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I walked with Caldey
Out into the woods today
Recent heat and rain
Has produced a surge of growth.

I photographed it all
In my own naive way
The honeysuckle and ragged robin
The foxgloves and the briar rose.

The paths were made narrow
Grown in with grass and fern
A proper English woodland crush
Walks I have done for over 60 years.

I found what I went to find
That peace behind my eyes
And that perpetual skylark
High above... between my ears.

Thanks to Hello Poetry
I can put such thoughts
Out into a world
Of cultures and countries far and wide.

Thanks to Hello Poetry
Readers can share these moments
And I can honestly say you were here today
In Yorkshire in the woods this 1st July
Caldey is my 11 month Fox Red Labrador.

Scarlet, I wrote this because of you. Thank You for reading me.
H L Godden Oct 2016
The fog unrolls itself from hill to tarmac
like winter blinds. It sinks behind hedges
and hovers, hawk-like, over the canal.

A streetlight winks from the path,
muffled by ***** white like a child
smothered in his new winter coat.

The trees have given up for the year
leaving mushy browns and crisp yellows,
sweet damp smell pushed up noses.

Morrison’s is open till ten now.
Piles of pumpkins watch in sorrow,
waiting for homes next to plastic spiders.
Paul Butters May 2016
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
gray rain Apr 2016
The Yorkshire accent
sounds pretty rough
"T" doesn't exist
unless you from Bradford
then you can't pronounce things propperly
and you say Bratfd
and the "o" lasts too long
the note is held on
now you knooow
how two letters are pronounced
go learn the dialect
not heard down soulth
This probably doesn't make sence unless you are one of the select few. This probably isn't true it's just things my friends pick up on and things we told them. "Y" also sounds messed up.
Tom Fawley Jan 2016
Born and bred Northern boy
No gimmicks,
West Yorkshire til the day I die
I’ll represent that West York’s sign
Faithful to my Northern life
My Northern rhyme
Brought up well with Northern vibes
Through hard times, Miners Strike
From a time when Maggie Thatcher tried
To stir up **** with lies designed
Got  miners and police to fight
Brutal battles between both sides
So don’t believe the Southern hype
Those times defined future lines of Northern kind
Gave us Northern humour, Northern style
Cause people love our Northern minds
Tourists come from far and wide
To find out what the North is like
Expecting lack of cultured life
But left in awe by countryside
So come up North
See the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint and sit down
Enjoy our way of life.
Where I'm from
Thomas Newlove Dec 2015
One often 'as problems sleepin'
In ways which affect ones 'ealth
But 'ow can one deal wit 'out but weepin'
When one 'as a fear of their self
Tweet verse uses the exact amount of characters allowed for a tweet on Twitter, no more, no less.
H L Godden Sep 2015
The sky lies on the horizon
like a smoke-coloured cat
draped over a sofa of heather,
purple as pansies but sharper,
scratching against boots and paws.
It washes across the landscape
in a swathe of paint,
broken by breadcrumb rocks.

Up here, the wind gallops,
almost spins me round
to face home again.
Water framed by narrow paths
like battlements, flicking
onto grey stones and sand,
smell of earth, damp air.

Our path drops down
like the side of a ship and the dog,
****** beacon in a sea of bog-grass,
skids on his front paws.
I shuffle sideways, crab steps
slipping from mud to puddle.
Paul Butters Aug 2015
I took her for some fish and chips,
We had a reight good time.
The two of us kept locking lips,
It really int a crime.

But then she saw this pilot bloke:
It really wasn’t fair.
Though I’m a super Trekkie clerk,
She saw me as a square.

What she saw in him I’ll never know,
There really was no reason.
But off she went with him, oh no!
It felt just like a treason.

Those fish and chips are getting cold,
With no-one there to eat ‘em.
Them mushy peas have gone to waste, be told,
But she prefers to cheat ‘em.

There are more fish in the sea they say,
And now I’m talking females.
Every dog will have his day,
I’d better watch my emails.

Paul Butters
A humorous love poem!
Evangeline Ashe Aug 2015
Fahnd 'im lyin' int middle o' t'street
bruised an' battered from t'tramplin' feet.
Ee'd crawled aht from some gutter
an' them cries tha' ee did utter
almost like a knife through butter
cut mi quick an' deep.

'Is broken wings ah tried to treat
gently praying that ee'd be reyt.
But when 'is cry became a stutter
t'world rolled dahn its shutters
an' rahnd mi someone muttered:
" 'is prospects ain't 'alf bleak".

An' that poor lost little 'eap
ah cradled but coun't weep,
til mi arms discerned a flutter.
So in mi chest ee'll see the summer
from that 'ollow haven like no other
where ee can safely sleep.
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