"beale" poems
It ain’t too bad to be from there
Just ask my family and friends
But it’s too flat, ain’t no way out
The roads are all dead ends.
Sometime soon I’ll find a place
Where the music I’ll enjoy
But for now I keep on tryin’
To escape from Illinois!
There’s a river on the border west
That moves a lot of dirt
Mighty Muddy Mississipp
Drowns the pain and covers hurt
Yeah, I’m movin’ south to New Orleans
Maybe I can find employ
In a blues bar down on Bourbon Street
Escape from Illinois!
Well I stopped a week along the way
When I saw the Gateway Arch.
But the folks out by the airport
Were stagin’ up a march.
Seems a white cop fired a shot that killed
An unarmed teenage boy
Oh yeah, the teenage boy was black,
Escape from Illinois.
Kept walkin’ to the Landing
(Named for Pierre Laclede)
It has most every thing you want
But nothing that you need
Some travelin’ folk told me some news
That made me jump for joy
Memphis maybe had some work
Escape from Illinois!
Found the haunted house called Graceland
And the grave where Elvis lay
Where half a million go each year
(Fifteen thousand every day)
They all want to pay respects
To the rockin’ – rollin’ boy
Put their finger in the bullet holes
Escape from Illinois.
Went downtown, knocked on some doors
Once or twice I went inside
But Beale Street was broken
The travelin’ folks had lied.
‘Cuz there ain’t no jobs in Memphis,
Or maybe I’m too coy
So I hitched a ride to Nashville
Escape from Illinois.
Nashville’s a big old meltin’ ***
Lots of great ones started here
But most end up as tourists
Getting’ ****** and drinkin’ beer
So money’s at a premium
And fame’s a fake decoy
End up workin’ in a record store
Escape from Illinois?
From Asheville to Atlanta
From Austin to LA
From Biloxi back to Baton Rouge
Need a place where I can play
I’ll follow all the buskers,
Form a musical convoy
Livin’ day by day and town by town
Escape from Illinois!
I’m a minstrel, like a rubber band
I keep on snappin’ back
I’m gonna make it somewhere
Singing somewhere, that’s a fact
Got my guitar and my music
Gotta do what I enjoy
Find a place to sing my songs for you,
Hell, it may be Illinois!
Phil Lindsey 6/4/15
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
I got a letter from the government
A week back, Tuesday morning
It came in a grey envelope
It was stamped with a red warning
The envelope was tattered
And the words were inked in red
To be opened by recipient
That was all it said
I checked the name typed on there
It was mine, so I could see
John Augustus Reed
Beale Street, Unit 43
I opened it and sat right down
I had been drafted so it said
I had to report on Thursday
I heard a ringing in my head
I didn't understand it all
To me it made no sense
This plain grey mottled envelope
Sent from my government
I followed the instructions
And showed up promptly at the place
Something was asunder
I could tell from the man's face
I showed him my draft letter
Explained, I didn't understand
He looked at it and laughed a bit
This wasn't what I'd planned
He said son, is this you
Are you John Augustus Reed
I told him I'm John Junior
He said that's all the news I need
This letter is a glitch, boy
It wasn't meant for you
It was sent out to your father
Back in nineteen seventy two
Somehow it was mangled
Got lost along the way
Until somebody found it
And you got it on that day
I'm glad you chose to come here
Showed up exactly when it said
But, I think you now can go on home
I think it's best, instead
It's amazing how one letter
And you can take this to the bank
Can fill a man with honor
For that I must give thanks.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
By T. A. Beale
I was working my garden on a warms summers day,
When a robin flew by, from across the way,
His wings tipped with silver, black brows over his eyes,
His robins red breast, you might have guessed,
but upon his cheek, a dark mark he could not disguise,
I laughed and I smiled as I cried aloud,
"Tis brave Robin Black-Cheek, a bird most renowned!"
He bowed and sang, “Good day to you sir! My chicks need a feeding!"
I nodded and said, "There's food underground, just follow around while I do
the weeding!"
So we set to work, and into each hole that I dug,
Mr Robin flew, and emerged bearing worms or a fat wriggling bug!
Time after time, with a beak full of grubs he'd return to his nest,
As the day grew long, I could not go on, I lay down my shovel, I needed a
rest!
Mr Black-Cheek hopped on my boot, and danced an impatient jig,
He looked at me and sang, "My chicks are still hungry! Why won't you dig?"
"Rest a while, lets take a moment to speak, tell me how you got that black scar on your
cheek!"
"Very well. But I warn you now, 'tis not a tale for the meek!”
I was guarding my garden when a rogue robin rival reproached me and said,
"I shall end your life, then take your wife, she will thank me when you're
dead!"
I swooped down to meet him, I perched on the fence,
I puffed my red breast and angrily sang, “Let battle commence!”
The scoundrel soared up, beak shining like steel in the sunlight, and he sliced my cheek!
Staggered and stunned I spun round, but soon I steadied, stood straight and showed my beak!
“T'was but a slight!” I swung at him, and continued the fight!
We ****** and we pecked, we riposte and we parried,
“Leave while you can! Too long have you tarried!”
We flew and we dashed, and in mid-air we clashed,
In a flurry of feathers we fought, a final fell blow and the foul fiend was fallen,
I sang with glee; for he was forced to flee!
I returned to my tree, now no one would dare challenge me!
He bowed again once his tale was told,
“Now dig me more grubs, afore this day grows old!”
I gladly obliged, for I'd made a new friend,
and we worked all day, until the end.
© Thomas A. Beale
2015
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel's worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TV's while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don't go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, 'Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won't say anything. Just leave us alone.' Well, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING, God **** it! My life has VALUE!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell, 'I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!'
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
Royal, you was.
Even if you never occupy a castle.
You were the one at the throne of blue's kingdom.
Attracted millions to come see you.
And some into the field of blues.
Sure there was others probably better.
But in many cases, it takes one to make notes of things to others.
You sung-Just a little bit of love.
Which all it took was that.
Sung about no one loved you but your mother.
And states, she could be jiving too.
Oh, the thrill is not gone because you passed.
You left a legacy that will forever last.
Oh, no need for fans to be down hearted.
Or even depressed because facts are facts.
We can always sing, How blue can you get?
About the stories of doing your very best.
Just to be alerted by your lovers, you're not doing enough.
You had a whole lotta love.
Whether as Beale Street Boy.
Whether as Riley B long before the world knew you as BB King.
Yes, yes, you're forever here.
Simply because your music and legend will never disappear.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
To: Career politicians and insiders
From: The great unwashed rabble beneath your feet
Over the next few years, and into the foreseeable future,
Your past and present performance
Will be scrupulously reviewed
With an eye toward
Eliminating hangers-on and dead weight.
No cow is sacred
When so many are starving.
The heiress apparent to the retiring CEO
has been shown the door;
the head of sales now the head of state.
There will be regular meetings
With the new HR director.
Those of you who've been with us
For a while will know him well.
His name is Howard Beale.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
I do not know how
they have aged so well
having to carry such
obnoxious facades
outlining the garments
of their sleeves
every night, wondering
if it's too small or too large
succumbing
to the thought of misfits,
with the color they have
grown weary of
dark times
that made them feeble;
enough to make them grow
lips that sparks war
telos or end;
to finally defend that
black cats are not bad omens
and so are black people
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 10:42 AM UTC
I feel like Howard Beale screaming: "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!" There is a lengthy poem brewing inside me.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
I want to smell again the fresh cut grass of the fields of southland.
I want to taste again the salt on my lips as I walk out of the ocean on Hanalei beach.
I want to see again the ruins of past civilisations in Rome.
I want to hear again the soulful blues busker singing his heart out on Beale st.
I want to feel again the cool fresh water of a mountain stream
But if I can never do any of these things again. I want to be anywhere with you.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
Things weren’t going well
They fought too much
Tony decided to move out
Couldn't take another punch
So he got into the Camaro
Then he headed east
Back to Memphis, where he grew up
To Beale Street
All the while he drove
Racing through his mind
Was the question of what he was doing
Was it all about his pride?
Molly wanted commitment
You can’t blame her for that
No more playing house, she said
“Where are we at?,” she had demanded
Tony had misgivings
She was the best that ever happened to him, he recognized
As his life’s truest fact
Another hundred miles he drove
Finally, he turned back
She was his home
Where he had to be
They would make it together
It was their destiny
She opened the door with surprise
Imagine her two bright eyes
Then came this, he spoke
“Every mile I drove was in the wrong direction.
I now realize what we have is golden
What we have is love
What you want, you now have got.”
Then they both cried
That was many years ago
They now own their home
Donna and Jimmy are their kids
How their love has grown
No more wrong direction
Never since that day
As evidenced by the doormat
Which to all they say,
“Welcome to our happy family.”
Indeed they are
In this true story
It turned out that way
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
We're leaving memphis today
Thoroughly enjoyed our stay
Blues and Soul music on repeat
A walk up the famous Beale Street
Sun studios is a must of course, where legends got their first break
Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lewis and Elvis too
Gracelands you have to do!
Elvis's cars, golf buggies, bikes and planes
He loved his toys the collection is insane
From Memphis Tennessee by Amtrak cutting across the South, along the mississippi to Louisiana
Destination New Orleans
What will we see, what will we do?
Where will we go to eat at night?
Will there be Jazz bands in the streets, dancers and drummers at your feet.
What is that makes NOLA unique?
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
Old Town probably doesn't appeal
to an old friend of mine like Tom Beale
like Gaslight would
if it could
bring on the gas
along with the sassafras
to ignite a rail
on those cartoon termites
in that as for the insect killer Raid
I'm just kidding
about gaslight
and its power
and how I would have
sworn they had
put me in bed
near one of the snack bars there
on Gaslight Square
when I was on palliative care
from complications from a broken hip.
I don't know if it was the hippie
in me with my flashlight
and the water tower
and the slaughtered calf
that made me hallucinate myself in a bed
in a quack box on Gaslight Square
or if it's just my eyes on this rhyming try.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC