An Angels Whisper

As I tip-toe towards another birthday I have heard today of the sad loss of Terry McLawrence a man who when I was younger was a good friend, one of the lads. I didn’t know he had passed away and I missed his funeral, I didn’t have chance to pay my respects, I’m sorry  Macca.

 

An Angel whispered in my ear,

Have no fear it’s time to go,

Follow me to join the stars, twinkling in the black velvet night,

Then let your soft and gentle light caress the ones you love so dear,

to let them know that all is well,

As another chapter unfolds to tell of not an end,

But a glorious new beginning.

Posted in Death, Grief, Life Experiences, memories, mortality, mourning, My Poetry | Leave a comment

I’m a Saggar Makers Bottom Knocker (Translation)

Hello there mate, have you heard,

I’ve got myself a job.

It’s down at the Potbank,

I’ll be working with your Bob.

He’s a Saggar Maker down there,

He’s earning a pretty Shilling,

He’s got me a job as a Saggar Makers Bottom Knocker,

I’m going to make a killing.

My Father could have got me fixed up,

on the face at ‘Hanley Deep’.

But I told him politely to bugger off,

as all my digits I’d like to keep.

And no big chunks of shiney coal landing on my head,

I just want to go to work and come back home,

Not go to work and end up dead.

I know it’s a dusty place to work,

and you can get a ‘Potbank cough’,

But the there’s the girls who work in ‘The Pots’,

Play my cards right I might cop off.

So I’ll see you a week on Friday,

because I’m working a week in hand.

Then we’ll celebrate proper, me getting this job,

and drink enough ale until we can’t stand.

 

 

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I’m a Saggar Makers Bottom Knocker ( in a Potteries dialect )

Aye up siree dust ere,

I’ve got me sen a job.

It’s dine at th’Potbonk

Are’l be workin wi yower Bob.

Ay’s a Saggar Meeker dine theer,

an ay’s earnin a pretty shilling.

Ay’s got me a job, a Saggar Meekers Bottom Knocker,

Are’m gooin mack a killing.

Me Fayther could have got me fixed up,

on the face dine ‘Anley Dape’.

But I tade him politely to bugger off,

as ‘o’ me digits I’d like kape.

And no big chunks ‘o’ shiney coal landing on me yed.

Ar just won’t go work ‘n’ come back wom,

Not go work and end up jed.

Ar know its a dusty place to work,

an thee cust get a Potbonk cough.

But then there’s the wenches who work in the Pots,

Plee me cards rate ar mit cop off.

So ar’l say thee a wick on Fridee,

cuz ar’m working a wick in hand.

Then wale celebrate proper, me getting this job,

drink enough ale till we conner stand.

 

Posted in friend, happy days, Mining, Potbank, Pottery Workers, Slang poetry, Stoke-on-Trent UK, the potteries, Tradition | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

April Snow

Moments, golden moments, when it all comes together.

When all you want is for time to stand still.

To savour this moment for more than a while.

To hold on to this magic, this feeling, this smile.

But no, the tighter your grip on slippery time the more it wriggles through frantic fingers.

Time never stops to linger.

So make the most of fleeting joy and revel in it’s golden glow before it disappears too fast like tiny flakes of April snow.

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Talke Pits

Talke Pits born and bred, with coal dust running through my veins,

What remains of the history of those miners.

Of men grafting to earn a shilling, while wealthy owner made a killing, in more than one sense of the word.

For miles around  local people heard the sickening sound, of a ‘firedamp’ explosion ripping the life from their loved ones working deep underground.

Over three hundred boys and men and a million tears lost over fifty years to the quest of extracting coal.

This withering toll, diminished over the years as villagers memories vanish with them under the ground.

No more the clanking whirring sound of a pithead wheel turning around and around,

No more colossal spoil heaps looming menacingly large over an industrial landscape once terribly scarred.

Those black giants that were scaled, conquered and loved as a boy are now flattened and make way for shopping malls and houses with gardens serine.

Who would have thought that this landscape would ever again be green.

Our mining heritage must not be lost nor where it’s importance on North Staffordshire Coalfields sits.

For this is and always be a mining village.

This will always be Talke Pits.

 

Geoff Higgins   2016

 

 

 

Posted in Death, Disaster, Family, Father and Son Relationship, Grief, memories, Mining disaster, Poem, Stoke-on-Trent UK, Talke Pits | Tagged | 1 Comment

Brothers in Arms

If I should fall don’t look back,

Keep eyes front and steady.

No time to weep, there will be time enough for that when beer and memories flow.

And when that time is here, steely eyes made rusty from countless salty tears can cry again remembering a brotherly love and friendship most dear.

A single poppy will be mine to signify a sacrifice, a future cut short so others may have one.

Wear it with pride and remember that I will forever be at you side.

My Comrade, My Friend, My Brother in Arms.

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Don’t let Radicals spoil your Religion / Wouldn’t that be Heaven

Higgo's World

Religion

Religion and religious belief is a way of life for millions of people in the world. I am not a theologian but I guess that each religion teaches that love is better than hate and shows a person how to be a better human being.

The problem I have with religion is when it’s misused by governments, organisations and individuals to justify there own agendas. How many Generals over the centuries have said,”Oursis a just war because we have God on our side”, I suppose half of them can justify the slaughter of millions of people and claim that they were right.

The next problem I have with religion is how it’s interpreted; most religions derive from ancient text and have to be interpreted into modern context, the problem is that things get lost in translation and the original message gets lost or distorted.

When teachers of…

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