Best Bowden Poems
Football coach Bobby Bowden was never one to cuss
But refs make mistakes and coaches have a right to fuss
“St. Bowden” as he was lovingly called by players
Instilled moral values and hushed all the naysayers
He’d not take God’s name in vain, so he coined dadgumit
It became his trademark, might appear in his obit
If a ref made a bad call, he’d race onto the field
Never said God d*** it, when the ref’s call he appealed
"Dadgumitrefereeism" got his point across
The refs would shy away because Bobby was the boss
Sometimes calls were overturned since Bobby was revered
Short and stout in stature, but the refs still shook in fear
The “Saint” played with God on his side and the refs knew it
Dadgumitrefereeism didn't bother God a bit
“Woe is me,” when football season closes
Crimson Tide lost in a sea of roses
Tampa Bucs, Tide, Seminoles
To “off” my remote just strolls
I’ll use TM for football osmosis
My Coach Bowden-signed football is glass-encased
How do I endure the trauma I’ve faced?
With my pompoms cast aside
“Six-month drought!” I cried
“It would hurt less to have my face replaced.”
*Entry for Susan’s “Drama Queen” contest.
From Deion Sanders to Warrick Dunn
Bobby Bowden coached some of the best
Highly regarded by team and staff
The FSU coach withstood each test
With two national championships
And two great Heisman Trophy winners
Tallahassee fans basked in glory
Until the talent ranks grew thinner
Suddenly loyalty’s cast aside
Despite thirty-three FSU years
Just a few losses were all it took
To turn his fickle fans’ cheers to jeers
How sad Bobby’s been asked to step down
Glory fades fast; don’t rest on laurels
Fans want a young gun to take the lead
But he’ll never match Bobby’s morals
The coach who refused to cuss or quit
Gave Marshall his playbook when their team died
Best known for just saying, “Dad Gummit”
Bobby gave us all a sense of pride
He’s being forced out, no loyalty
Decades of worship stop on a dime
But he won’t be replaced easily
They say it’s lights out for Bowden’s time
The second most winning One-A coach
One of just four in the Hall of Fame
Bows out humbly in two thousand nine
Tossed like pig skin to the Hall of Shame
But I’ll never forget Bowden’s name
The players will miss his leadership
Bobby deserves respectful tribute
Not mean quips shot from turn-coat fans’ hips
Friends, Coach Bowden has been my idol for years. He instilled spiritual values in his
players while coaching them to season after season wins. If this poem sounds "emotional,"
it's because his ousting makes me disgusted.
A Lincolnshire lass was she
in youth and bloom revealing,
and upon us all God smiled
when unto this world a child
was born and bred in Healing
Red flower of the Midlands -
O’ English Rose sweet and fairest!
Who heard the sirens roar
when fell the bombs of war
on village row and terrace
Where old port fishing boats
off the North Sea tied dockside,
and there their catch unload
where the mighty Humber flowed
as they came in on the tide
She met her Ted a likely lad
from the seaside town of Grimsby.
Unto a rose a prickly thorn
whose love to she was sworn
and wed the twain would be
And so it was it came to pass
a great debt of love was owed.
Dreaming of a foreign shore
in old England’s cold bitten door
from her house on Oak Road
Unto an isle beyond her own
in a far land and Bay of Plenty -
to sail a ship from Glasgow
and off starboard bow long ago
wave farewell to old Blighty
Away the colonies away on
berth and passage of ten pound.
Leaving her home by the sea
and the life she knew in Grimsby
on the Captain Hobson bound
Ocean to ocean voyage long
the bow waves did pitch and toss.
By day their slow time biding
and by night the ancient guiding
lights of the Southern Cross
Soon a year passed and nigh
that Midland girl a mother to be.
Once again in a seaside town
dressed in a maternity gown
across the world in Opotiki
But the Firth she calls home
and there in time raised a family,
and I remember to this day
her gentle and motherly way
to me and to all, dear Audrey
Written: December 2017
...Burke grabbed Aura and they both ran out,
riding double on his trusty horse.
The word raced quickly through the town,
a posse was formed, as a matter of course.
So Burke pushed his mount, more and more.
They couldn’t go back, despite acts justified,
not when two men, one a sherriff, had died.
So they rode, pursuers hot on their trail,
until they reach a ranch high the peaks.
Burke pulled a gun while Aurelia seized
a new horse, both study and sleek.
The rancher fumed, too angry to speak.
Burke apologized, gave him all his gold,
then sped off again into mountains cold.
Two days passed, the posse drew close,
and both their horses started to flag.
No longer able to outrun their hunters,
Burke mad camp high up in a crag,
where he could shoot safely if they attacked.
The posse appeared in the meadow below,
lead the by the sherriff’s oldest, known as Milo.
“Surrendor now, or we’ll shoot you down!”
They shouted it as they stared to climb.
But before Burke could even open his mouth
the air exploded with shrill, Indian cries.
A horde of Bannocks their arrows let fly!
They swept into the meadow, circling fast.
The posse died quickly, not long could they last.
Burke and Aurelia hid low in the rocks
until the last of the Bannocks had left.
Not much was left of the posse below,
they lay still, and were mostly scalpless.
But one figured crawled amongst the dead.
Burke climbed down, still clutching his gun,
and loomed over the sheriff's bloodied son.
“You won’t believe me, but I’ll say it now,
I acted only out of self-defense.
You’re father and Grisby were gunning for me,
and Grisby was putting his hands on my friend.
There choices brought them to their ends.”
But Milo just snarled, and crawled away,
Burke and Aura sighed, and left him that way.
No one from Tillico ever saw them again,
even when Milo put a bounty of their hides.
Some say they made for themselves new names
and peacefully lived out their lives.
Others said, like most outlaws, they died...
And if you all liked this tale that you just heard,
Tell your friends about me, Bruce Bowden the Third.
Door open,
hurtling loud and at full speed
towards my destination,
beneath me a blur
of mounded ballast
and withered grass,
the world coming into focus more
the further out I look -
graffitied fences, factories
still wearing the soot
of steam trains from decades
before, a mountain of stacked
wooden pallets, car wrecks
piled four high.
Late sixties, on my way
to work on the 7.10
from Alberton, all stops
to Cheltenham then express
to the City. The station names
flash by, Woodville, Kilkenny,
Croydon, Bowden all pass dreamlike
through a disconnected stare.
A vague residual left by the thoughts
back then still seem to slop
around my memory. I can feel
panic claw on the window
trying to get out.
I arrive fifty five years later,
on time, here, a world away
looking out on a soft fall
of summer rain. My journey
has gone by all too fast
on the 7.10 express train.
When he was born, God gave him a special gift.
He was a British actor who was named Clive Swift.
He starred as Richard Bucket and Roy Bowden in 'Keeping Up Appearances' and 'The Old Guys'.
He was a remarkable actor and it's a damn shame when such a person dies.
Because of the talent God gave to him, he was extraordinary.
Sadly, this great man lost his life on the first day of February.
[Dedicated to Clive Swift (1936-2019) who died on February 1, 2019.]