Best Manchester Poems
Yet another incident has happened today
When will these terrorists go away
Manchester this time at a concert
Some taken to early some really hurt
Thier war now affecting the general public
These people are just really sick
To target young children having fun
Your sick and something will be done
You will not scare us of British decent
Your cowardly acts you must repent
We will hunt you down and take you in
A six foot cell your life will begin
Prayers go to all those that were there
Great British people show that you care
For those that have lost I shed a tear
Defeat this terrorism show no fear
Stay alert and watch each others backs
We can beat these cowardly attacks
MANCHESTER
Oh, Manchester, you are such a majestic city
bathed in your bright blazing lights in the night.
Everyone has been to your cityscape,
if they work there or go to see such honoured shops
like Vinyl Exchange to get their favourite record.
Such calamities in the past have struck so suddenly
like German bombers of the blitz to the IRA only recently,
you survive all this like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.
So many different people are there on a Saturday afternoon
all coming and going, it amazes you
just to see them all become one with the city.
Where have all our beautiful flowers gone
Each so very special in their own way
Where have all our young flowers gone
Why has this world’s evil taken them away
Where have all our young flowers gone
Oh Lord, we miss them in so many ways
And it's hard to accept the reason they left
As our grief overwhelms us so much today
For our souls are broken in many, many pieces
While our hearts are deeply wrought with pain
We know from this moment forward in our lives
Nothing in our world will again be the same
Where have all our little flowers gone to
Though it may seem they are now far away
The jewels of our lives are still very near
For in our hearts, their smiles brightly stay
Even as our hearts deeply weep for all of them
In all their faces an angel’s smile, we'll see
Knowing our Lord has embraced each one lovingly
Giving their spirits the blessing of heavenly gain.
I wrote this as a tribute to all those injured and killed in the bombing. Get well soon people, rest in peace those that were murdered.
Manchester will never forgive
Manchester will never forget
The few that carry the bomb
The few with the terrorist threat
Manchester will never forget
Those that were caught in the blast
Manchester understands
That it isn’t the first time or last
The Provo’s they gave us a warn of attack
A few precious minutes for the hordes to drawback
Now our blood stains the tarmac and union jack
From a cowardly nail bomb packed in a backpack
But Manchester will stand, like the tree called the Oak
Rising up tall from the fire and the smoke
Manchester has been there before
Surviving but battered and sore
So Manchester’s message to those with the bomb
Bring it on, bring it on, bring it on
Manchester remembers,
The twenty-two lives that were taken,
Two years on,
Their memories never to be forsaken,
Manchester remembers,
Not just the twenty-two,
Prayers go out to the survivors,
Thoughts are with all of you.
Manchester remembers,
How the City came together,
A force to be reckoned with,
No matter who, what or whether.
Manchester remembers,
The feeling of disbelief,
In the aftermath the city bonded,
Consoling those wracked with grief,
Manchester refused to quit,
Manchester stands tall,
Manchester remains strong,
Manchester remembers them all.
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
An innocent small girl is crying on the roadside
her face seems very candid and
expressions look naïve, but
nobody knows the cause of her sadness and
and no one can ever feel
the hidden wounds inside her heart
Why does she scream?
Why does she shed painful tears?
Her eyes are tired of crying and
her tears are frozen
today there is no one to wipe her tears
maybe she is missing her childhood
when she used to insist on Barbie Doll
holding the fingers of her mother
and holding the hand of the father
used to chase butterflies in the garden
Used to kiss the droplets of rain
while floating a paper boat in the pond
Will her days come back?
Listening to mother's lullaby at midnight
used to fly with the fairies in the blue sky
Maybe she is still crying
now her tears must be tired
she still is waiting for her parents to come
But she does not know that
her parents will never return
God has called them to heaven
because her parents, at the hands of cruel terrorism,
have been killed
in the Menchester Bomb Blast
on 22nd May 2017.
Let us pray that the soul of her parents
rest in piece!
(By Kishan Negi)
My son is a Buccaneer (Orlando Pirates)
I'm a proud Khozi (Kaizer Chiefs)
We’re eternal enemies divided,
But we meet at Manchester United
One week ago, a suicide bomber, a murderer took many lives at the Manchester Arena
The police are hunting down his accomplices to subpoena
It seems that the papers have nothing better to do than to show his face to us every day
Replaying each and every horrific moment to his families and relatives: including his unfallen, his prey
Go on let’s make him famous, some journalists seem to say
These are the images that imprint themselves in the minds of relatives and friends
What kind of a message does this ultimately send?
This story really sucks
News makes big bucks
Who is going undercover to catch these monsters that lurk?
Has the world gone completely berserk?
When it came to the crunch, they caught the evil leaders not so long ago
They knew where and how to overthrow
Those in power know how to catch these wicked murderers if they really want to
Instead, they sit back and hold up their hands up in horror as if to say how can this be true
The reality is who is selling weapons to the enemy
Their identities will surely put them in jeopardy
So until someone commands the word “GO”!
This remains to be one big psycho show!
Who will shirk me of this load
The garment so heavy I'm weak
Heaven in cry, world in bleak
Like wet rag, cloth I wear
The sorrow, the pains I bear
Heavy it is to carry, these tears
In fear I saw them cold
Cold, cold, in tons and folds
Glum the faces of elderlies
In cold, in tears, it's over
Subdued is me, Manchester
But strong these kids hola
To terror face they sang
In smiles, in cries, in smiles
Above cowardly acts we are
Thank you kids, thank you, Ariana
An Ariana Grande concert was struck by an explosion
in northern England on 22nd May 2017
killing at least 22 people and injuring many
there was a massive flash and
then a bang and smoke all around
hundreds of people could be seen
streaming away in confusion and chaos
nobody was getting any sense
it was smoke everywhere and
shoes on the ground from people trying to flee.
it was frantic and unbridled
a little girl and boy
aged about eight or nine distraught
as they couldn't find their dad
all were screaming and running,
dropping their coats and phones,
just scrambling to safety
undoubtedly it was an appalling terrorist attack
and needs to be condemned and denunciated
nuts and bolts littering the ground near blast scene
as a likely terrorist attack
ripped through a crowd of teenagers
the prone bodies of those
who had been wounded and killed,
as well as others who were streaked with blood and
were staggering away from the scene
teenagers were screaming and running
in the aftermath of the blast
parents were frantically attempting
to locate their children and relatives
people were scattered everywhere.
And some of them looked dead also
such a tyrannical doctrine is
an indelible blot on the name of humanity
and a challenge for those
who talk of peace and human rights always
but as an emotional poet, my heart is broken
for those poor children and
for all those families
with an empty house that black night
Blanket coverage in the news media,
brave words by leaders, forests of flowers
at the scenes of attack, forensic reconstruction
by the police, and a return to normalcy
needs no repeating that terrorism knows no borders
and that the globalization of terror is a reality
let's pray to god that all departed souls
may rest in peace
(By Kishan Negi)
Trying to get out of Manchester
To get back on the M6
During the fun called "rush hour"
Requires all your tools and tricks.
I start on the M61
Four lanes of hotbed frustration
Which lane am I supposed to be in ?
Oh yes, the one with least congestion.
But that just causes problems
Because you have stay in the right lane
Else you end up in Wigan
No good if you want to stay sane.
The truck on my left cuts in
And tries to go faster than me
Do I slow down or accelerate
But there's a fool on the right side of me.
I'm feeling sandwiched in
But then they all slow right down
Then a car cuts in ahead
Wearing the idiots crown.
I listen to the BBC Merseyside
They say traffic is all just fine
I'd hate to see a traffic jam
I'm going gray in my prime !.
The sat nav says 200 miles to go
I see the sign to Leeds
But can't see the white line
The rain makes it hard to see.
After I tough it out
I finally hit the M6
Finally the road back to Scotland
Leaves behind all my tools and tricks.
So if you are ever in Manchester
The city of culture and sport
Where both means the motor ways
Will ensure that you never are bored.
Bells
now toll
in sympathy
Innocent victims died
and many people were wounded
on the streets of London and Manchester.
Please can you remember them all
in your
prayers
*prayers counted as 1 syllable not 2 as per how many syllables
New Form The Bell Contest
Sponsored by John Anderson
06-04-17
Manchester Lad
by Robert (Bob) Moore
We used to live in Manchester, in England, the UK
till one day, our dad said, we’re going to move away
Australia’s where were going to, a land of sand and sun
with lots of jobs, and lots of space, a life there will be fun
I didn’t really want to go, at 18 my life was here
but dad had made his mind up, he made that very clear
it’s all or none he said to me, we go together, or we stay
so we agreed we all would go, and I’d return home one day
We caught a train to London, and as we crossed the Pennine Chain
little did I think, that I would not see them again
I’d hiked and camped all over them, since I was just a lad
Glossop, Hayfield, Kinder Scout, and all the fun we’d had
The train got to St Pancras, in the early morning light
time to have some breakfast, look around and see the sights
I had never been to London, this was my first trip,
we saw Nelsons Column, but that was about it
We had to go to Tilbury, a ship was waiting for us there
to take us half way round the world, to a land dad said was fair
it needed population, to help it build and grow
and people came from many lands to try and make it so
I never went back to Manchester, once I had settled here,
Australia became my home, but one thing was very clear
I was born and bred in Manchester, life was tough, but not so bad
and no matter where it is I live, at heart, I’m a Manchester Lad.
Bob Moore ©2022