Best Mod Poems
Devastated at the news I've heard.
Totally shocked this is absurd
The passing of a Welsh legend
Proud to have served my butty friend.
He started his long career
As a proud Welsh infanteer
He then transferred to the Corps
His knowledge he used thats for sure
I first met taff in the Adriatic
In a place we all called FRY
Former Republic of Yugoslavia
For those that don't know why
Taff was known to do silly things
But one that comes to mind
Being pumped up a scam 12
Blind just leading the blind
He earned a commendation whilst in Afghanistan
As multiple commander he looked after every man
A real genuine gentle man who liked a practical joke
His favourite tipple was vodka and coke
The next verse is for you
Reading from above
I hope it hits a chord baloo
Also for those that you love
Gwneud hyn yn Gymraeg i chi er fy mod i'n teimlo'n las eich calon oedd calon y ddraig Gymreig chwedl a pharagon
Doing this in welsh for you
even though i'm feeling blue
your heart was that of the welsh dragon
a legend and a paragon
I apologize now if my grammar is wrong
Like butty would say you f*****g mong
When you served you were a "RELAY"
Not one if gods chosen what can I say
The black dog was on his shoulder
I know It's a crap place to be
I'm gutted brother soldier
You didn't shout out to me
My condolences to the family
The brotherhood does feel your pain
R.I.P Brother Mark Langley
Until we meet again
So save all of us a seat at the bar.
With Tony, Mac, Ange, to name but a few.
You have left behind your family and friends
We all miss you!!!!
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire
smokestacks, waffles, pansies, people,
and purple sunsets.
Carl Sandburg
PURPLE PANSIES
A pensive-pansy bouquet,
vibrant diffusion of lot,
Borscht belt, Catskill-sunshine core,
platonic petals of thought.
Purple pansies are childhood,
of God’s wide-eyed creation,
innocence in royal cloak,
a roused imagination.
Deft purpleness recollects,
not grandma’s frilly feast days -
a sixty’s mod Easter dress,
painted nails of royal praise.
Fresh fairyland apogee
o’er green-sea, circular bowl.
Petal’s shades of light and dark -
a poet’s purple, vibrant soul.
6/1/2022
Purple Flowers Poetry Contest
used Rhymezone and HMS
I get it! Love one another,
trying our best to get along...
but, when it comes to pertinent
issues, how does one compromise
with wrong? Well, no one
knows the truth, each having
his or her own – hmm...so, burn
your bibles, ignore your
parents, no seeming facts
should be incorruptibly sewn to
the fabrics of developing, hungry
minds – instead, imprint them with
social media of all brainless, circum-me
kinds –
and a cell phone
to replace prayer and God,
who most likely, thought he had
seen it all, having survived the
thoroughly self exploratory era of Mod.
The Churches are empty!
But the bars are chock full?
Walmart, almost a new religion
unto itself.
It's parishioners, adoring cheap
junk on its shelves!
Few would even think to contribute
to any ministry.
But spend thousands on hair dyes,
and cosmetic dentistry.
We adore our bodies more than God.
He is old-hat, while we are so mod.
We attend sporting events, like mad,
true addictive clods.
The Bible? Oh, my, that is terribly old
school.
We think Google is God and provides
us with ultimate truth and rules.
5/9/2019
Many fall in love without
presence of mind.
They repeat the mod cliché
that love is blind...
But sensible matchmaking
chooses more feasible soulmates.
Kids need adult supervision
in the matter of dates.
Love is a very special emotion
that causes much commotion
in the heart and soul,
where it has a big role.
Love's possible anytime, anywhere,
and many are caught by it unawares.
But don't let love be just a stupor
from which you wake up in horror.
Don't let love be a one night stand drink
from which you get a hangover.
Committed Love shouldn't be a fad or spell
from which you just get over...
When young minds play their own cupid
To many that has brought heartache and sorrow.
Underage kids dating is even more stupid
They usually regret on the morrow.
Reason doesn't work in a fit of passion.
So its best to love with
your mind and consultation.
Having love affairs without deliberation
is harmful fashion.
Head over heels
without discussion,
with well-wishers
may cause concussion
headache
of so-called lovers...
Use your head before your heart
Not every spark
should start a fire....
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.
Watch me wail, wag, and whimper,
as I lag, lumber and limber,
my adult algebraic ass umption of
love lorn lustful,
pussy prison promise
fake, Falk, filters
when married daughter
becomes married mother, and OMFG
whatTFdidIgetmyselfinto
Low behold and singlefold
did I not gender gather your life
long life presence of parental
pontification that goes without
sooth saying and add up the numbers
so I can fill the male bill of plenty and request
a not/known knowing of a pre determined
prowess bliss saturnine, coital countered
cock tailed by a mean mom mesmerized miracle
of anointed via viscious ugly
uncountered societal socio so
somnablance satial sickness.
Leave me to the beaver, and the
outer limits of my twilight zone, so I can
rifleman my bonanza to a naked city
where it takes a thief to enable
Burkes Law to Mod Squad a Perry Mason, then Ironside
a manner of justice, sometimes relying on
an alternative form from Super M to Spider M,
and Hulk, then hashtag from A to Z and all letters
in between. As a man and a father with only earthy talents
I gave all that I knew, could harness, muster, and deliver as best as I knew how.
Criticize me my sons, for all what u will
as I tried my best to keep u in my still
u r the future of what is to remain
all that I have, is now yours to gain,
Rememberance is constant and our lives relate
in us all as we move forword and procreate
in keeping us in toll. Lifelines are the key to
all that is mindful and longevity unlocks
the male mantle of forever. Live long and prosper
my sons and in all things look, listen and remember.
David can often be seen hot on the trail,
Of Richard Whitehead, sprinter, runner,
And was reported in Rio de Janero’s mail,
As the 200m bronze medalist, stunner.
He went to St George Catholic College,
Located in Southhampton, that busy port,
Attended Hertfordshire Uni on the page
Of mechanical engineering, to his purport.
But having joined the Army, made officer,
One day he stepped on a hidden IED,
So both his legs were amputated, better,
But he walked in no time, sports to see.
During his rehab at MOD Headley Court,
David found himself by sports enthused,
And got into swimming, basketball’s court,
Also sitting volleyball did find him amused.
After rehabilitation David did a Masters,
In biomedical engineering, at Imperial,
He inquired into an amputee’s masters -
Their prosthetics - he had opinions vocal.
At the Invictus Games he did many sports,
To win the gold in the 200 metres sprint,
And so made the 2015 IPC Euro consorts,
In Doha, Qatar, to bear the UK flag, flint.
The next year in 2016, Euros in Grosseto,
He was clipped to the line by Whitehead,
And so ran in Rio to entertain with gusto,
When he almost fell, but recovered dead.
The booming sound of Dhak resonated through the air,
The children squealed in utter merriment at the fair---
Flaunting their newly bought ensemble of myriad hue,
Some were draped in saris, mod jeans donned a few.
The little girl roaming the streets, in a soiled frock half-torn,
Regretted sorely why in affluence she too was not born,
She too had a great craving to have fun and enjoy like they,
But heart-broken she was as she could not afford to pay.
For days she had been starving but she saw all of them eat,
She sorrowfully mused such blatant injustice wasn’t meet,
Some licked dripping ice cream, some gulped down iced coke,
But for her getting a morsel to eat seemed a pathetic joke!
Though Ma Durga with ten hands out-stretched was there,
Was cold and hard-hearted and for her seemed not to care,
A silent tear came rolling down her thin pinched cheeks,
She didn’t have a place to sleep for the past few weeks.
Suddenly a burly policeman roughly held her hand and said,
“At last we have found her, we had thought she was dead”,
“Now what have I done?” asked the girl panicking in dread,
Then freeing herself from his clutches, like a rabbit she fled.
"Your millionaire father has been searching everywhere,
After all our futile efforts, at last we have found you here,"
The girl in profound reverence, said softly a fervent prayer,
"Ma though you seem heartless, now I know you do care!"
Permanently resting upon steel tracks,
a retired rail car passes the time,
weathering away.
Contents empty,
it is a lonely shell, abandoned
on an unused track
in an overgrown pasture,
unseen and forgotten.
Tired after decades of service,
it groans when the hard winds blow.
Scampers of critters can be heard
reverberating through the hollow.
It moans in the defeatist melancholy mod
that it has become.
Dressed in the attire of spray painted graffiti,
the rail car rust in the tears of depressed years.
Beautiful sadness it has become...
unable and unstable to ever ride again.
I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road
Which runs through Shepherds Bush
Like an artery,
And in the mid 1960s,
Served as one of the great centres
Of the London Mod movement,
But I was raised in relative gentility
In a ward of nearby South Acton
Whose vast council estate
Is surely the most formidable
Of the whole of West London.
Although my little suburb
Has since become
One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.
My first school was a kind of nursery
Held locally on a daily basis
At the private residence
Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,
And then aged 4 years old,
I joined the exclusive
Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,
Where I was soon to become bilingual
And almost every race and nationality
Under the sun was to be found
At the Lycee in those days...
And among those who went on to be good pals mine
Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,
Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.
While my first closest pals were Esther,
The vivacious daughter
Of a Norwegian character actor
And a beautiful Israeli dancer,
And Craig, an English kid like myself,
With whom I remain in contact to this day.
For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:
"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting
To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.
But at some stage, I became a problem child,
A disruptive influence in the class,
And a trouble maker in the streets,
An eccentric loon full of madcap fun
And half-deranged imaginativeness.
("Born on the Goldhawk Road" is a versified version of one much reproduced in various forms throughout my writings, although it bears little resemblance to its original, which first glimpsed the light of day in around 2002. It's undergone much modification since then, including the alteration of all names of people and places for the solemn purpose of privacy.)
I WISH I WEREN’T A CENTIPEDE
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I wish I weren’t a centipede, a lowly arthropod
I need a transformation into something much more mod
To obtain status, with a much higher species standing
Not be straddled with an enervating task so demanding
I get no praise for my control nor multiple coordination
None can match my velocity nor perfect synchronization
Hard work, sweat and practice, I never need to hedge
Only I can manage and direct hundred pairs of legs
There are numerous phoney imposters of me
The most common, of course, the millipede
We both scurry about after the sun goes down
I’m known as a deadly killer, he’s just a clown
And when he is frightened, curls up and plays dead
Me, when confronted, a venom I’ll promptly embed
He subsists eating dead leaves and rotting flesh
Me, I go hunting I like to devour my protein fresh
I’m really scary, so I stay hidden during the day
But at night is when I’m active searching out for prey
I’ve got a couple of pincers, positioned near my head
I reach out to find you, once located, you are dead
That’s my routine, residing in wet n gloomy sites
Venturing out at dusk to procure a couple of bites
I’m not a gourmet almost anything fits my diet
A mouse, a rat, an ant. If its warm I’ll surely try it
Each day mimics itself, an unremarkable occurrence
Repeating the same sequence doesn’t really make much sense
After due deliberation, I have decided to fill my day
With thoughts of being a condor and just aviate away
I will soar over the Andes riding endless thermal drafts
View the Nazca Plains, take in the mysterious graphs
Alas, it’s a pipe dream, that each night I’ll need to cede
I’ll scurry out, repeat the hunt, cause I’m just a centipede
Modernisation is hopping her repercussion
Modernisation is driving her civilisation
This is the safari; that brain the colony
The colossal obnoxious tenets of the West
Calling her to the deluding evacuation.
The edifice her architect had strictly structured
Who can dare to alter it?
Even on her own body and soul.
Variety upon variety, she want to put on
That is her whisper why, she mime the day.
A Bimbo! Mimicking the mockery of the West.
Who is barbaric in this case?
Reason! She revolt the reasoning
Focus! She resist the purpose
Loyal! She refuse the modesty.
Let her believe this one
That in her friction state
Her forward (will) never; her backward (will) ever.
Perhaps, she should recall this one
She need to behold
If she must to recount, in her world.
Grey cotton wool clouds enfold the mountain tops,
Creeping forward like an army on the move.
Now and then, dropping their wet cargo
On vegetation, withered from long months of sun.
Gusts of wind carry fragments of birdsong,
Rejoicing in the rain, singing their hearts out,
Snippets of melodies, tunes incomplete
Yet somehow they hold total beauty.
The local goat herd head for the cover of trees,
Their bells clanging, a discordant harmony,
Mellow and almost soothing in an odd way.
The soft falling rain gently spatters the ground,
Changing the base colour, by its very wetness.
Greens become greener, more vibrant, alive,
Flowers perk up and shine forth their beauty
Waiting for the never too far away sun to return
Adding to the life-giving rain in its role of
Sustainer of life, giver of growth and spread.
As the rain clears the tops of the mountains
Birdsong becomes more urgent, more intense.
Life is good, go forth and live it, could be
What they are saying. And why not?
Beauty is as beauty does, true as ever,
Wherever beauty is found, especially here.
High in the hills, low in the mountains
Any glade or grassy knell, rocky outcrop
And stony path, life abounds, so oft unseen
By human eyes. So few see this beauty show
Eyes blind to creatures great and small
Oblivious to picturesque valley or
Craggy mountain peaks with eagle circling high.
They care not for scenic views
Bored with not being entertained
As is the modern way, no phone signal up high
A blessing most would say, peace and quiet.
But on this Spanish mountainside, calm yet busy
Life abounds, rains fall on grateful grounds,
An ambience of peace and life fulfilled,
Beauty deep shines forth for those with open eyes,
Aware and looking for each and every gem.
Each winding track, each lofty villa
Shack or outhouse, grace the mountain
With individual promise of Spanish life,
A slice, a piece, a glimpse of another way.
No ‘mod cons’ up here, just life’s basics.
A life of one with nature, peace and harmony.
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.