Spring Heeled Jack o’ Sheffield

Posted February 21st, 2014 in Poetry by briansellars

Spring Heeled Jack ‘o
 Sheffield
 
  Prowls Spring Heeled Jack on nights of black;
  The steel city’s leaping ghoul.
  In filth he scroams Satan’s foul domes,
  Hunting the unwary fool.
 
  One face time weather’d, spring heels unleather’d,
  He watches with baleful gaze.
  In dark his other, self-same not brother,
  Drags liars to his maze.
 
  Jack leaps o’er spires, sucks life from liars,
  Garners proud talking fools.
 From dungeons deep on them he’ll  leap,                                                                              Those keenest of Satan’s tools.
 
 From lost stone ways, or oak beamed his gaze,
 Sees all and waits to leap.
Proud liars beware the night’s dark air,
Spring Heeled Jack will never sleep.

spring heeled jack2

Carving of Jack on a beam end of Queens Head pub (circa 1495) Sheffield

My Dad Built Bury Barracks

Posted December 3rd, 2012 in Blogs, Poetry by briansellars

MY DAD BUILT BURY BARRACKS         Brian Sellars  03/12/2012

My dad built Bury Barracks.
I think he did it him sen.
He could lift Mrs Thackery’s stone sink,
And he built us a chicken pen.
 
He grew spuds, reight big fat red ‘ens,
Onions and runner beans.
If his motor bike spluttered, he’d fix it,
He could orlas mend cranky machines.
 
He could plaster a wall wi’ no trouble at all,
Hang a door, or restring a sash.
If a ball bounced anywhere near him,
He’d orlas set off at a dash.
 
He taught me to swim like a good ‘en,
I never feared watta  like cats.
He could waltz the Valeta and Tango,
And only Bogart had better ‘ats.
 
His bacon and eggs topped me mother’s,
We’d eight it when he were on neets.
I’d creep dahn stairs in me ‘jamas,
When he came ‘ome through t’dawn weshed  streets.
 
He worked in t’steelworks on t’stage,
Norra stage like his pal Ben Warris.
This were arc furnaces lined up in a row.
Mekkin steel wi’ ore dug from quarries.
 
They paid him extra and called it Hot Money,
But that weren’t all that me owd dad got.
Silica dust, toxic heat and burnt air,
Took aim with its deadly shot.
 
His big hands were still rough and strong,
As I held ‘em in that hospital bed.
He smiled and said “Love your mother,”
And that were it, he were gone, he were  dead.
 
I gerrim in whiffs of Imperial  Leather,
As I’m ambling along some cold street.
He’s there in the park when a goal’s scored.
He’s in shoe polish, and carving the meat.
 
How I wish that God had not left me,
And that cold science did not prevail.
For I’d still have me dad to look forward to,
When I reach the end of my trail.
 
Note: My old dad worked on Bury Barracks as a young apprentice bricklayer.
A silly joke in the family was that he’d built the whole thing himself (be him sen) 

Poppy

Posted April 12th, 2011 in Audio, Blogs, Poetry by briansellars


Poppy

A mardy arse is Poppy,
She’s all-ass roorin and playin up.
She can’t run nor climb nor kick a ball,
She just pretends and meks stuff up.

I wish she were like me moor,
And not so soft and girly.
I wish she’d av her hair cut,
And not all long and curly.

Me mam’s asked her to me birthday,
It’s because this time I’m ten.
I’m hopin’ that she waint come,
Cos lads are best bi us sen.

Ayup, she’s coming nah,
Wearing shorts and a frilly vest.
She looks or-reight in that,
When she scrubbed up in her best.

I hope she’s glad to see me,
She’ll see I’m gerring bigger.
Her hair is looking nicer,
And by eck she’s gorra figure.

I’m glad she’s not like me moor,
She’s quite nice all soft and girly.
I just hope that she still likes me,
And dunt go home too early.

It dunt matter if she cant feight,
And who needs to kick a ball.
Thiz moor to life than feighting,
And Poppy’s gorrit all.

 

 


Laikin Abaht Dahn Rivelin

Posted April 12th, 2011 in Audio, Blogs, Poetry by briansellars

Laikin Abaht Dahn Rivelin [Playing in Rivelin Valley]
When thart laikin abaht near watter dahn rivs,
A reight joyful jump is what thee ‘eart gives.
Tha can paddle and scroam, even swim an all,
Some’ll swing on a roo-ap or feight for a ball.

Turn stoo-ans for bullies, catch frogs, mice and shrews,
Smoke aaht a wasp-nest, float frogs in thee shoes.
Thez them az catch rabbits and search forra fox,
Thiv orlass got sommat caged up in a box.

Thez them az lays dahn and snoozes in t’sun,
Tha can splash ‘em wi’ watter – if tha can run.
Thez t’owd ‘ens wi’ dogs, and young women wi’ prams,
Blokes wi’ lasses on blankets wi’ wandering ‘ands.

It’s for us all is Rivelin, rich, poor, bad-n-good,
It were once t’secret playground of owd Robin Hood.
He still feights sheriff at Den Bank, Roscoe an’ t’Glen,
And  scroams dahn near  Mouse-oyl wi’ ‘is merry men.

Keep Rivs for all-ass, no more buildings or roo-ads.
Lerrit be natural fot fish, frogs and too-ads.
Gi’ thee eyes and thee heart a magical treat,
Stroll from t’post office to Malin weer waters-meet.