What secrets sit within,
What treasures lie
Behind the ancient
Ossified smile
Of the pirate’s box
A treasure map,
A horde of gold,
A secret will,
An old love letter,
The Devil’s smile
Or simply
A child’s toy
Who knows………
Be what you will
©Alan McKean
Mouths agog,
Houses stare
With wide open eyes,
Wondering
Where the other end of the bridge
Actually goes
The lamppost
Is inclined to agree
The rocks know,
But say nothing
©Alan McKean, 21 April 2026
© Simon Footitt, Painting
Not posted too much recently, life has a habit of giving you stuff to do, so here’s a bit of an update on my scribblings
I’ve been working on my collection “The four o’clock in the Morning Moon”, and converting it to a kindle format, it’s a bit rough and ready, but it works, and is now available to buy on Kindle.
I have also been working on my collection “81 Kites” and converting that to a format acceptable for the KOBO platform, and this has now been sorted, entered onto their catalogue, and is now available to buy there. Again, a bit rough and ready, but it works.
On Saturday 18th April, I’m taking part in a 2 hour live poetry broadcast on a Manchester local radio station – North Manchester FM”. There are around a dozen poets on the Hannah Kate programme, – Hannah’s Bookshelf – between two and four in the afternoon. I did one last year – it was great fun.
Trawling through a couple of old data files, and I came across a complete manuscript of a collection of poetry that I’ve performed at open mic nights, that I put together a few years ago, and had completely forgotten about, so I’ve resurrected and tweaked that a bit with a view to publishing it in the near future – watch this space.
Alan
That neet,
‘e were steppin’ out
Wi’ a lass
Fro’ t’next street,
An’ ‘e wanted t’impress.
A bonnie lass,
Wi’ a beamin’ smile.
‘e’d washed an’ shaved,
An’ Brylcreemed ‘is yur,
But it weren’t reet –
Summat were missin’
It clicked
‘e ‘adn’t polished ‘is best clogs!
Reverently, ‘e got ‘em out o’ t’cupboard
An’ lovingly polished ‘em
‘till y’could see y’smile i’t’leather
Best clogs shinin’
Ready fer t’neet
Ready fer t’lass
But
That weren’t t’reason fer ‘is best clogs,
Nay,
‘e were tekkin’ t’lass to
“The Lord Nelson Hotel”
An’ th’”Hotel” bit called fer t’best!
(it were a pub really,
But it sounded posh to a tackler)
©Alan McKean, 23 January 2018
(Tacklers were not renowned for their intelligence)
Our Lass were a bonnie lass,
Wi’ a big, beaming smile.
She could coax t, sun
Out from behind t, clouds
At t’ drop of a clog.
Nobbut seventeen year owd
When I first seen her,
Trundling t’setts t’ t’ mill
On a cowd, wintry day,
Wakin’ to a weak sun.
She’d a smile t’ tempt angels,
And I thowt “Aye, she’ll do”
So I followed her
T’ see which shed she were in,
Champion, next t’ mine.
I found t’ courage t’ask
If she’d step out wi’ me
An bless me, she did!
We courted fer two year
‘till I asked her t’ marry me.
I were floating o’er t’ clouds
When she said she would.
Th’ onny snag were t’ cost,
A couple o’ weavers gerrin’ wed
Might cost a bob or two.
It were a reet gradely do,
An’ it set t’ tone
Fer t’ next lump o’ years
Bad times, good times
But always me an’ Our Lass.
Wi’ childer an’ granchilder
We ‘ad some times
When belts had t’ be tightened,
An’ bombs, an’ rations an’ umpteen upheavals,
But through it all, it were still me an’ Our Lass.
She were a bonnie lass,
Seventeen when I first met her,
Eighty-seven when she said goodbye,
Just me an’ her,
Me an’ Our Lass.
An that’s why I’m so lucky –
Y’ see, I’m never lonely.
I’ve always got seventy years
O’ mem’ries t’ use up,
Seventy years of me, an' Our Lass
©Alan McKean, November 2014
“If tha can’t see th’ills, it’s rainin’
If tha can see ‘em, it’s gonna”
Th’ owd mon as used to live next door
Allus said that.
He were a grand owd lad,
An’ th’ owd lass as lived two door up
Allus called ‘im “Mester Wood”,
As ‘e used t’be a mill engineer,
An’ ‘is position commanded the “Mester”
‘E were nigh on eighty
When we moved in next door,
An’ looked frail an’ tottery,
But ‘is mind were as sharp as a knife,
An’ when he made ‘is own bread,
Ee lad, t’smell were grand.
‘Is daughter came t’ see ‘im
Ev’ry few week,
As did ‘is son,
So ‘e’ were well looked after,
But time began
T’tek its toll on th’owd lad,
An’ ‘e moved out,
To an ‘ome f’r owd fowk.
We didn’t see much
O’th’owd mon after that,
An’ we got new neighbours,
But it weren’t the same,
T’Mester was gone.
©Alan McKean
March 2007
Writing dialect poetry of any local region can be difficult. Words and phrases can vary within a few miles of where you live, and there will always be discussion as to just what any specific word can mean.
I have read, and still do read, a number of 19th century Lancashire and Yorkshire dialect poets, and find that their words are not just rhyme, but tell stories of life as they encountered it – life, death, poverty, good times and bad times. no embellishments, just honest observations, unless it was intended, as in the poem/song “Eawr Market Meet” by Sam Fitton (as sung by The Oldham Tinkers) or “Bowton’s Yard” by Sam Laycock (as sung by Harry Boardman)
A recent listen to a piece called “T’Coaler” read by Jenn Reid, a balladeer and collector of dialect writings (including a few of mine – thanks Jenn) has nudged me into digging some of my attempts at writing Lancashire dialect out of the archives (I suspect that, in reality, it is a hybrid of East Lancashire/West Yorkshire, because of where we live), so I will be posting a few of them over the next day or so. They will be on the “Lancashire” poetry page.
I hope you like and enjoy them
Alan
