Long Bernardino Poems
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Lumbar ladies stroll by as the night sedans plunder the ho-dad hostels.
Looking to find nothing except another dozing cigarette beyond the cadenzas.
Another hot afternoon in suburbia with the repeated barkings of a distant dog.
Billy boy in his red asphalt-eating machine turns the dial to San Bernardino.
There is cool music bobbing in the hot accepting winds, south of Dragons Head.
In smoggy Corona, the dizzy Volkswagens travel in circles like demented dogs.
Billy boy guns the engine as he and the Mexican chick cruise in a ’67 beetle.
They pass the Chuck Wagon, as Slim Harpo melts the sun with Little Liza Jane.
Traffic signals, and the elderberry trees, pretend to dance to the muted cadences.
The hot afternoon winds play their own love-games as Billy boy comes to a stop.
Brown-eyed señorita with long hair flowing tells Billy boy to turn up the sound.
‘Music is life,’ she says, as the red asphalt-eating machine turns left at 6th Street.
Lumbar ladies stroll by now as the night sedans receive the night’s embrace.
At City Park, Billy and his latin lady sleep soundly in the cottonwood darkness.
He salutes the mountains Tehachapi to the west
San Gabriel and San Bernardino to the south
This is his rite of passage
His coming of age
How he’s yearned
For his spiritual journey
To become a man
Thirsting to prove his bravery
Alone he wanders the barren Mojave
Facing the elements
And challenges head on
Datura in hand for nights of visions
He'll forge his unique one-on-one bond
With the universe and its mysteries
Bam bam bam echoes of drumming
Till the spirits of his ancestors
The lingering chants of Navaho
Guide him to the oasis of manhood
AP: Honorable Mention 2020, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on October 22, 2018 for contest MID OCTOBER 2018 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
William Harrison Hardy
1823 - 1906
I believe a fair introduction is in order here.
Not that a handshake from me could ever take place anytime soon.
I was Captain Bill Hardy:
Proud Indian fighter!
And celebrated toll road builder!
I was the one who built the big road
From San Bernardino to Prescott Arizona!
And it was I, Captain Bill Hardy,
Who founded old Hardyville in Arizona
On the sandy banks of the cool Colorado.
Back when Lincoln was still warm
And the blood of Gettysburg was still not dry.
Back when the old west was coming alive
With wagon wheels and railroad ties.
Growing as a child would
With intrepid enterprise and such derring-do
The likes of which few eyes have seen since!
I came out west from New York
As Captain of a California-bound wagon train
And found a fortune in gold in Placer County.
But it was in the Arizona Territory where I later
Made my mark, and lost my fortune.
Oh my friends. I found out.
Found out what plain hard work can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant riches.
I found out.
Found out what plain greed and dishonesty can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant poverty.
Alas, I was but a survivor in life,
And that was my final legacy.
My friends, have you ever stared death straight in the face?
Have you ever seen the eyes of a wanton murderer
Only an inch away from your own eyes?
Nothing is more frightening and more sobering than that!
But I, Captain Bill Hardy, at your service please,
Experienced it first-hand that day in the scalding desert sand.
That Indian devil was right there!
His nose next to my nose!
But I got away!
Ran away from that place and lived to tell about it!
My friends, next time you come to Clark Cemetery in Whittier,
Go to the eastern fence by Dorland Street,
At the corner there, you will find my little plot of land.
It is a far cry from having an entire city named after you!
But it is a fine and restful spot.
Come closer and lean down to me.
I wish to extend my firm handshake to you all!
The Horror of San Bernardino
By Franklin Price
12/4/2015
The horror of San Bernardino
With celebration in the air
A pair without good reason
Killed and wounded many there
No doubt the killers Muslim
Part of a rising trend
Must destroy the Muslim radicals
Bring this terror to an end
Can't wait another moment
Must come up with a plan
To stop other heartless killers
Make all efforts that we can
Must analyze the causes
For the needless killing there
Must eliminate the reasons
Yet proceed somewhat with care
For not all Muslims radical
No matter what we think
The majority are innocents
Not all to terror linked
If we make the wrong decisions
And we target Muslims all
We'll worsen the conditions
Have nothing left to break the fall
The leaders of good Muslims
Must come out and make a stand
Condemn the killing radicals
Must help stop them we demand
If they don't soon stand up
Maybe I'm not thinking right
Maybe they are closet terrorists
Waiting to join a losing fight
The Cardinal requires Ser Bernardino,
as high contracting party to the tasks,
to paint ten histories in damasceno,
in gold, vermilion: also asks
that other pleasing colours be employed,
the whole to be so handsome, beautiful
and lively, as will fill the present void
with fantasies. He should be dutiful
and diligent, and supervise the work.
Designs will all reveal The Master’s hand
(though pupils may fill spaces). He’ll not shirk
in imitating latest fashions. And
(this is insisted on) the Master shan’t
dodge off to paint some panel here or there,
but shall remain engaged on this. He can’t
retouch, restore, revivify, repair
or otherwise (without grave loss of honour)
adapt, adulterate, or amplify
some tuppeny hapenny Umbrian Madonna,
without The Cardinal demanding why.
The frescoes should contain protagonists
appropriate to the life herein depicted,
with landscapes, trees and mountains, mists
and such (for instance, like the storm inflicted
on Enea by the gods at Piombino).
Each pose and gesture, such as may amuse
and fascinate. This done, Ser Bernardino
may add whatever detail he may choose.
The Master binds himself and his garzoni
to purchase olive oil and best verdicchio,
all flour, figs, cheese, fruit, maccaroni,
with vouchers I’ll supply. Signed, Pinturicchio.
boy of eighteen driving a restless volkswagen
riding the hot clutch at kellogg street and grand
finding cool music by santana on the tune dex
finding tanned chicks in bikinis riding stingrays
riding cool like cats cruising for cheeseburgers
blond surfer chicks wearing beads from mexico
hitchhiking at noon for a ride to San Bernardino
bumming cigarettes with cleavages and lipstick
seeking bootleg kisses in the front seat of a ford
rapping stories about the rolling stones concert
talking tales of fuzz box nookie in the parking lot
boy of eighteen cruising the big circle in corona
riding the hot clutch at kellogg street and grand
(In the early years of the 16th century,
the artist Pinturicchio was employed by
Cardinal Piccolomini to decorate the
library of Siena Cathedral with fresco
scenes from the life of his ancestor, Enea.)
The Contract
The Cardinal requires Ser Bernardino,
as high contracting party to the tasks,
to paint ten histories in damasceno,
in gold, vermilion: also asks
that other pleasing colours be employed,
the whole to be so handsome, beautiful
and lively, as will fill the present void
with fantasies. He should be dutiful
and diligent, and supervise the work.
Designs will all reveal The Master's hand
(though pupils may fill spaces). He'll not shirk
in imitating latest fashions. And
(this is insisted on) the Master shan't
dodge off to paint some panel here or there,
but shall remain engaged on this. He can't
retouch, restore, revivify, repair
or otherwise (without grave loss of honour)
adapt, adulterate, or amplify
some tuppeny hapenny Umbrian Madonna,
without The Cardinal demanding why.
The frescoes should contain protagonists
appropriate to the life herein depicted,
with landscapes, trees and mountains, mists
and such (for instance, like the storm inflicted
on Enea by the gods at Piombino).
Each pose and gesture, such as may amuse
and fascinate. This done, Ser Bernardino
may add whatever detail he may choose.
The Master binds himself and his garzoni
to purchase olive oil and best verdicchio,
all flour, figs, cheese, fruit, maccaroni,
with vouchers I'll supply. Signed, Pinturicchio.