James T. Wray

Caledon, N. Ireland

I was born on the 3rd July 1938 in Kensington England, but Caldeon has been my home since boyhood. I am a product of the Primary School education system and proud of it. I have been happily married to my wife Kathleen for thirty-five years, we are the parents of two sons, James Thomas and John Patrick, and grandparents to seven grandchildren. When invited, I go to schools to give my views on poetry to the pupils. Poetry is my way of expressing myself and making a catalogue of events in my life. I am a supporter of Doctor Barnado's Home and a member of the International Society of Poets. Though I write mainly to please myself, it pleases me when my efforts are appreciated by others and gives pleasure to them.

Conservation

When Winter comes and cold winds blow,
I love to sit by my fire's glow
I love to curl up on my seat,
To feel all snug at my fire's heat.

But if the heat is given by coal,
In the ground I see a hole,
And if it's wood that's heating me,
The life's been taken from a tree.

If I'm warmed by glowing peat,
Cut to the shape of logs,
All that I can ever see,
Is the shrinking of our bogs.

And if my heat it comes from oil,
Which was stored beneath Earth's soil,
Still my heart is full of fears,
To put it there took a million years.

But just before my heart it sank,
I try to make my mind go blank,
For like the rest I like the best,
So my conscience I will not test.

So I sit at my fire, brave and bold,
Anything's better that the feel of cold,
So you see, that's the type of me,
I keep warm with electricity.

It's not as bad as an open fire,
For all the heat comes down a wire,
So now you here, my conscience is clear,
I'll just keep warm till Summer's here.

For then I'll come to no great harm,
For the Summer's air is nice and warm
But then my fears they do unfold,
What about next Winter's cold,
I think you know I've hit a plan,
I'll simply blame it, on our coalman.

Life's Dream

It's funny how we always seem,
To be so happy in a dream,
Yet when it's time for us to wake,
We think our dreams a big mistake.

It's funny how in proper life,
We seem so bent on war and strife,
If only we would try to live,
To be forgiving and to give.

Then to us our life would seem,
To be the same as in our dream,
And in the morn when we awake,
We'd never make the same mistake.