© Lionel Beck - North Yorkshire - UK
Twin Towers
I was deeply shocked and
saddened by the terrorist attack
on the World Trade Center on
September 11th, 2001 and
these verses are my attempt at
expressing my emotions.
©Lionel Beck
September 2001
Twin Towers
Terror in the name of God! - distorted fundamentals -
Holed a building with five sides, demolished high twin towers.
People falling, people burning, heroes cruelly crushed
Beneath the weight of murderous humans' evil heartless powers.
History's trail of human life is fouled with false religion;
It seems that good cannot exist without attendant evil.
Twin towers of faith but only one is built upon
A rock called God. The other's false, it seems to be the Devil.
Eleventh day of the ninth month in year two thousand and one
Burned in collective memory of the land of the (no longer) free.
Under the cloak of duty to God - or Allah - matters not the name
The tyrants of old updated their hatred, displayed for all to see.
We saw the towers fall. We sat transfixed near little screens,
Was this a dream? Some Hollywood nightmare epic?
Tumbling towers combined the rituals of burial and cremation
Whilst towers of crooked faith grew high, enough to make us sick.
Love in the name of God - essential fundamentals;
Whole new buildings; hope resides; life's garden filled with flowers.
Tyrants falling, passions burning, heroes we can trust
Beneath the flags of peace and love - our spiritual twin towers.
E-mail Female
Dedicated to our first American
internet friend, found via my
Website in August 1999
©Lionel Beck
March 2000
E-Mail Female
American woman, so far and yet so near.
She gives much pleasure and meets a spiritual need.
In the garden of our minds she is a flower,
Yet sometimes sees herself, so wrongly, as a weed!
But I believe this is her womanly jest;
She knows the truth - she brings perfume and laughter.
I sent a flower bouquet some long time past -
She tied and dried and hung it from the rafter.
Life's garden has many weeds, yet she's not one.
The saying goes that as we sow, so shall we reap;
And we should well remember - when all is said and done,
To grow the flowers of friendship before our final sleep.
Fate on the A38
I've long since thought of you, my love
Yet failed to write these words
About my feelings and my sorrow,
These cursed piercing swords.
Will you not return?
From the very day of birth, my love
You illuminated life.
From toddler through to teenage years
We kept you safe from strife.
Will you not return?
How did you think of us, my love;
On our parental trail;
We loved you, dearest daughter, but
Did we blindly fail?
Will you not return?
Long brown hair, and eyes, my love
That gazed in similar hue
And sometimes deeply, deeply sad,
Revealing soul so blue.
Will you not return?
The early years were rich, my love,
And childish games we played.
How soon those hormones played their tricks,
You loved, and were afraid.
Will you not return?
We could not help your sadness, love,
Your self-destructive reverie.
These times were bad, and they are burned
Into my memory.
Will you not return?
The day you said goodbye, my love,
We joked and hugged and smiled.
Off you went to Cornwall's coast
With boy friend we thought wild.
Will you not return?
And on that black night drive, my love
Did you see - or feel - or hear
The crash of metal, glass and bone,
That took you far from here?
You will not return.
That fireman who cut you free
He was a funeral guest.
He said he'd heard your spirit voice
"My boyfriend - do your best!"
You will not return.
The time we saw you last, my love
You laid in lifeless pose,
With long brown hair and eyes now dead.
You're just a photo now, (with rose).
You will not return.
Where are you now, Jackie my love,
Does life exist beyond?
I pray it does, and pray for you,
And want you to respond.
One day it will be my turn.
Strawberry Blonds
This is for a young girl I used to
take to school when her mum
was ill with terminal cancer.
After her death she and her
brother moved 250 miles away
to live with grandparents; but
the Strawberry Blonde kept in
touch with us, and still does to
this day. She is now a beautiful
and smart young woman soon
to be married.
©Lionel Beck
August 1999
Strawberry Blonde
I once knew a girl, she was only eleven,
Her hair was the strawberry blonde kind.
She was fair and demure, and snow-driven pure;
And a great source of joy, to my mind.
I had a son, but my daughter had gone
To wherever you go when you're dead.
My career also died, now a taxi I plied,
Taking children to school now instead.
I drove every day, through forests sublime,
Then one day this new girl appeared.
I took her to school, on time as a rule,
And my life lost its troubles and fears.
She didn't say much but she smiled quite a lot,
And there wasn't much more I could ask for.
When she spoke it was, well - a silvery bell,
And it did me much good, I am sure.
She lived in the forest, surrounded by trees
With horses and dogs and much more.
But then came a day when she went far away
And I thought I would see her no more.
But imagine my joy when one Autumn day
My trough of despond was no more.
The first letter arrived, and my spirits revived;
Why she wrote to me I am not sure.
But the letters kept flowing, and mine in reply,
First hand-written, then we went high-tech;
Computer word-processed, and e-mail as well,
For response with a speed that was breakneck.
The strawberry blonde has now reached fourteen,
And I'm older and balder, (and whining!),
I'm missing my youth - I'm too long in the tooth
But my pen friend, she stops me from pining.
Now I think of the time when I was sixteen,
A girl of fourteen took my heart away.
It cannot be long before love's sweet song
Takes the strawberry blonde the same way.
When that boy comes along with love and romance
And hormones that make him feel fond,
That day will be fateful, but I'll always be grateful
For my knowing the strawberry blonde.
Forest Shadows
Dedicated to two special
children who had to leave the
forest. (See my comments on
"Strawberry Blonde" above)
©Lionel Beck
October 1998
Forest Shadows
Forty years and more between us, yet we share some common themes;
The love of life and loss of life, the shattering of dreams.
To rant and rave at fate, or God, are irresistible temptations,
But dare we ask ourselves the question, "Are there any compensations?"
Those we've loved and lost, I know, would surely understand, should we
Through circumstances new be pleasured to some small degree
By the flowers of new relationships unfolding in autumnal sun -
The consequence of two short lives so fleeting and now done.
First my teenage daughter in tempestuous love; (and I ask why
Her life should be cut short in just the winking of an eye).
The shock too great to bear for all, despair and apathy resulted.
The daily toil, the normal pleasures, all had been disrupted.
And now, a young and fair-skinned mother, porcelain doll in forest glade;
Older, yet not old enough, to take that journey to th’unknown shade;
Two children watched her illness, undeserving of such sorrow,
And the man who loved the porcelain doll was robbed of all tomorrow.
Between these deaths the trees did shed their leaves nine times perhaps,
And those the teenage girl had left behind were lost without life's maps.
Father, so long bereft of useful purpose, embarked upon a quite new life
Driving children to their schools, spending more time with grieving wife.
Nine years or more he drove children through the northern forest trees,
Sharing in their laughter, silly jokes, and sympathizing with grazed knees.
Then two more children of the forest joined the school-bound car.
The man who'd lost a love found friends in those whose own loss was not far.
There came that day when forest glade stood silently, bereft of charm.
The man who drove the car was told the news that filled him with alarm.
Life's final sleep had drawn its veil across that glade of tears and love.
The children would no longer stay amongst the green, they'd live far off.
In one short day the school run changed, transformed into a trail of sadness.
The man who drove the car felt grief, and pondered on life's madness.
As golden leaves gave way to mists in November's usual manner,
The car man's life lit up one day: A letter! "Please write soon, love Hannah!"
And so began, remarkably, a dialogue of some great duration,
Letters from Hannah, and from Sam, could this be some strange aberration?
Surely no - for more than two years now some thirty letters and above
Show, whilst death is surely part of life, life's compensation is pure love.
Fate on the A38
In June 1987 my daughter's car
crashed head-on into an
oncoming lorry. She was killed
instantly. She was 19. It was 14
years before I could think about
writing these verses.
©Lionel Beck
January 2001
Made with Xara Web Designer
NATIONAL SERVICE
Two years compulsory
National Service in the
Royal Army Service Corps.
I progress from “Sprog” to
Drill Sergeant in the hell
hole that was 2 Training
Battalion, Willems
Barracks, Aldershot.
All the gory details, plus
photographs.
Keith Pritchard
I met Keith 2009. He
was a Tour Manager for
“Great Rail Journeys”
and he added great
value to our vacation in
France, cruising the river
Rhone on the “Princesse
de Provence”. He read
my page on losing my
daughter and sent me a
poem he wrote some
time ago during a low
period in his own life.
CHEER UP!
Jokes, funny stories
and general lunacy
from a variety of
sources, including
those circulated around
the Web
GEORGE W BUSH
(President of the USA
2000-2008) was
famously inept with the
construction of words and
sentences.
Here are a few examples
at which you can now
laugh with a clear
conscience since he is no
longer in such a powerful
position.
Laugh at the quotes and
be grateful that the USA
now has a President
whose first language is
English!
MAD YEAR 2002
For a couple of years I
kept a diary of some of the
sillier and/or otherwise
noteworthy occurrences
both in the UK and abroad.
This is how 2002 looked
through my jaundiced
eyes. The World in the
year after “9-11”
RHONE CRUISE 2009
A Great Rail Journeys
vacation: Eurostar to Lille,
northern France, TGV to
Lyon, southern France,
and a week’s cruising the
Rhône and Saône on the
Princesse de Provence.
Notes and photographs.