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Nineteen-Fifty-Two

I wish things were,
the same now, as then,
i wish I was there, instead of here.

In nineteen-fifty-two,
things were simple, and so care-free,
you alway, had something to do

You could see a movie,
or buy, a comic or pop for the price of a dime
everone's favorite saying, was groovie.

Drugs were no problem, at all,
crime also, was very down
young Willie May, was even playing ball.

Children had respect, even for their parents
three-D was really in,
and everyone had good merit's

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poem by Jim Foulk
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English Jan

She still has her English accent the one known as English Jan
And she never was a mother nor a wife to any man
She ages without dyes or makeups her hair is silver gray
But do not say about her she has known a better day.

She migrated to Melbourne from Blackpool her Hometown by the Irish sea
When she was in her early twenties in nineteen fifty three
Fifty one years in Australia yet she remains undimmed by time
And more than forty years have passed since she was in her prime.

For forty years a school teacher her retirement she enjoy
And she will make the most of every day until the day she die
She plays bowls on a saturday and on sunday evening after eight
She socializes with her friends and always until late.

On sunday mornings at the Corner cafe she is one I always see
And she does always say hello and smile and wave at me
So down to earth and carefree and untainted by conceit
And one of those good people I feel happy for to meet

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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Magic of Numbers

The Magic of Numbers—1

How strange it was to hear the furniture being moved around in the apartment upstairs!
I was twenty-six, and you were twenty-two.

The Magic of Numbers—2

You asked me if I wanted to run, but I said no and walked on.
I was nineteen, and you were seven.

The Magic of Numbers—3

Yes, but does X really like us?
We were both twenty-seven.

The Magic of Numbers—4

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poem by Kenneth Koch
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The Listener

Why, certainly. Let's listen to the cricket.
Oh, I'm quite keen. Test match, I understand.
At... What's that? Oh, Australia's at the wicket.
South Africa - a most intriguing land.
Yes, I was there in - nineteen - let me see
In nineteen - Dear me! Memory is so tricky.
Met Cecil Rhodes, you know. He said to me,
I recollect - eh? Oh. The wicket's sticky.

Great Cecil Rhodes. There was a master mind,
A dreamer, yet so practical, creative.
South Africa, Well, well. Today I find
Their urgent problem doubtless is the native,
Zulus, you know. Basutos. In the war
With Kruger - Eh? Oh, sorry. Are they playing?
Really? What's all the caterwauling for?
Eagleton out? Pity... What was I saying?

Of course, yes, Africa. I've seen it all,
From Jo'burg up thro' Kenya to Fashoda.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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John From Fishguard

Sing old John a song of his Hometown of Fishguard in Wales by the sea
The Town he left when he was in his mid twenties in the Spring of nineteen sixty three
With his wife Jenny and their only child Garett who then only had just turned four
They went south to sunny Austrealia thousands of miles from their Homeshore.

His wife she is with the departed she passed on a few years ago
A victim of intestinal cancer her end it was painful and slow
He took care of her when she was bed bound a greater love he never knew
To each other they were devoted and to each other they remained true.

A gray haired man in his late sixties his better days he surely has seen
His son Garett who lives in New Zealand has a son of twenty and a daughter of nineteen
And though he lives on his own he seems happy at the local pub he is known to all
He enjoys his beer and the sing song and he loves to talk of football.

I once heard him ask the ballad singer sing a song of Fishguard for me
The old Town I left in my twenties in Wales by the Atlantic sea
The ballad singer did not know any Welsh song so he handed John his guitar
And John in his fine singing voice sung a song of Fishguard in distance from here very far.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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Christy Ring

I'll tell you about a great hurler he hurled his way into renown
And his fame spread distant from Cork City through many a village and town
He inspired the poets to write of him and the song writers his praises did sing
And he was the hurler of all Seasons the one and only Christy Ring.

He was born in the year nineteen twenty and he died in nineteen seventy nine
And he played from the thirties until the late sixties and as he aged he matured like good wine
He won eighteen Railway cup medals a record that will never be beat
Yet he was a down to earth fellow a man who was free of conceit.

Of him there has been many stories his imprint in hurling he made
As long as hurling is played he will be remembered for the many great games that he played
In Cork, Limerick, Thurles and Killarney and in Dublin in famed Croke Park
In his three marvellous decades of hurling the wizard from Cloyne left his mark.

When I was a boy in the fifties Christy Ring in his mid thirties then
Yet still one of Ireland's best hurlers he helped Cork and Glen Rovers to many a win
He revelled in fierce competition and even in his forties played against the best
And he always worried his opponents the hurler who always impressed.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day

Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn...)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,

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poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Forgive me girls, I am a man!

When she was born,
I saw her first in the bed of a hospital,
She was crying,
Her pinkish lips were trembling,
Her blue eyes were shinning with tear,
It seemed to me that,
She was trying to say something like,
'Help me out of here,
This ugly hell, I don't want to be here'
She is my little sister.
My most affectionate,
My loveliest sweet sister.

Since her birth, it has been a long time,
Nineteen years of loves,
My sweet sister has been grown up,
All that We tried to keep her away,
Away from all the nasty things.
But after nineteen years,
I am in the hospital bed again.

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poem by Kafil Uddin Raihan.
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Team G.B. You Have Made Us All Proud

The Olympic games two thousand and twelve,
All our athletes have filled us with pride,
Into their achievements we will now delve,
We have cast all our differences aside.

We have won a magnificent twenty nine gold,
Although it has been a long wait,
This is our best games it has to be told,
Since the year nineteen hundred and eight.

Andy Murray won the final at tennis,
Bradley Wiggins won his at a speed,
Then came heptathlete Jess Ennis,
Mo Farah showed them all how to lead.

Victoria Pendleton got it right on her bike,
Baillie and Stott showed them how to canoe,
Glover and Stanning for Gold they did strike,
Hoy, Hindes and Kenny saw their rides through.

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poem by Bri Mar
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Glorious Memories

Sitting in Moe Fine’s
Ice Cream Emporium
on Flatbush Avenue
after Hannah McGill’s funeral
I said, “So many teachers passed away
the last nineteen years...not the same.”
“Remember Vinnie Weed? ” asked Henry F
“Funny guy
hadn’t thought of him in awhile.”
“Never forget, never
all the years
he wore that cheap mat on his head
and nobody said a word
everyone knew
not a word.”
“Mabel Figgnat, ” I sighed.
“Lord, yes
recall when she almost
crushed me to a pancake
after she slipped on the applesauce

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poem by Charles Chaim Wax
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