Poetry of Mine. 2.
Poems © Bill Riley.
Please don't use my poems without my permission.
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The Cage.
I have the most important job in any deep coal pit,
The men both love and hate me but I get used to it.
They hate me at the start of every solitary shift,
As I carry them below ground, I can sense a sort of rift.
When they leave me I know they're not a happy lot,
It's not my fault, I'm not to blame, I don't write the plot.
I don't know what transforms them, or what they do inbye,
Cause the next time that I see them I'm warmly greeted, Hi!
They're so happy now to see me, it fills my heart with joy,
They had left me in a bad mood, so now, what is their ploy?
They are smiling; they are singing; laughing, joking, full of hope,
Perhaps the work they do inbye cleanses them, so they don't mope.
I try not to get too friendly, as I know it will not last,
Their affection is short lived, as I've discovered in the past.
The next shift, when they come back, faces full of pain,
I can tell it's back to normal and they hate me once again.
I often wondered as I waited; why they don't live inbye forever,
Their time at home makes them so sad, that can't be very clever.
© Bill Riley.
23/12/02.
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My Pony.
I have a great workmate; his name is Fleck,
I harness him before we start the trek.
We go from the stables as quickly as we can,
Inbye we must rush, to Jack, the filler man.
Jack fills his coal tubs faster, than anyone alive.
Supplying him with tubs, we battle and we strive.
We speed inbye with ease, taking in the chummin's,
Coming out is not so good; Fleck has to pull the fullin's.
All shift we move the tubs, first in and then back out,
I don't have to hit my pony; I only have to shout.
"Haway me bonny lad"; is all I have to say,
My mate Fleck, starts off, and we're swiftly on our way.
When the shift is over, to the stables we return,
I wash Fleck down and pat him, again he's earned his corn.
I fill his trough with choppy, which he certainly enjoys,
I wish that I could take him home, and give him to my boys.
One day I hope to see Fleck retired on some farm,
Where he'll be well looked after and kept away from harm.
I could visit him and I'd recall the time we spent together,
It's far better for Fleck there, running wild beside the heather.
Footnote:-
Chummin is an empty tub.
Fullin is a full tub.
Choppy is the pony's food.
© Bill Riley.
24/12/02.
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Tandem Lad.
I'm a tandem lad making sure the belts keep running,
The job I do is boring, and the pay is not that stunning.
Sometimes the chute blocks up, it causes lots of spillage,
If I didn't have to clear it up I'd have the best job in the village.
I never see a single sole if the belts run all day long,
If it stops for just a while the language gets quite strong.
The deputy's soon on the job, shouting and bawling,
The names he often calls me, are nothing but appalling.
I had the last laugh once; the main bunker was full to the brim,
When he found out the cause, it really flummoxed him.
On your bike Deputy; I thought, but was too scared to say,
On your bike, off to the bunker, go and earn your pay.
I was grinning as he marched off to the bunker at a pace,
I was pleased he didn't see me, or he'd smack me in the face.
I watched him for a while, as he walked away from me,
The bunker was his target now, from his anger, I was free.
I'm pleased I'm a tandem lad; working at my leisure,
The deputy's a whittler; he's under too much pressure.
Sometimes his face goes a bright red; his rage is so severe,
You won't catch me going daft like that, oh no, never fear.
He could have a job like mine, though I don't have any power,
My tandem job keeps me relaxed; it doesn't turn me sour.
I've been told that in this life, you will reap what you sow,
That poor demented deputy, to Hell, he'll have to go.
His face is wrinkled and his hair has all turned grey,
When he was a tandem lad, he didn't look that way.
Some say his smile was every bit as good as mine,
Then he went on the staff, and it changed him, in no time.
I never want to be like him, his job would make me sad,
I prefer to be more cheerful, I'll remain, a tandem Lad.
© Bill Riley
27/12/02.
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Bairns View.
There were lots of pits when I was a bairn,
They were scattered all over the place then,
The miners came home tired and black,
They carried a bait bag on their back.
One man passed carrying a carbide lamp,
He said his pit was free from firedamp,
He had this odd cap which held his light,
Being a bairn, I thought it a funny sight.
A large tin bath hung on the wall by a nail,
His wife used to fill it with a big enamel pail.
Water was carried from the scullery copper,
It was red hot and cleaned him good and proper.
Curtains were closed while he tried to get clean,
The water changed colour; it had to be seen.
And all round the bath was a horrible scum,
Which the wife removed; but it made her glum.
The bath was then carried out full as can be,
Then emptied down drain next to the coal cree.
I laughed when the drain overflowed like mad,
And the water ran freely all over the yard.
Both man and wife jumped to avoid getting wet,
They smiled as they saw us; they weren't upset.
Memories like this are a thing of the past,
No pits in our village now, they didn't last.
Now I'm getting old and I think of those days,
When the place was alive, it's becoming a haze.
But I hope that the stories at least can survive,
I hope we can keep all those memories alive.
Footnote.
Cree.- a small shed or outhouse for storing coals.
Copper: - A copper cauldron set into a brick-built box.
A fire was lit under it to heat the water.
© Bill Riley
01/01/03.
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Sweet Sixteen.
Old enough now to work underground
I was able to earn an extra pound,
This money I know will help pay the bills,
Just Mam and me at home, there's no frills.
As I step on the cage to go down below,
I worry because, what's to come, I don't know.
Into the darkness the cage drops at great speed,
My heart starts to pound, will it stop where decreed.
I shouldn't have worried the winder was true,
The cage stopped perfectly, right on cue.
The on-setter gave us a cheerful "hello",
This was my welcome to life down below.
The air smelled so different to that up above,
Sort of stale, a bit off, to breath in, I strove.
I felt sick in my stomach, my mouth filled with juice,
I hoped in my heart it would get better with use.
Everywhere was as black as coal; I struggled to see.
I turned on my lamp as darkness enveloped me,
The beam that shone forth was restricted some what,
I could see only things, which my head pointed at.
I was six ft. tall, the tunnels at times, only five ft. six,
Watching roof and floor at same time was a careful mix.
I walked with a stoop; head bent forward a bit,
So my head with the roof I hoped not to hit.
Of course as all miners know and will tell,
Not one can claim to have mastered it well.
Everyone in his time hit his head with a whack,
It happened each time concentration was slack.
Of all that I learned in my days in the pit,
Keep your head down or an object you'll hit,
Was always remembered each time I forgot,
When I hit my head, oh! My, I did that a lot.
© Bill Riley.
21/12/2002.
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The Winder.
How does the winder know what to do?
Who tells him Dad, who tells him, who?
It's simple my boy as easy can be,
Banksman and onsetter both must agree.
Both send signals, they're sent by a bell,
This is the way the winder can tell.
Two bells from above and one from below,
Means the winder can let the cage go.
Three bells before the others, well then,
It means that the cage is carrying men.
Men below think there's no better sound
Three bells means they're surface bound.
© Bill Riley.
03/01/03.
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Ash.
Over the rollers the conveyor goes,
All day long the coal flows.
Striving for production targets,
Output up to suit the markets.
Men at the coalface working hard,
Shovelling coal off by the yard.
Bodies covered in sweat and dust,
Down on knees to earn a crust.
Fires burning throughout the world,
From underground that coal was hauled.
Was it worth the effort and cash?
To dig up coal that is soon ash.
© Bill Riley.
01/01/03.
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My Friend.
All coal mines are full of dangers,
Knocks and bruises are not strangers.
At times I have a premonition; I know,
From a place, immediately, I must go.
I move a short way, when there's a fall,
The roof comes down, bars and all.
What saved me from harm that day?
What induced me to shift away?
I have a silent friend, a pal,
May be a fellow, or a gal,
This friend keeps an eye on me,
Revealing where peril may be.
My friend has saved me many times,
I think there's a friend in all coal mines,
If we choose to ignore their warning,
We may not be here in the morning.
Ignoring the signs can be tragic,
It's not the occult or even black magic,
It's only a loved one watching your back,
Trying to keep you on the right track.
So when that feeling comes to you,
You know exactly what to do,
Act quickly and stay free from harm,
Heed your friend; heed the alarm.
© Bill Riley
01/01/03.
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Rings.
I'm a ripper in a coal mine the roadways I make bigger,
I move lots of stone and rubble, working fast, no time to snigger.
I follow coalface workings, which advances day by day,
If I don't keep up the ripping I will suffer with less pay.
I bore the ripping lip, with 6-foot holes, all round,
The shot-firer takes over and blasts it to the ground.
I have this great big shovel, which I use to shift the dirt,
By the time I've filled the dirt away, my muscles really hurt.
My job is not yet finished; I have to set the rings,
They're made up in two sections, their heavy, awkward things.
I couple them together with ring-plates in the middle,
If the legs aren't lined up right, with them I have to fiddle.
Once the legs are coupled up, the struts I have to fit,
They stop the ring from buckling, under pressures of the pit.
Next I place the cover boards all around the ring,
The job is nearly over, and I begin to sing.
The workmen all around me stopped work and rushed to help,
They thought that I had been trapped, and my singing was a yelp.
It's no good me pretending I could end up on the stage,
My singing voice is awful and sends workmates in a rage.
Dreams of fame and fortune from the product of my voice,
Are very soon dispelled so in my work I must rejoice.
I'm a ripper in a coal mine, it's not too bad you see,
But I'd rather be a singer, making faces shine with glee.
© Bill Riley
23/12/2002.
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Pit Boots.
New pit boots; oh! What a thought,
Relief from them is what I sought.
Tried lots of grease to make them give,
But with new boots I could not live.
The leather I tried to manipulate,
My feet were in a terrible state.
To the hammer I confidently turned,
And hit them hard; no good I learned
Blisters were coming all over my feet,
Looking like lumps of fresh raw meat.
Just above the ankle was really sore,
Rubbing my skin more, more, and more.
No longer could I endure this eternal pain,
Drastic action was needed that much was plain.
Out came my knife from its place on my belt,
Then I sliced up my boots till relief I felt.
What would I give to have my old boots back?
Which were well broke in; with many a crack.
They served me so well for many a year,
But were dropping to bits, that was clear.
'There's not much protection' the deputy said,
'And the toe-caps are missing', shaking his head.
'Throw them straight into the rubbish bin',
'And get new boots', he said with an impish grin.
For weeks I cursed that deputy's words,
My feet in such pain; like walking on swords.
Please God make these boots last forever more,
They did; they sacked us, and showed us the door.
Note.
(Be careful what you pray for, your prayers may be answered).
© Bill Riley.
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Short Week.
I hear men say a week is a long time,
For others it passes as quick as a wink,
Even when you're down a coal mine,
A week can go as fast as a blink.
Note:
My old mate at West Cannock 5s., Jimmy Kelly, would say,
"Today it's Monday,
The day after tomorrow is Wednesday,
There's only Thursday and Friday left.
© Bill Riley.
16/01/03.
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The Old Colliery Welfare.
That old building over there,
Used to be our colliery welfare,
We played snooker there for hours,
The lawns outside were surrounded by flowers.
We had a library full of books galore,
It's a shame; they're not there any more,
We had a good bowls team many years ago,
But there's none of that now, as you well know.
And the tennis courts stood, just over there,
The kids played all day; placing shots with care,
Oh! Yes and a dart board was in the backroom,
And men played cards, crib, brag and pontoon.
The only signs now of its glories once great,
Is a wheel in the yard and a plaque near the gate,
That building was once a sign of hope and respect,
Now it only reminds us of coals decay and neglect.
© Bill Riley.
18/03/03.
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Progression.
We each have our jobs in the pit,
Some moving on bit by bit,
Starting off on haulage perhaps,
Learning to avoid the colliery traps.
As we progress we learn more pit sense,
Recognising dangers, feeling less tense,
Our surroundings become less of a threat,
We owe our trainers a massive debt.
Skills, which were learned over the years,
Passed down to new lads; allaying their fears,
This guiding hand is so willingly used,
By experienced miners' to help those confused.
Financial rewards did not play a part,
Advice was given and came from the heart,
Looking after new lads is a natural trait,
If a lad is injured the advice came to late.
Progression is sometimes swift,
To some, pit sense seems like a gift,
A few, I'm afraid, take years to learn it,
Others should not be allowed down a pit.
© Bill Riley.
28/03/03.
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The Pithead Baths.
Those pithead baths were a wonderful thing,
As miners' showered many would sing,
It was good to wash away the dirt and grime,
To be clean once again, in next to no time.
Each man had two lockers to hold his clothes,
They were painted silver and stacked up in rows,
The clean lockers naturally held togs all clean,
Dirty side for work-wear; you know what I mean.
Before we had pit baths we went home black,
We passed all the neighbours and had a bit crack,
Now we're all clean, so spick and so span,
They hide away; worried we may be the rent man.
Alas, there's always one thing that gives us away,
Our eyes are still black from the coal dust each day,
We try ever so hard to clean it off with a flannel,
But it stays there, like the black coal on our panel.
One thing puzzled me as I walked home along paths,
They were showers we used, so who called them baths?
© Bill Riley.
09/03/03.
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Hand Filling.
"Fancy machines there not a patch on us,
We filled coal off as easy as catching a bus,
Machines, they'll never break our records,
Just you remember this, you mark my words".
The miners of old were strong and bold,
When they were made they broke the mould,
In 1913, every cobble was moved with shovels,
They weren't paid much for all their troubles.
287 million tons of coal they produced that year,
Machines wont beat that; no never fear,
Those men were the coalmining top guns,
They never faltered while casting those tons.
There were plenty of collieries around in those days,
They were labour intensive; different in so many ways,
Now I look back and remember those words said to me,
Can you believe it? that record still stands in 2003.
So hats off to those old miners' who are,
The best record breakers in Britain by far,
With so few pits left in our country I know,
The records eternal; it never will go.
© Bill Riley.
10/03/03.
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