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David I Phillips Mar 2010
Wi yer eyes stingin n wet wi tears
N muk bungin up tha nose n ears
N a white rimmed ed where thi's ad thi hat
Up tha floats on't lift like a drownded rat

After twelve hours tha's pretty dun in
Whilst t'other folks as been kippin n dreamin
Tha's bin diggin n drillin like summart daft
Now up tha floats on't hydraulic raft

The cold morn air meks tha lungs urt
Cause tha's bin breathin muk n dirt
Fer nigh on forty years or more
That most folks wudn't ave on't floor

N as tha washes all't muk away
Tha knows thas sum that'll allus stay
N whilst outside tha luks nice n clean
Tha's stuff inside thi th't'll never be seen

Until o course tha's gon n died
N them docter fellers tek a look inside
N in amazement they'll stand n stare
At all that muk th't shudn't be there

N wen tha's ded it'll be nowt new
Not too a bloke what's lived like you
Fer now tha's on'y six feet under
Wen undreds is what thas bin used to

N't Crowner'll say thi ad a natural death
Not like them th't had their last breath
At sixteen, seventeen, twenty or more
When sum big explosions brought ceiling t floor

But a doubt if tha'll think it wer thi turn
As tha lays there nattering t worm
Crawlin in n out o yer ears
Not much t show fer sixtyodd years

Still what else cud you ave dun, that's it
But follow yer old man down pit
A mean even his dad was a facer tha knows
Kem out at thirty wi' ands like claws

Ah well it's time fer sum grub
Then half-a-dozen pints't pub
Wi an hour or two o noonday sun
Then back t wife fer an hour o fun
N be six next morning I'll be feelin well
As I teks yon raft t bowels of 'ell
Thirty shillin a week be summer the reckonin
Ah but then they can't see yon worm beckonin


Remember this is a 'Performance Poem'
and the style of writing acts as a
speech prompt. The accent is loosely
Yorkshire. A 'Crowner 'is an old word
for a Coroner.
I hope you enjoy it.

© David Irwin Phillips 2008
This is a performance poem, it also won first prize in a Writer's Magazine competeition
Can be heard on www.irwin-poetry.co.uk- From Emotional Swings & Round-a-bouts
betterdays Jun 2014
a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*


high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see 
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree. 
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily. 

we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.

with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.

whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...

there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.

on our faces, we'll wear 
those  effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious 
fun 
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.

in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.

and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless 
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.

no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist  
and to the ground
we do spiral....

into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled 
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.

happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.

take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh, 
a well earned sigh.
Marshal Gebbie Dec 2010
The ancient one thrusts down his staff
Determining the claim
That most good men throughout their time
Will not achieve their aim.
One in ten shall hit the mark
Just one in ten will score,
The rest, shall by the wayside fall,
To some degree or more.

One in ten shall realise
The prize their heart’s desire
To have the wherewithal to that,
to which they all aspire.
One in ten shall strive to make
That peak to which they climb
But most will reach a compromise
And rationalise their time.

The way to reach your aim in life
The ancients do agree
Is to practice all the things you preach
And be what, you want to be.
Carve deflections from your day,
Achieve the plans you set
And greet success with brother love
... Hail fellow man well met!

Wear promise as humility
Be humble in your praise,
Give credit to the lesser man
Who strives to meet his days
And when the crown of certainty
Ascends upon your head,
Smile the smile of modesty
To shade your gold crown red.


Marshalg
@ the coalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
14 December 2010
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2010
It’s paramount the notion
That men are born to grow,
Extend their creativity,
Expand the very best they know.
Explore the realm unseen before
Beyond their very reach,
Inflate the mind’s potential
To absorb and grasp and preach.
To plunder flair unrealized
Extend skills unperceived,
To craft a very masterpiece
Of magnificence, unbelieved.
To raise the spire of excellence
To sculpt a work of art,
Compose a peice which scintillates
And moves the very heart.
To reach beyond the mortal
And let the spirit free
To pen a Michelangelo
And have God sit with me.


Marshalg
@the Coalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
30 April 2010
johnny solstice Jun 2019
There's nowt round here but wasted opportunities,
two or more pushchairs constitutes community,
"no-one smiles", the badge of indignity,
the most used queue is the one for electricity
                                                             TOKENS
                   high-rise tenement heart-broken,
                       yearns for pleasure unspoken,
               Daydream Tee-Vee
                            comfy setee
                                  casualty
         accident & emergency
........SOCIAL CLUB...
..down the "RUB-A-DUB"
DUB AN' BASS                 Time and place
vanish without trace          in the land of the briefcase
no jobs at the coalface       no room in the rat-race
selling jesus on a pillowcase
while your soul falls from grace
your light vanishes without trace
your brain starts to think............

poetry can be really depressing
especially when you're dressing
to go out to dinner
and wishing you were thinner
and wanting to be a winner
so we can have more losers
more unfulfilled consumers
the last thing you want
is a SACRED CLOWN
making you frown
bringing you down
bringing you round
with the sound
of your round
and round
the Mulberry Bush!!!

Paper money from the bark
"in god we trust", quite frank
promises the bank
of pyramids
the bank of semi-solid
promises
to the bearer
What could be fairer?
Are you a sharer?
or a failure........
to understand
the Promised Land
was always in our hands
till you took it from our care
and made us unaware
that we even owned a share
of this earthly paradise
as you rented us a slice
and told us we were mice
well! isn't that nice
to be getting advice
from the ministry of price
to suit all pockets
invested in rockets
cash crops for guns
fast food in a bun
truth on the run
beg for the crumbs
from the Vampires
from the Vulture
who design your
FUTURE
then  sell you "here and now"
on an installment plan
with a final demand
for more prompt payments
for the balance outstanding
bailiffs impending
more paper lending
PROMISES THE BEARER
there could be quarer
times than this
hit and miss
jug-o-****
just round the corner
of a windswept
tenement block
could be molten rock
or some ****-stars ****
selling you a crock
of something less
than wholesome
of something less
than Freedom
Of a product called
EMOTION-INNA-LOTION
MAJIK-POTION-PROMOTION
BRAND-LOYAL-DEV­OTION
with nothing to pay
while the tides at bay
BANISHES GREY
and gets in the corners
where others cant reach
on a "holiday-brochure-beach"
with your elektronik LEASH
BLOWIN' IN THE WIND
like a flag of BELIEF
vanity steals your beauty
like a THIEF
there’s no let up
no RELIEF
JUST TASTE SENSATIONS
AND SPARKLING TEETH
0% FINANCE
and 100% GRIEF
It's nonsense to rely upon the time
when time has almost gone,
but we hunger for one moment more
that's just the way it is.

the young man at the coalface with
a face just like an angel
sees it from a different angle
as he climbs up worn down
cobblestones on the way home
for his tea.
I weep at the coalface, a day in the life
the smiles of our children and my dear loving wife

Dreams of happier times, the seaside the sand
the laughter the joy as we all walked hand in hand

But here I lay at the coal face a day in the life of my demise
I will miss my dear children and those innocent loving eyes

Please, don’t shed a tear for I have not died here alone
16 martyred men and boys will not make it home

Tis good company I’ll keep now, to ease my sad pain
Happier times I look forward to, when we at last meet again
#Lan history
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2010
Tangentially the Easter thing
Is lost to most at large.
Hot cross buns and chocolate eggs
And sleep in’s lead the charge
To  a relaxed, lazy holiday
Spent down by the beach,
With a shady spot, a novel
And a cold pint within reach.

Diminished are the heavy tomes,
Forgotten are the lobes
Of red religiosity’s
Ancient Catholic robes.
Christ is relegated
To the dusty shelves of past
And the priesthood, in reality,
Knew the ruse would never last.

The spangle of the modern world
The instant-ness of now,
The charging pace of living
Paint  the GET God’s Holy cow.
The sacrements, the sacrifice
The Cross atop the peak
Are lost to relegation
And of this, we shall not speak.

Just bathe yourself in sunshine
Relax in balmy air,
Enjoy the feel of Easter
With the laughter everywhere.
With the little children munching
On their gaudy chocolate feast
And the distant sound of church bells
…Reminiscent, in the east.

Marshalg
@the Coalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
Good Friday, 2nd April 2010
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2010
Blue light hangs in calm atone
Evening peace sings in the air,
Daylight'******has fled the sky
A velvet softness holding there.

Shades of evening blend together
Hues of gold and green and blue,
Curtain call to night descending
Dark magenta's pristine hue.

Chilly as the cloak envelopes
Reaching down to smother light,
Stubbornly a glow resists
To hold horizon's remnant fight.

Suddenly the day is gone
The dancing colours are no more,
Death's companion fills the sky
And distant diamonds conjure awe.

Marshalg
@the Coalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
27 March 2010
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate

— The End —