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R B 'Bert' Dean - Robert Dean - Creative Writer -
Stoke-on-Trent

You may be lucky enough one day, as I was, to meet Bert Dean near the Etruria Museum on the junction of the Caldon Canal and Trent & Mersey Canal (or anywhere else in Stoke-on-Trent for that matter).

Bert is, in my humble opinion, a talented creative writer and a real local character; a veteran of the Burma Campaign in WWII and member of Stoke-on-Trent's, City Voices: The local creative writer’s workshop, where he, with other members of the workshop, occasionally read their works at their Festivals of Words & Music at the Public Library on Bethesda Street in Hanley.

We chatted on the stern of the narrowboat 'Maid of the Mist' for an hour or more, during which time he gave me permission to 'publish' some of his writings on CanalCuttings.co.uk, for you to enjoy.

Bert is a natural communicator and true gentleman; he gives photocopies of his work to anyone who will take them. We are just helping him reach a wider audience.

Besides the few items we have published here, there is a lot more inside Bert. His father was a local horse dealer, a well known and respected man, when war broke out Bert joined up and, as he modestly said: 'made it through'. He transferred some of his military skills to become a 'blaster' and demolition consultant, a contemporary of "Blaster" Bates and Steeplejack 'Fred' Dibnah, who incidentally opened the Etruria Museum mentioned earlier. (More stories there, untold as yet by Bert methinks).

The kind of model citizen and general 'good egg' can be seen in a linked article for Where I Live - BBC Stoke and Stafford.

Although we may never cross paths again - We thank Bert for his contribution to society and commend these works of his to you:

The Funeral Man

"Cos't kick a bo agin a wo,
And yed it till it bosses",
"Ar con-cost they"? ar kid sed.
As wey arnessed up dad's osses.

Sey fayther were the funeral man,
Always drest in black,
Hey were always fost, afore thee went,
And latest coming back.

Ma fixed the snappin for the wake,
Poke pie and funeral bread,
Pa said "without the Parkers purge",
Wey mate as o bey jed.

And when it was all over,
And farwell to Aunty Jane,
Tho'wd mon would kind of size em up,
And say "see you again".

He'd light his pipe and look around,
And wallow in the smoke.
"Good afternoon, I'll see you soon",
T'was faythers kind of joke.

Days gone by

In days gone by a pretty sight,
To see the sky lit up at night.
It advertised both near and far,
The finest steel works Shelton bar.
Generations worked the mills,
Men from towns and men from hills.
Girders, tram lines all were made,
By workers steadfast and poorly paid.
Six till two and two till ten,
Ten till six and back again.
No days off for aches and pains,
The steel men were a hardy lot.
Didn't mind what they hadn't got.
No computers, little telle,
Pay went home to feed their belly.
Friday night to ease the pain,
A pint of ale cross from old forge lane.
But its all gone its just a scar,
Where once stood old shelton bar.
Se heres to the steel men most all gone,
But still their memories linger on.

Letter from heaven

To my dearest family, some things I'd like to say,
But first of all, to let you know, that I arrived okay.
I'm writing this from heaven, here I dwell with god above,
Here, theres no more tears of sadness, here is just eternal love.
Please do not be unhappy just because I'm out of sight,
Remember that I'm with you, every morning, noon and night.
That day I had to leave you when my life on earth was through,
God picked me up and hugged me and he said "I welcome you".
God gave me a list of things he wished for me to do,
And foremost on that list, was to watch and care for you.
And when you lie in bed at night, the days chores put to flight,
God and I are close to you, in the middle of the night.
When you think of my life on earth, and all those loving years,
Because you're only human, they're bound to bring you tears.
But do not be afraid to cry, it does relieve the pain,
Remember there would be no flowers, unless there was some rain.
When you are walking down the street and you've got me on your mind,
I'm walking in your footsteps only half a step behind.
And when its time for you go go ... from your body to be free,
Remember your not going.. you're coming here to me.

The Boswells

I wandered down to North Street, Stoke,
T'was known as Gypsie Lane.
But it's all gone - the 'D' road's there,
Twill never be the same.

In days gone by, a pretty sight,
The horses black and brown.
All flecked with white - and dappled,
They never let you down.

Old Rabbi leaning oe'r the gate,
Watching the world - so fast.
The old round tops and waggons,
How the years have passed.

The pub's still there, the old 'Blacks Head'.
As good a pint as ever,
Gone is the glint of shiney hooves,
And the tang of harness leather.

The people too are different,
All the old folk gone.
It seems another world today,
But fond memories linger on.

Try

Try to choose the way you live
Try never to take, always to give.
Try to be honest, truthful and straight,
Try to be early, try not to be late.
Try to be faithful in all walks of life,
Try to be strong through struggle and strife.
Try to face up when things seem so blue,
For your life was planned,
It's just up to you.

Good Innings

Grieve not for me when I am passed,
I've had a tasty innings.
If today should be my last,
I've taken all life's winnings.
Of life itself I've had my share,
I've seen the best and worst.
Lady luck's been mostly fair,
When not I've ready cursed.
Fortunes shined in many ways,
Satisfied each passion.
Unfortotten golden days,
Of love an extra ration.
I've lived my life as I believed,
Escaping all the blows.
Ambitions sometimes not achieved,
That's the way it goes.
The cards are not all fun.
I made the best of a feeble hand,
But proud to say - I won.

Our Owd Mon

When our owd mon went up the tine,
He'd have one boot black, the other brine.
Folk would laugh at dear owd Tom,
Ar've got another pair like this at wom".

Hey wore a cap and owd red scarf,
And folk as knowed im would buy im half.
He told suc tales and folk would know it,
Cause our owd mon were a local poet.

He'd tell of days when he were a lad,
work was short and times were bad.
Pennies scarce and there wasn't dole,
Up the slag heaps picking coal.

On the cut he'd work a stint,
Eight bob a time unloading flint.
Out of a barge and into a barrow,
His poor old back ached to the marrow.

Twenty ton, it wa'nt no joke,
But it were better than staying broke.
He'd always find cash to give our mum,
To put some snappin in me aching tum.

Up market on a Saturday night,
with half a crow she'd be alright.
Bag of veg and a lump of meat,
Always made sure we had summat to eat.

They reared us right in many ways,
But I wonder
Were they the good old days?

To think - To dream

To think - to dream - to reminisce,
Are all these in one's mind?
Ambitions, sometimes not achieved,
And life seems left behind.

As years pass by, we ask ourselves,
Does life work to a plan.
Or does the meaning, Destiny,
Rule the life of man.

Someday, the anwsers we may solve,
And joy will be complete.
Meanwhile, life life to the full,
Till you your maker meet.

Modern Life

We've been around for quite a while,
Know struggle, and met strife.
Don't want to know what's happened
Between neighbour and his wife.

But it keeps coming back at us,
In leaps and bounds and loops
I reckon we must change our name
To Mr and Mrs Proops.

We see young kids as proud as punch,
A baby in a carriage.
They tell us we're a mottley bunch,
And don't believe in marriage.

Who's with who - and they're split up,
To us a strange lived life.
What happened to society,
When man would take a wife?

A little word called family,
It meant so much to me.
I wonder who is right or wrong
Them or us - we'll see.

Destructive Man

I sat upon a wooden fence,
And gazed at heavens high.
The universe out there - immense
A strange unknown night sky.

Weight and speed out there mean nought,
And time itself stands still.
Man its mysteries has sought,
His knowledge tried to fill.

Space - a vacuum - void of air,
Where lifeless worlds rotate.
Some forms of life may be out there,
For us to find they wait.

Man has stepped onto the moon,
A foothold to the stars.
His mighty rockets soon will cruise,
Round Jupiter and Mars.

Is there life what will men find,
Maybe a world that's free
If there is life of any kind,
He'll spoil it just you see.

Tribute to my Friend

There's a place, just out of Cheadle
That's known as Hales View Farm.
The ramblers often pass
As they stroll by arm in arm.
Strangers always are amazed,
As they gaze upon the seen.
At the legacy Les has left
So that folk can browse and dream.

It tells of bygone days,
When horsepower was in fashion.
There are wagons, coaches, hay carts, gigs,
More than the normal ration
And in the barns for all to see,
Nurtured by tender hand.
The collector's dream, of days long past.
The finest in the land.

The buildings are works of art,
They're built with loving care.
It's all been salvaged,
So that future folk can share.
In the love Les had for yesteryear,
And history long gone.
Pray bid a while at Hales View Farm,
For memories linger on.

As time goes by the visitors,
Will wonder 'bout the man,
Who created all these buildings,
Each one without a plan.
What was he like? How did he think?
And what will progress yield.
My answer's maybe
"Talk to Les,
He's out there in his field".

The Potter

It's early mlorn in a smog filled street,
One hears the sound of potters feet.
They stride to factories - slip stained yards,
They rush to punch their timing card
Antiquated factories stand,
Slums - by modern means - unplanned.
Within these walls the potter toils,
Bored - his hands and body spoils.

His lungs how quickly they encrust,
Inhaling glaze and killer dust.
The master potter - skills inherit,
His meagre wage is little merit.

The potter's art is world renowned,
His finished beauty will astound.
An average potter - poor - oppressed,
Bored, unhealthy and depressed.

The factory owner's steeped in wealth,
They little care for potters health.
Maybe one day we'll justice see,
And make men equal, rich and free.

Respect

Iv'e travelled the world wide over
And lived in many lands.
Where'er I've been I've tried by best;
To try and understand.

Their mode of life, their customs,
Religions and their ways.
And most of all I've had respect,
I've found this way it pays.

I've seen the best and worst of man,
Been in forbidden towns.
When danger called, we did our best,
We heard the bugle sound.

Some say it was 'lady luck',
And mortals are protected,
But I believe inb 'destiny',
Respect and be respected.