Best Bedford Poems
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
1.
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
I was born Carl Robert Halling at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road which runs through Shepherds Bush in west London and which in the mid 1960s served as one of the great centres of the Mod movement, whose dandified acolytes were infamous for their vanity and hedonism.
I was raised in nearby Bedford Park, a comparatively genteel district close to the largely working class area of South Acton.
My first school was the Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud, and by the time I was 4 years old, I was already bilingual.
I wasted little time at the Lycee in establishing a reputation as a troublemaker, a popular one admittedly, but a troublemaker nonetheless, constantly in trouble.
I was popular, that much is certain, not just with girls but boys too and blessed with a vivid imagination but I was a near impossible pupil which caused my poor mother a good deal of heartache, and on at least one occasion she drove me home in tears.
I seemed born to controversy, being impatient, disobedient, mischievous, remorselessly attention-seeking, a true imp of a child, on which the full force of the innate depravity of Man appeared to have landed.
At the same time, I was friendly, sincere and open, a good friend, and well-liked.
My Judo teacher at the Budokan in Hammersmith once told someone no doubt with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach that whenever he heard me he always knew it was Saturday.
I was no less a trial in the quaint little back streets of suburban west London.
My roughness could hardly have been helped by the popular music of the times.
By the time it came for me to leave the Lycee my scholastic standing had improved a little, and after some months spent at Davies Preparatory School, I received the most glittering school report of my entire young life; and was actually declared an excellent pupil.
CSA General Bedford Forest
Mighty killing warrior
Would've won the war no jest
If his horses were survivors
Gen. Forest lost 30 horses during the civil war and killed more soldiers than any
other general. It could be said he was lucky or his horses were unfortunate.
Big dreamer George Bailey
Read the Bedford Falls daily
Making him want to hurl
Until he kissed the girl!
For Andrea's Clerihew Contest
Risen from the ashes of a time gone by...
Out of the 1900's and brought back into the present,
recreation of a simple, peaceful time of moments past.
The grand entrance with its pebble stone drive ways,
circular,
flower trimmed with springs and the newest guest arrivals.
Long walking porches out of New Orleans line each floor,
three high.
Soft strolling decking, leading to the stairs down to the lush lawns of rolling greens below,
darting in and out from behind each other,
in the defilade of the landscape.
People walking the trails around the property,
Bocce ball, lawn darts, kids running with kites.
Fire pits lit are at night,
burning red oak
Chocolate Smore's dripping over the open fire
mixing into a smoke tinged aphrodisiac as blankets are drinks are passed around like camp fire stories.
Natural springs lead to the pools of clear water,
mist punctuates the air,
the intake...
walking around this past, while here...Now....Present
What a gift it is...
Bedford Spring's
Tall as they come, this man is 1 metre 85,
A basketball player inspired by the 2012s,
To compete in disability sport so to thrive,
At the high jump, his practice bookshelves.
Loughborough students encouraged him,
To work on his basketball leaps by trying,
To high jump. He was so taken, no whim,
With the London Paras, he was pertaining,
That he became a T44 athlete for team GB,
To qualify with PB of 2.06 at Bedford in May;
2013 also saw him in the IPC, Lyon to see,
Where he took silver, loosing to Poland, ok.
2014 IPC Europeans in Swansea, Wales,
And he got another PB with 2.15m, a WR,
Which would’ve won gold in London sails,
But he had to accept silver, Poland did bar.
Jonathan lives in Reading at the age of 28,
But was born in Colchester well fine, fair,
With a clubbed foot, a week right knee fate,
And muscular imbalance thru his body, lair.
little girl keeps getting lost
sliding off her rainbow
trying to untie her shoes
and she's counting up the cost
of the company she's keeping
saving up those violet tattoos
she thinks love is like a sin
knocks you out as you fall in
and every kick is gonna leave a bruise
young girls
and
wishes,
tight spots
and
dirty dishes,
deadlines
and
waistline,
schoolgirl crushes
and valentines
crawling up against the walls
no escape from Bedford Falls
no 'stage' to board from town at noon
you may not think i have a heart
kind of scared and not that smart
but pass the rope and I'll lasso your moon
George Bailey taking the icy plunge,
Clarence saved him being his guardian,
a close call,
for Bedford Falls,
saved town from tyrannical bug,
The heartwarming scene at the end,
where townsfolk contribute a dividend,
hearing a ring,
angel got his wings,
poor Uncle Billy's pink slip pending,
George's life finally on the upswing,
till Uncle Billy forgot one more thing,
work in his briefs,
townsfolk red cheeks,
indecent attire thrown in the clink.
12-25-16
AntiPoem 31 “Rita Montero”
(Poet’s instruction: Kindly play “Ay, Mama Inez”
by Rita Montero while reading this AntiPoem)
a red trolley finds Ebbets Field behind a pigtown ditch
significant hotdogs and burnt singles melt into the pitch
Jackie Robinson squares off with an ash tree riding the sky
the flag of our fathers dancing in center field poised to fly
“honey, I hope you like these seats here in the bleachers
you can see Bedford on the phone looking for preachers
an endless parade of white-walled tires scurrying on by
can you smell the Nathan’s dogs downstairs on hot rye
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
“Una mujer negra se asoma en el teatro de Buenos Aires”
Argentine goddess with roots in the dark seeping prairies
musically squeezes the brass ring as the black cloud dries
“Rita Montero, you are as lovely as your sweet empanada pies
your wonderful sidewalks through gardens of lapacho trumpets
please come sit with me here, to talk and to eat these crumpets
to speak of your forever glissandos and sad asado whispers
your electric shadows finding humble graces at vespers
retrieving lost spaces from opera teachers and stupid men
to step forward again with singing eyes and a ballpoint pen
Rompiste la puerta blanca maloliente!”
please Rita meet me in Córdoba next wednesday”
she sits in her bleacher seat with a Nathan’s dog on hot rye
“honey, I hope we can see Jackie Robinson hit a deep fly
high up into the airy Brooklyn blue arching yet over Bedford
the democrats in section seven will applaud the proud leopard
Rita Montero, I can see her in the grandstand behind Shotton
she is giving absolution for all the skin sins now long forgotten
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
Flatbush . . . Bedford Stuyvesant . . . Saint Jerome's . . .
Our Lady of Good Counsel School . . . The Sisters of Mercy . . . The Franciscan Brothers.
Double features at the Farragut movie on Saturday A.M.:
The Mummy's Curse and Abbot & Costello Meet Frankenstein.
Lotsa shorts, cartoons and Nyoka, the Jungle Girl,
Or maybe Dick Tracy or Superman if we were lucky.
Jangling trollies, "Hoodlums" Ma called em, pulling electric sprockets off
The aerial line as the trolly rounded Rogers Avenue.
Paul Chilcott, Roger Scott, Gerard Meyers.
Did I do my homework for tomorrow?
The stinking barn on East 28th Street where we pulled
Drags on Chesterfields and played Caught-Caught Ringaleveo and punchball
On the dirt side of the old barn.
Eggies no halvsies and aggies and yo-yo's and 'territory'
With a big fat pen knife.
Flipping cards in the afternoon: Ralph Branca, Gil Hodges, Pee-Wee Reese.
Vic Rachi was hard to get -- even though a Yankee.
Pop taking Billy and me to Prospect Park Zoo. Always the seals first.
Had to be back by Four. Sunday dinner was always at Four.
"Pass the bread, Jerry." I threw a loaf to my brother.
Grandma, all eighty pounds of her, quivering in her raspy Sicilian voice,
"Don'ta throw God."
I must warn you, don’t board that ship, Ishmael.
The captain has an obsession, and is doomed to fail.
He seeks to kill this legendary white whale.
There are many other ships in this place you can board.
Many whaling vessels sail in and out of New Bedford.
On a previous journey sailing to the southeast,
the captain lost a leg to that elusive white beast.
He bears the name of an infamous Israel king.
Boarding the Pequod will be quite a foolish thing.
Based on the novel “Moby Dick” by Herman Melville.
Where are you?
I can’t find you, I cant see you.
I call out your name and come to find you.
I want to find you in the shed,
making Linda’s sledge.
Whistling to yourself as you go along.
I want to find you in Hemsby,
Giving Lois coca cola and a mars bar for breakfast
Here is 50p to buy an ice cream you’d say
So make sure you spend a little, save a little,
You would remind the grandchildren while going up the Dunes from the bungalow.
I want to find you in Great Yarmouth with Nana,
Where the town never sleeps with the blue china dog.
I want to find you driving your Hillman Minx along Old Bedford Road taking the great
grandchildren to the park for us to play on the red train and have an ice cream.
I want to find you in the flat listening to Nessum Dorma
Giving Julia and Jeremy a rough house
I want to find you in the Blackswan’s Garden
After being to Papa Chamberlaine’s allotment on a Sunday.
I want to find you doing you charity work sitting upstairs in McDonalds.
I want to find you at Diane and Grahame’s for your joint birthday with Julia.
With you being head of the family, watching everyone stop and talk,
Occasionally having a snooze but still having time to love them for them.
I want to find you one last time
reminding us not to forget the great from Great Yarmouth
Or “When I was in the war...”
But I still can’t find you.
Then I realise I have found you
You are still here.
You’re hiding well but we know you are around.
We can’t see you but we can feel you always
So when we say you are not around anymore –
You are – in our hearts, head and our memories.
We miss you...
With childhood eyes, reflecting
Clear mountain day, remembering
Fresh cut hay, reviving
Together we’d play, etching
Memories never to be forgotten
The morning crisp, awakening
Aromas hint, of baking
Small morning eyes, awaiting
The wrinkled chef, creating
The delicacies of home-made art
Calloused hands, observing
A rugged land, preserving
Unwilling souls, still learning
Dust and heat for hours, shaping
Young men soon to face the world
Cool mountain shadow, approaching
The weathered rancher, nodding
Nightly ventures, seeking
The crystal streams, providing
All a boy could ever want
The dinner table, calling
The cold night gently, falling
The glow from window, beaming
Through which family is seen, praying
Thanking God for what He’s given
The warm fire softly, crackling
The elder folk, chatting
While childhood eyes slip, drifting
Off to pleasant dreams, forever
Calling my heart back home to Bedford
Tracey
Daughter, sister, friend, and poet
Sister of Molly and Wesley
Lover of Jonathan, Mom, and siblings
Who feels sorrow, love, and anger
Who fears death, failure, and heights
Who would like to see Molly and Wesley succeed, Europe, and Niagra Falls
Resident of Bedford, Texas
Kraft
Suburban mother, neat, ash-blonde, divorced,
might pause beneath a Bedford bookstore awning,
then check her list - lasagne, liverwurst ...
today pilates, Thursday, coffee morning.
One week is like another, which is fine
(note on the fridge -- "collect new reading glasses").
She'll pass on Starbuck's (have you SEEN the line?)
The bovine bustle of the middle classes.
Ten years ago, I struck like Typhoon Trevor,
intense and strange. Endearments and demands
brought whiff of chaos. "Picket fences never
restrained me!" But I left with empty hands.
She went for bourgeois bland, for safety's sake,
and never sees what's churning in her wake.
Every time I pass by Flushing, Bedford, or Lee Street in Brooklyn
I see Jewish people in complete uniform; most of them in black color,
their faith and loyalty to the Book of Torah makes me reflect
about my own relationship with God, along with my own people.
It’s become a reminder for me as I connect my own journey
to the mysteries of being called to serve and witness to faith;
certain things to develop and deepen along with inner longings
fidelity stressed by the Gospel marks the sign of being one of them.
Discipleship is truly costly as one invests his whole life in it,
there’s a radical shift of lifestyle that follows like a measure -
gauging that genuineness in dialogue with life and other cultures;
needed as a fundamental criterion to carry on God’s mission.
It’s in this way that some highlights of my faith enable me
to see beyond the texts of the Holy Scriptures, images of truth
that convey love relationships with people particularly the poor.
Being open to welcome some wounds and other afflictions
in today’s world where everyone competes with other factors
amid strong forces of secularism and cultural impositions
on life’s situations where the Lord’s teaching dwells.
Although God doesn’t give us all what we really want,
but he provides us with certain things we really need;
it’s a familiar wisdom, a continuing hope as Christians
that his great love for us is often reiterated in many ways.
A priority to “be mindful of the poor” and have love for them,
an attitude with an evolving deal of surrender to God’s will
no matter how rough the roads will be in reaching out to them
reference to the poor connotes a constant clarion call for all.