Sandra Mills
Home Up Gertie Alden Daz Beattie Thomas Blackah Ron Chipman Nellie Dockar Adele C. Geraghty Bert Greensmith Joyce Haigh Fred Hirst Sandra Mills F.W.Moorman Gerald O'Neill Kathleen Parsons Howard Peach Dennis Rhodes Doris Rogers Audrey Siddall John Stott Brenda Watson Len Wilde Benny Wilkinson Janice Witton Cliff Young Miscellaneous

 

Sandra Mills

Having a Yorkshire mother and a South African father, I grew up fully bilingual. To my mother I would say, “grass, bath, toytoyse and kassel” and when speaking to my father it would automatically become, “graas, barth, tortis and karsel.” So, although I cannot claim to be a thoroughbred, my Yorkshire genes are very strong and tend to pop up whenever I write verse, especially, I have noticed, after an evening glass of chardonnay.

I now live in Sydney, Australia with my husband and son. Underneath the exterior of a dutiful wife and mother and contrary to what those around me might think, my brain is relentlessly active. I use writing as a form of release of this energy and as a method of maintaining my sanity. I always have a pen and paper nearby and I ‘snatch –write’ while endlessly waiting for others – you know how it is – waiting for school to come out, waiting at the supermarket checkout, waiting for the pasta to be al dente, waiting for the toss at cricket, waiting all day for the plumber to show up……

Having my verse published on the internet has made me giddy with a new-found power. I find that there is no more effective threat to a grunting, grumpy teenager than, “You’d better be nice to me or I’ll put you in one of my poems.” If nothing else, it raises a begrudging smile.

   
 

 

A Konsultayshun fer Nowt

Bye Jehovah

Goin' on Sixteen

Grandad's Profession

Kanga Goo

Nut Sa Daft

Our 'azel

Pontifikayshun

Right Fed Up

Split Milk

War Of The Roses

A Konsultayshun fer Nowt by Sandra Mills

Mi da’, a doctor reet,
’E wor ’avin’ a do last neet
T’ room t’wor full o’ medical folk
Orl wor familyar wit’ t’stethoscope
But these medics wor not on call
They ’ad ’ardly a care a’orl
They wor a touch inebriyated
Sum maht say well lubrikayted

Amidst such merriment, mi uncle chanced ter phoone
No longer cud ’e ’is plight postpoone
Fer ’e wor in a reet mess
Growin’ everee secon’ in distress
A moth t’wor stuk fast in ’is ear
Sumwhar atwixt ’is drum an’ cochlea
’E wor ’opin fer salvayshun
Fra ’is urgent situayshun
Fer everee thump o’ wing wor magnifahed
T’din wor loud an’ amplifahed
Shewerly naw it’d be art in a trice
’E waited, desperate fer ’igh-larnt advice

T’answer came wit’ a gale o’ lafter
Fer it cud scarce ’ave bin much dafter

Mi uncle, poor bugger, wor mortifahed

Tell’im - tell’im te shh -shine a leet in t’uther sahd””

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Bye Jehovah by Sandra Mills

Mi dowter came fra t’market tuther day
Wit novelty mat fer mi dooarstun
Stead o’ sayin’, “Welcome”, t’read, “Go Away”
T’were jus reet, sed she ana bit o’fun
Fer t’lahkes o’me - a mardy owd man
Which, ’ccordin’ ter ’er, Ah now am.

Terday Ah wer boon on t’thack
A tile were loose, t’weren’t sittin’ proper
Ah were cahd ower, putting it back
When t’were a rappin’ on t’dooar knocker –
Persistent lahke, as if t’were an emergency
Soo Ah thawt Ah’d best go dahn an see.

Ah whacked mi gammy leg on t’stower
Ah dassent cum dahn te fast
Ah cud feel mi face begin ter glower
Then Ah slipped on t’flags. Oh blast!
Ah were stalled, mi hig began ter rise -
E were stood on t’mat as Ah came rahnd t’sahd.

E wor a black suit, a tad shoddy
Lahke an undertaker on t’dole
But e’d nut cum fer mi body
E were thar ter wekken mi soul
An fer this truly lost cause
E’d moithered me fra mi chores.

Well, t’was then Ah blewa gaskit
Ah threaped ’im dahn a’reet
Mun you, ’e were jus askin fer it
Th’instrukshuns wor unner ’is feet
Ah beldered aht, fer o’ mi mat ’ed paid nooa heed
Fer cryin’ ina bookit, lad, kan yur nut read!”

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Goin’ on Sixteen by Sandra Mills

“Ah tek it thar’s ne mooar te be ’ad”
sed mi son, t’ollow legged lad.
’E golluped ’is third ’elping o’ stew
An’ met mi leuk of exasperaytion
Wi’, “Eh up, what’s t’matter with you?”
This did nowt te ’elp t’situaytion.
Then came, “Wot’s fer afters?”
An’ ‘e wunners why Ah ’it t’rafters.

’E eyts lahke a rescued refugee
An’ providing orl tha’ food falls ter me.
T’ doctor sez Ah’m unda stress
Wot’s fer dinner? Wot’s fer tea?”
cos Ah nivver gerra minute’s rest
fra bein’ t’ instant meal factory.
’Is capacity fer consumption is amazing
’E’s lahke a gazelle, allus grazing.

Ah shall call t’Guinness Record Beuk
Ter cum tek a measured leuk
Fer when ’e wor a bairn
Nurse said ’e wor a reluctant feeda
But ’e wor a reet sharp learna
By naw ’e cud be a world leada.
’E maht as well liquidise ’is meal an’ skull it
T’speed a’ which ’e lawps stuff dahn ’is gullet.

Ah wor at Tescos terday and t’day afore that
Eytin’ this much, tha’d think ’ed be fat
but Ah swear ’e grows in ’is sleep.
Grub is nobbut a ’eight esculayta
By t’ end o’ next week
e’ll be lahke a skyscrapa.
We’ar fi’ foot nowt , noggin’ ter toe
Wor did ’e cum fra, we’d lahke ter naw?

Christmas tahme, Ah’d bin slavin’ away
standin’ o’er t’stove, orl day.
We sat at table, laden wit’ food
An’ Ah asked mi son ter say grace.
’E chanced ’is luck with mi mood
as a smile flickered o’er ’is face
“Thank ye Lord for this bit- this wee bit-
o’ a snack. Sum folks wud ’ave made a meal o it.

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Grandad's Profession by Sandra Mills

Mi ’usband’s name t’is Vernon
An’ afore retahrin’, ’e wor a busy surgeon
But when Ah asked mi grandson
What werk grandad used ter do
’E seemed a’furst uncertain.
’E ’ad a little think and then exclaimed
“Ah rememba naw, mi grandad
’E used ter be a Ver-geon!”

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Kanga Goo by Sandra Mills

When ye move ter Australia
Folks back ’ome will ask yer
Which is t’most common kangaroo?
Is it t’bashful, little wallaroo
Or per’aps th’tiny potoroo?
Wha’ abaht t’cute wallaby
Gentle, soft and e’er sa cuddly?
Maht it be t’Giant Red or Eastern Grey?
But Ah ’ave ter answer, “Nay”
Fer t’truth it mun be towd
T’is the Flat’eaded Sort – t’ ones struck
By a passing car or truck
An’ mincemeyted across t’road.

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Nut Sa Daft

Ah con spell ‘petrol’
Anahnsed mi son wit’ glee.
Can’st thee naw, sez Ah
Tryin’ nut ter laff
Fer ’e wor jus tuthri.
Aye, sed ’e, tis reel ezee.
Furst yur mek a ‘B’ then yur put a ‘P’

 

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Our 'azel by Sandra Mills

T’ole family t’wor sat at table
When mi anty felt a wind most unstable
She did ’er level best
Ter keep that there gas suppressed

But both ends it did strahke
Came aht, simultaneous-lahke
It blasted away, reet loud, with a smell
An’, ter top it off, a great hiccup as well

Grandad, ’e laffed at our ’Azel
Eee lass t’wor grand
Lahke a one woman band.
Can’st thee do owt with thy navel?”

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Pontifikayshun Sandra Mills

T’were nobbut just t’week past
That ’issen, nunuther than t’Pope
Declared that t’washin’ mashyn
’ad liberayted womenfolk.

Well, Ah were capped ana tad miffed
Fer, ’pon me oath , Ah’ll sweear ’e nivver
Took t’trouble, nor time aht ter confer
Wit th’frazzeled muther o’ a cricketer.

Fer ’ere Ah stand at basin an’ tow fer ahrs
Scrubbin’ cricket clooas, mi fingers all wi blebs
Mi ’ands raw, soo dry an’ cracked
Jus lahk them Kala’ari riverbeds.

Ah’m sluffed wi ahl th’mud an’ grass stains
Sumtimes t’britches con sooak fer weeks
T’wurst is th’ red ball marks rubt on t’groin
By gaw, Ah shall peg aht wit th’smell o’ bleeach.

Mi son reckons Frahday ’e laiked silly-mid-on, ’e tooka catch,
Cos Ah weren’t thar Ah’ll ’ave regrets.
Ah reckon, fra th’state ’o ’is clooas, ’e were laikin’ silly-little-bugger
In t’coo kak, beyund nets.

Gentlemen o’ t’cricket world, pray tell me this
Why cant cricketers ’ave clooas o’ a different hue?
It dunt tek a man potifikaytin o’er ’is crucifix
Ter tell us what onny muther alredy naws -
Lads an’ white jus plaain dooan mix.

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Right Fed Up by Sandra Mills

“Orl ye ’ad ter do wor ask”
Well Ah’d not mind if that wor true
When needin’ ’elp wi a task
Ah can ask till mi face turns blue

With ye t’is allous “tomorra” or “anuther day”
Or “when Ah’m back fra mi ‘oliday”
“Can’t be wastin’ mi footy ticket”
Or “real soon, afta t’ cricket”
Bi naw te mi sen Ah queries
Wud this be a one or a five day series?
“It con wait. Ah’ll be off then.”
“Ah’ve a thirst ter slocken”
“Ah’ll bi dahn t’pub”
“Ah’ll do it later. Don’t wait up”
“Try mi agen after mi nap”

Ow’d yer feel if t’were me treated thee like that?

“Ah’ll do th’ironing when Ah’m back fra Nepal
And cooking, well Ah might not bother at orl.
What’s that? Ye fancied a bit did ye then?
Sorry, that’s not on mi agenda till 2010.”

If ye want owt doin’, ye’ll ’ave ter do it thi sen
Ah’ll be givin’ thee a reet taste of thi own medcin

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Split Milk by Sandra Mills

Ah stood at shops in t’front o’ milk fridge
T’were nowt thar that ’adn’t bin mucked abaht with
Wit’ this ’ere milk they’ve tekken aht t’creeam
Fer them wot fancies thersen more leean
An’ that there milk ’as bin fortifahd
Fer them wot wish ter be more calsifahd
Th’one aft sez it’ll keep me in shape
Well, that’s a whoppin’ lie ora mistake
This one ’ere t’is lactose free
That one thar ’as Omega -3
Ah studied t’ole lot an’ sumhoo
Nooan leuked as if it wor fra t’coo

T’man nexta me chuntered at this sacrilege
“Strewth, there’s nothing here that’s ridgy didge!”
Allow me ter interpret an’ translayte
Fer mi frustrayted, Aussie mate
We dunt need alt fuss an’ palaver
T’is unadulterayted milk we’re after
Thars no need fer additives that are suss
Sum o’us is ‘appy wit’ ’ow God made us
Shewerly we can’t be in t’minority
Just gie us ahr milk t’wey it orra be.

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War of the Roses by Sandra Mills

Ahr Ken, fra ’eptonstall
’e wor da’ o’ two bonny lasses,
Orl ’eavin’ bosoms
an’ shapes like ’our-glasses.
They took t’fancy
o’ many a local lad
But in t’end
they wor not ter be ’ad.

When tahme came ter be wed
ahr Norma wor t’first tekken.
She went far o’er t’ocean
off ter lands godforsaken.
She went past th’equator
ter sum colonial land nether.
A place where they ’ave climate
instead o’ just weather.

’Er ’usband spoke wit’ a twang
thar wor none ’ere could unnerstan ’im
’Is vowels they wor long and flat
but we’d be polite, nod our ’eads and grin.
The wedding t’wor reet grand
fer ’e wor considered a real catch
And wit’ much celebrayshun
she wor duly dispatched.

But, cum our Jess’s turn
Ken cud scarce raise ’is ’ead
In t’market or at t’pub
’e felt ’ed be better off dead
She wor not going far, but
she’d been poached by an infiltrayta
An’ round these ‘ere parts
There wor no shame greater.

’E wor a nice enuff lad
Tall and good looking ter boot
But ’is pedigree wor all wrong
And the locals cud not stay mute
She’d dared tek a man o’a foreign kind
Crossed ter the dark side, o’er the Pennines
T’were’nt ’alf glum back at ’ome
She’d wed John o’ Bill ---- o’ Colne.

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