..filled with nostalgia ... and Morecambe and her people, were very much the theme !

Be a Friend by John Egan

'Old lady, dead in room three weeks.'
The glaring headlines read.
How often have we read these words?
Then sadly, shook our head.
Then with a shrug, we turn the page
The 'Sportsview' to peruse.
We wonder what the score will be
Will our favourites, win or lose?

We all of us have neighbours-
Who are old or past their prime
We sometimes say - 'I must pop in -
One day, when I have time'
Somehow that day just never comes
Until it's much too late -
And until one day you look and see -
An ambulance at their gate.

It doesn't cost us money
And it doesn't take much time
To knock upon the door to see
That everything is fine
It can make an old soul happy
To know they have a friend
For the world's a very lonely place
When we near our 'journey's end'.


If you like this one I have many more !

More, more, what are you waiting for (I'm a Poet and I know it!)

Don Schlundt - Mesa, Arizona, USA

There was a man named Kent

His nose was very bent

He followed it so far one day

No one knows where Kent went

Hello again Brian!

Brian Wilson - e-mail :

(Auntie "B") Beryl Hopps, The Cliffs, Heysham

Hi Peter....The site is looking Good!!

I have another poem from the pen of my Auntie B...








Angel child,

Little horror,

Wants "Today"

Not "Tomorrow"


Tantrums, tears,

Childish fears,

Rosebud mouth,

Big, Big eyes,

Always coy,

With a boy,

All this

And more,

In a child,

Of four.

Martin A. Barnes. Canada

Martin has in the past written poem's and had work published in London England, USA, and in Canada. In all of the books is included a poem about Morecambe called 'Morecambe Bay' He has kindly donated it to the town and people of Morecambe for all to read,...

Morecambe Bay

As I sit on the shore in the town of my birth,

I gaze out to sea and know there is no finer view on earth,

The lakeland hills etched against the sky like wet clumps of paper left to dry,

Valleys too of green and gold like a beautiful tapestry too precious to hold.

The sun beats down on a sea of blue, and as if taking a cue,

The seagull's cry and dip and whirl.

This view must surely be England's pearl.


Evening comes and the sun sinks low,

Oh the joy of that sun-set glow,

Behind the mountain peaks and in every fold

Across the bay a path of molten gold,

No words of mine or brush however fine could paint such a scene,

Only our eyes can feast upon this view,

This beauty by the Creator, the artist unseen.

Night Before Finals


Christine Sykes - PSC 4 BOX 3191

Twas the night before finals, And all through the college, The students were praying For last minute knowledge.

Most were quite sleepy, But none touched their beds, While visions of essays Danced in their heads.

Out in the taverns, A few were still drinking, And hoping that liquor Would get their brains thinking.

In my own apartment, I had been pacing, Dreading all those exams I soon would be facing.

My roommate was speechless, His nose in his books, And my comments to him Drew unfriendly looks.

I drained all the coffee, And brewed a new pot, No longer caring That my nerves were shot.

I stared at my notes, But my thoughts were all muddy, My eyes went a'blur, I just couldn't study.

"Some pizza might help," I said with a shiver, But each place I called Refused to deliver.

I'd pretty much concluded Life is unfair and cruel, Since our futures all depend on grades made in school.

When all of a sudden, Our door ope

Christine I don't know if your poem is supposed to end that way (it does leave the mind wondering!) or if the e-mail has been cut short, although I suspect the latter to be the case. Could you please send the poem again direct to peter with any other comments you have and an e-mail address, just in case someone spots you and wishes to publish your poem.