Friday, 18 March 2016

My Friend the Radio

Radio the way to go
The sound that fills the day
Soothing sounds to chill the spine
Or songs that we all know
Listen when you’re on your own
A friend at any hour
When sleep is scarce a voice is there
To comfort and to share

Philosophy and comedy
Some-thing for every taste
DAB and FM who will win
The battle of the waves
The News today and every day
The Archers will enthral
Book at bedtime play for today
The plots come thick and fast

Desert islands discs and chat
Music everyday
Woman's hour I learn so much
And blush at what they say
Politicians prattle on
And try to get their way
On Today and every day
Far too much to say

Listen nodding sailing by
The Queen is on the way
Shipping forecast so precise
Ends another day
Radio you good old friend
I'm off to sleep for now
Hope I wake and you are there
You are a friend I (you) know

Inspired by James Massiah, poet and wordsmith in residence with Radio 4, and many years of listening to the radio, particularly in the wee small hours.

Alistair J Parker
18th March 2016

Monday, 29 February 2016

The Birth of a Railway - The Birth of a Town

Sir Peter Hesketh Fleetwood was, a man of land and dreams
He lived at Rossall by the point, the north end of the Fylde
Rabbit warrens, sandy hills and marshes all around
At Rossall Hall he hatched a plan, a plan to take his name

Eighteen thirty was the year, a time of trains and steam
Making things was what they did in factories and in mills
Peter Fleetwood had a dream that one day he would see the queen
He’d build a railway then a town a port with ships that steam

The future beckons those who say that ports and railways are the way
Belching monsters hissing steam more than just a smoky dream
Futures calling those who hear, the forward way is written clear
He’d seen the Rocket, well impressed, George Stephenson, he was the best

He’s quite the man you need to know, he’s building railways good to go
The railways were the way to go, to go to Fleetwood and beyond
Railways steamships foreign lands smoking factories meet demand
Fleetwood is the place to be, to come by train, to see the sea

The land is bought, a port is born, the track is laid, a railway made
The railway days have now appeared and railway tracks are being laid
No muddy roads or slow canals, railway trains are now the way
Preston’s twenty miles away, we can visit twice a day

The great day comes the crowds are out, shouting waving flags about
Locomotive, splendid coaches, packed with ladies wearing broaches
Special people looking grand, drinking champagne with a band
We’re off to Fleetwood, clouds of steam, the engines chuffin like a dream

All aboard and yes we’re late, forgot the brown ale, but they’ll wait
Hissing clanking, belching smoke, snaking onwards gleaming track
Lots of people making hay cheering shouting all the way
Amazing sight a chuffing train faster than a human brain

Through a village, little town, past the houses, painted brown
Clicking clacking, on the rails, hear the whistle blowing loud
Kirkham, Poulton, bells are peeling, tranquil fields, and grazing cows
Over banking palisades, by the river round the bend, to the station at the end

The day was fine the crowds were vast, ensigns fluttered from the masts
Here is Sir Peter, knobs in tow, troop down the platform all a show
Stepping from the carriage doors, they strut their stuff, to massed applause
Congratulations left and right, it was such a joyous sight

Lots of pomp and beer and glee, by the river by the sea
New town nestles by the sands, healthy bathing, ain’t it grand
Crowded trains from smoky towns, bringing folk to breathe the air
New horizons open wide, a brave new town goes nationwide

In Decimus his trust he placed, to draw him up a winning place
Fleetwood Town does grow and grow, around the mount the roads do flow
Set out by plough the streets do show, neat little houses row on row
Fleetwood he of Rossall fame, had planned a town to take his name

The Queen she came with retinue by boat from Scotland’s shores
To Fleetwood on the way down south, to London town she did go
By train and railway don’t you know, the only way to go
She came and went with pomp and glee, watched by thousands from the quay

People came from miles around to see Queen Vic in the town
The band played loud, folk waved a lot, a fleeting glimpse is all they got
She’d gone before the mayor say; it’s been a very merry day
Off to Poulton for a stop to take on water not a drop

The dogs did bark the kids did shout, the Queen was chuffed and waved about
I am impressed; she deigned to say, as the royal train sped away,
I’ll be back here don’t you know, to go by train’s the way to go
A town he built, and railway ran, tell old Fleetwood he’s the man

Written when engaged with an art residency for Wyre Borough Council together with Left Coast, as part of a exhibition installation on the theme of the port and town of Fleetwood that was built in response to the arrival of the west coast railway from Preston. The railway provided a link from London to the west coast of Scotland.  With reference to the visit of Queen Victoria to Fleetwood on her return from Scotland in the Royal Yacht to link with the new railway from Fleetwood to London.
Alistair J Parker 
29th February 2016

Sunday, 27 December 2015

Boil on yer Bum

Red and swollen pulsing pain
Carbuncled flesh a festering boil
Painfully pulsing pouting head
Poultice bandage draw it out
Pop it lance it to relieve
Suppurating oozing pus
Squeeze and squeeze relief is nigh
Gushes forth into the sky
Like custard oozing from the ground
It's gone it's gone no more no pain
Such sweet relief to sit again

Alistair J Parker


27th December 2015

Sunday, 22 November 2015

My Mate Ken

He’d knock you down and pick you up
And make a set of teeth
He’d buy a pint or two or more
And never let you pay
He’s wily, crafty like a fox
Streetwise, wary, sharp
Loyal and fair
Opinions about everything
He’d argue white is black 
A mate you’d want to watch your back
He’s like a brick, a rock, a mate
A mate who’ll see ya right
A mate who fights for what is right
A mate who’s always there
He’s what a mate is for
A mate in need 
Is a mate indeed
That’s my mate Ken

For Kens 85th Birthday

Alistair J Parker
22.11.15

Thursday, 8 October 2015

Fathers Day Poems by Alice Money Age 6

This year my Granddaughter Alice, age 6,
composed a collection of poems for her
daddy to give him on Father's Day. I have
to confess to having been blown away
by what she wrote unassisted. I helped
her compile them into a book from her
written manuscript.

For a limited time, you can download a
PDF copy of the book here.

I Can't Write Poetry

Strange things happen. About eighteen
months ago, quite out of the blue I felt the
urge to write a poem. I was driving at the
time and I was thinking about the walk to
shore from my grandfather' s house that
was a familiar part of my summer holidays
as a child. I was on my way to Lancaster
University. When I arrived I went for a
coffee, pulled out my notebook and started
writing. The words just came, why I am not
sure. Hitherto I had considered myself
incapable of writing a poem. I enjoy poetry
and I admire those who can write it, but
never me.

So why did I start writing poetry? I am not
sure, it may be an age thing. But they keep
on coming, often in the most unlikely
places, what I call my "bog seat moments 
because that is where and when I seem to 
find inspiration. I don't think Wordsworth 
has much to worry about but eighteen 
months on I find myself with a collection 
of poems. So here is my first book of poems 
and the nostalgic thoughts that are often 
associated with them. 

My first book created in Blurb for my own
amusement and as a gift for friends and 
family was called Remembering, because as I 
said earlier the first poem I wrote was about
remembering the place I spent so many of
my childhood holidays and many of the
other poems are also inspired by nostalgic
memories.


Wednesday, 27 May 2015

Memories from Marks

Album photo turn the pages
Fid a photo memories old
Text and pictures don’t agree
Missing memories very strange
Place and person they’re ok
Click of shutter can’t be heard
Find another
They’re so similar
Why so after all this time

Think of snapshots
Where do they come from?
Memories are made of this
Tiger’s pigs and buffaloes
Upon the walls of caves
Scratches scribbles marks on marks
Hand prints saying I was here

Pin of light falls on the ground
See the sun and moon and stars
Darkened room and knotted walls
Pictures painting walls with light
Upside down and inside out
Eyeball Oxen lens and soul
See you saw it’s upside down

Mirror mirror curved and bright
Cast an image in the night
Lenses glasses looking seeing
Magnifying help in seeing
Marks are made for not to forget
To remember to recall
Unconscious thoughts and

Writing drawing memory
Visit beauty view sublime
Sketch it view it on a screen
Magical to paint with light
Silver darkens shadows seen
On the magic little screen
Frame the world for you to see
To see a different world
Remember this for all to see
Both now and who knows when

Capture that with marks of light

A poem inspired by my research into the origins of photography for my PhD Thesis

Alistair J Parker
Written 27.5.16