Best Bradford Poems
The Death of my Town
(for Bradford, West Yorkshire, England)
At first I was self-righteous and held the moral high ground
On approaching the imminent death of my town
Some days I would observe and shake my head
And say loudly “You know, I think my town might be dead!”
Looks on faces say should I no longer care?
What can we do for the people out there?
But the Town Hall had a plan
There was some government money in the pan
Which they spent on a big pond in the ground
To fill with water, applaud themselves and stand around
And that was supposed to revive our town
Bring it back to life so we could once again be proud
Visitors would flock from miles around
To bask in the renewing of my town
Which would filter round and round
Dragging us all up off the ground
Despite their plans, I did not know
Just how quickly the death would take
As I watched as the town’s thinning corpse
Wither away....and start to decay
I could not know how I would feel
When its lifeless body was at last laid out
That I no longer had the strength to shout
Or believe in those who had told us to be proud
But its people still hang about
Without the means or strength to leave
So they try to drown out the death of their town
By drinking and drinking and drinking until they fall down
And to those who were paid to save it and did not
But stand by and let it fall down
Wasting all that money
On a pond in the ground
I must believe the day will come
When they must pay for what they have done
At best competent
At worst nowt’
Because I refuse to understand
That all they could offer was a hole in the ground
To prevent the death of my once loved town
Trapping all those around
Whilst their confidence rang out so loud
Telling us all we had so much for to be proud
But knowing they were simply
Cursing us all to life in a dead town
Although I believe they can still get out.....
It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
I touch one,
The baby buds growing on the tree.
They're tender, vulnerable, and soft.
They promise new life to come.
What awaits these tiny buds?
Only seasons will tell.
One year might have more rain while a drought might have happened in the previous year.
Wind might blow them away,
forever carrying them away from their home.
I pluck one and hold it in the palm of my hand.
It's pungent smell not yet noticeable.
But I know when the tiny, green bud blooms,
The pretty, little white petals and the essence of the bloom, will contrast.
How can something so delicately pretty, so innocent,
emit such a intoxicatingly rich, pungent bouquet?
I know this little bud's future.
I drop it to the ground, hearing the soft fump as it hit.
I've decided it's fate once I've plucked it,
I'm like God in this way.
Dropping an angel from the sky,
To live his or her life in the arms of humanity and family.
To have the struggles I've predetermined so they can become who they were,
who I know them to be.
I've forgiven their pungent mistakes because I know the mistakes they will make.
Their family will nurture the tiny, innocent angelic baby, never knowing what the future
will hold for their child.
The now blooming adult will walk away, to take risks, to challenge life, to be carried
away by the wind.
Their lives are now guided by my hands,
If they so chose.
However, what choice do they have if I have predetermined their lives?
I closed the small hole in the ground with the pat of my hand,
took the clear glass cup,filled to the brim of precious water,
I poured.
I took the chance, a risk, so that a new life can begin.
S exy
A wesome
M anly
B etter than the rest
R ifling arm
A mazing
D auntless
F ootball player
O klahoma sooners
R ing leader
D are devil
Bradford pear colored with burgundy
Standing in my neighbor's yard
You're full fluffy hair offers a dandy
Hideaway, for all the birds in this bard
I know that I saw a Robin
Nibbling on one of you're pears
He was a great dancer, bobbin
Eating all your delicious fare
Then the magical Blue Bird
Who loves a small hollow post
To nest, decided that he pears preferred
That the burgundy a great host
That old Red-Headed Woodpecker bopped
Pecking on your tender delicious bark
Seeing him destroy you, I wanted to say stop
But he kept on until way past dark
...
A
Tree
Named Braford
Shaped like a Christmas Tree
Sets off at least two seasons
One with white and the other with fire
Spring blooms are beautiful and Fall puts on
A great show but when one looks at winter closely
The Bradford's buds does surely show along side these
Are tiny little pears; Food for all the birds, to feed in winter
Snow, Who would have thought that the Bradford woud hold
Hands with old Sweet Gum Joe, as they dance to the win-
Ter breeze and shiver in the cold two friends so different
They are love struck because they are so much the
Same color, Their bright burgundy and gold so
Looking like flaming touches one in yards
The other is the wild, wild woods so
Far apart but in love are they
The birds and bees
Bear their
Love
Tales
Back
And
Forth
Each
Day
The Bradford Pear
By Franklin Price
2/26/2017
I am the glorious Bradford Pear.
My leaves are turning white
I'm lining many streets and lanes
Trimmed and spaced just right
Other trees with branches bare
Show not a leaf in sight
I do not have to share your eyes
I'm selfish of the light.
Will be snow-like for just awhile
Then time will change the scene
Turning my leaves from snowflake white
To ones of Springtime green