This is an ode to John and his iconic bucolic pub "the Golden Smog" up in Stockton on Tees..
What makes a proper pub?
Unity in a community hub
Immunity from the hubbub
With others shoulders rub
Opportunity you can’t snub
Our own homegrown club
Bubbling banter from the bar
In the cellar need a stellar star
Other views & hues don’t scar
Ales & tales so far above par
No-one argues or does spar
Clinking & sinking another jar
John a helluva fella just say ta
No bigotry is all he does ask
No hate lurking behind a mask
A sisyphean or herculean task
In the company of others bask
No sip from a hidden hip flask
Cheers to beers from the cask
Where the weekend will begin
Delaying within escape the din
Time to spend with ken and kin
Getting you through thick & thin
Whetting our whistles.. chin chin
A third place where a grin will win
To miss this bliss is a cardinal sin
A home from home just staying in!
It was dusty, dry and endless
Stretched beneath an empty sky
From horizon to horizon
Where the turkey buzzards fly,
Like a landscape meant to warn you
Just how far a man can fall.
Except for Ruby in El Paso,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
Took a powder in Fort Stockton.
Crossed the Pecos makin’ time.
San Antone gave way to Austin
On the Travis County line.
Shot a rattlesnake in Waco
With my back against the wall.
Except for Bobbi-Jo in Beaumont,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
I’ve seen Lubbock and Laredo,
Seen Odessa/Midland, too.
Met a sweet young thing in Brownsville,
Just another déjà vu.
Didn’t tell her I was leaving,
But I promised her I’d call.
Except for Emmylou in Houston,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
Learned to do the Stockdale two-step
In the local Lone Star style.
Danced a Galveston fandango
With a Corpus Christi smile.
Set a sucker up in Dallas,
But my partner dropped the ball.
Except for Jill in Amarillo,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
I stuffed my pockets full of California minutes,
Set out from Bakersfield before the break of day.
Checked out a waitress at a coffee shop in Needles
Then blew through Flagstaff on my way to Santa Fe.
Cut loose and rootless, making random left-hand turns
Straight razor whiskey, gotta love the way it burns
Pulled up at Pueblo for my ration of tequila
Long after hours in the Garden of Repose.
I paid my lady love a call in Carson City,
Got tanked in Reno with a Sacramento rose.
Street lamps and neon on a warm midsummer’s night
Drawn toward the tunnel at the end of so much light
Broke bread in Stockton with a Guatemalan dancer.
Shook down a flop house called The Shady Rest Motel.
Laid low in Fresno for the balance of my paycheck,
Got back to Bakersfield in time to raise some hell.
I’m gonna ramble till the swallows leave for Egypt.
Gonna ramble till the Happy Prince goes blind.
I’m gonna ramble till I’ve gathered up my troubles.
Gonna ramble till I’ve left ‘em all behind.
Might put my suitcase under the bed,
But I always leave it packed for later.
The Gypsy jumped from car to car,
never getting off the train
In Davenport through morning fog,
the old town looked the same
The prairies waited in the dark,
the Rockies far beyond
In Denver’s wind he heard the words
to an oft-forgotten psalm
The engine roared, the distance called,
the rails went on and on
The desert lit the night on fire,
to burn the right from wrong
A Reno stop to take on water,
drowning in the past
Through farms and fields and countryside,
to Stockton now at last
His feet stepped down to touch the earth,
and genuflect once more
Before reboarding, headed East
—perdition his true lord
(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: April, 2020)
The Lady or the Tiger
Frank Stockton never said
For if he'd ever told us
His story'd've dropped dead
The summers end was near
We smoked in the dockyard
And talked of the foe
Which even now came closer
They began to arrive
Bus loads of them
Black hearts in black shirts
But we were ready
They marched and we charged
They ran and we chased
The police to protect them
They withdrew in haste
We rained upon them stones
and blows, and be there a God
He was not in black clothes
But raging there with us
They limped away by omnibus
A souless caravan
Crawled back to Leeds and Nottingham
When Stockton cried 'No Pasaran!'.
There was a color blind man from Stockton
Who had great trouble putting his socks on
Which ones match
Head he'd scratch
Red and green confused this Anglo Saxon.
Matt was born in Middlesex in 1990 on 10th June,
In Stockton on Tees, where he works out, trains;
He’s a seven-a-side footballer and plays vigorously,
For the England CP team ‘cos of grandad’s strains.
He had a stroke at work - sore head, blind eyes -
In November 2013 which impaired his mobility,
Made his left side weaker and harder to control,
And which gave him a slight speech difficulty.
Doctors were not hopeful he’d play footy again,
But he stuck in at his exercises and his rehab,
So today he’s been to Rio, they came in 5th place,
Having scored in 2015 at the CP Worlds, fab.
Your special acts of kindness
has really touched my heart.
I just want to thank you f
or making me a part.
You met me as a stranger
and you took me in.
You even opened up your heart
and called me your friend.
You even went a step farther
and called me “sistah” too.
This is really something
you did not have to do.
I just want to take this moment
to thank you for what you’ve done.
I shall never forget this day
and the kindness that you’ve shown.
Our book signing on today
Was an awesome experience you see.
I see many more doors opening
For our Savior has the keys.
2-23-2007 I would like to thank Chocolate Angel Creation for blessing
me to be apart of their book signing on today. Melva Doyle and I did a
presentation for a group of friends here in Stockton Ca.
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