Write a poem about the city/town you were born in.

My small hometown that I love,

Who I share it with, is above.

He’s well known throughout all,

Slavery was his call

Who is this I speak of, that shares the same hometown as I?

Abraham Lincoln, in all is wonder and why.

Old telegram:
“Prayer and Intervention divine.

Baby and mother fine. ”
Blackpool Victoria 

Hospital Corridor

Unexpected Euphoria

Outside a maternity door!
Allergic reaction.

Dot.dot.dot.

Coma.

Dot. Dot. Dot.
Inverted commas:
‘Intervention divine.

Baby and mother fine.’
New paragraph:

Broadway Boogie Woogie?

That’s Mondrian’s Broadway

Not mine.
Broadway, NC has no boogie

has no woogie

just a broad place

along the road to adulthood

Bake a cake,

I was born in Shell Lake.

Not very great,

But not a day late!

Wie schoe-en os Limburg is,

dat wit tog nemes.

Allein der zuederling

dem Limburg leef is.

Mer doer de joare her,

blief Limburg onbetwis,

dat stukse Nederland wat ‘t schoe-enste is.
Translation:

How beautiful Limburg is,

nobody knows,

only someone from the south

to whom Limburg is dear.

But through all the years,

Limburg stays undisputably,

the most beautiful part of the Netherlands.
For music to this, see Popcorn project:

https://ronleunissen.makes.org/popcorn/1w47

Ah! STOCKTON with yr shimm’ring skies

Of chemistry. Behold the dawn

In ochre and in crimson flies

Above the greying clouds – is gone

as particles reflect the frozen sun.

A single thoroughfare of stone

to enscribe your story unbegun

oh dirtied bower of my home.

A mighty river roars beyond the street

Ignoring sporting boats – the true white water

spies bridges, birds and ever-moving feet

regard – oh Tees – your fast-decaying daughter:

Her sorry robes the only dress that could

endeavor to make MIDDLESBROUGH look good.

Hier stond het huis,

Zei mijn moeder,

Daar waar nu die bank staat.

Zo maar een straat

In een Hollands dorp.
(Here was the house,

My mother said,

Were that bank office is.

Just a street

In a Dutch village)

childhood was very special…

a safe place to raise kids…..the Fish Hatchery picnics, Olin Park, Vilas Park, Brittingham Park, the zoo, the many lakes and ice skating in the lagoons, playing “blindmans bluff” or tag around the street light until dark when Moms’ called their kids in for dinner.  No TV dinners, dinners of fresh food and balanced meals.  We listened to the radio and dreamed the heroes and their stories.  
Starlit nights and idyllic days of summer or autumn…. days of football and cold noses and hot chocolate and the smell of fall leaves burning before we put on our Halloween masks (no fancy costumes) and went around the block where homemade goodies were put into our bags. 
No fears, no bad guys,  just memories enriched by standing in line on Saturday mornings with ten cents to see the latest Disney movie with Mom and Dad… A daily nickel ice cream cone at the corner pharmacy with its black and white tile floors and high marble counters upon which stood the most interesting glass jars filled with liquids or candies depending on the department….that was Madison Wisconsin in the early days!

House of mercy

House of grace
Bethesda your ambiguous name

gives me cause for concern
Bethesda every time I visit

another bookstore is gone
Bethesda your big buildings

displace small shops and people
House of shame

House of disgrace

I have taken

The phoenix

That was in

Phoenixville
And which

You were probably

Hoping

Would burst into life from ashes
Forgive me

We are best friends

We stay up all night faceswapping politicians

And playing Wii Golf.

It might seem kinda scary

down by St. Mary

where Genesee

is littered with

crack bags and Hennessy.
But it’s where I was born

Bull’s Head, Flower City

on a cold Sunday morn

Back in the sixties.

I cannot write it, it has been written. The one and only Carlos Gardel sung it and Alfredo La Pera wrote it and you can hear it here: 
 
The definitive tango!
Mi Buenos Aires querido

cuando yo te vuelva a ver,

no habrás más pena ni olvido.
El farolito de la calle en que nací

fue el centinela de mis promesas de amor,

bajo su quieta lucecita yo la vi

a mi pebeta, luminosa como un sol.

Hoy que la suerte quiere que te vuelva a ver,

ciudad porteña de mi único querer,

y oigo la queja

de un bandoneón,

dentro del pecho pide rienda el corazón.
Mi Buenos Aires

tierra florida

donde mi vida

terminaré.

Bajo tu amparo

no hay desengaños,

vuelan los años,

se olvida el dolor.

En caravana

los recuerdos pasan,

con una estela

dulce de emoción.

Quiero que sepas

que al evocarte,

se van las penas

de mi corazón.
La ventanita de mi calle de arrabal.

donde sonríe una muchachita en flor,

quiero de nuevo yo volver a contemplar

aquellos ojos que acarician al mirar.

En la cortada más maleva una canción

dice su ruego de coraje y de pasión,

una promesa

y un suspirar,

borró una lágrima de pena aquel cantar.
Mi Buenos Aires querido,

cuando yo te vuelva a ver,

no habrá más pena ni olvido.

Avon and Stinger, clashing whether their trade was a business.

Sitting in French class waiting for Monsieur Rivkin to finish.
McNulty and Bunk trying to bring on Omar,

Maybe I’ll lifegaurd at Westview Pool this summer.
Bubbles has schemes to get above it all.

It’s Friday! Let’s hang out at Security Mall.
You know Baltimore through Wire characters,

For me, twas totally a thing in the suburbs.

Romford.

Feigns under the sign of a “historic market town”.

But you are not.

Dump.

On the Southend Gyratory.

Famous for the Greyhound track.

And market where you buy cheap tat.

The hospital was falling down.

I was born in a shed around the back.

No seaside. Beach. No caravans.

Never reached the giddy heights of Jaywick sands.

And the only last redeeming word?

The A12 takes you on to Chelmsford.

I don’t remember you, my Queens,

I never walked your streets

never stood on your corners

never heard the melodic sounds of city life

filtering in through open windows.
I don’t recall you at all, my Queens,

I was gone before I could walk

Gone before I could talk

Gone before you even had a chance

to find a place inside my heart
I will never be your king, my Queens,

for I don’t even know you

beyond the letters typed out on government paper

and in the shallow memories of my parents

who left you for safer spaces
Be kind, my Queens, for while I am absent,

your geography maps out the contours

of the very first line of the poem

that has become me, writing this poem

about you, forgotten royalty in all but name.

Standing surrounded

By vivid crocus colour

Grey in memory