Best Cricket Poems

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All hail! dearst Lions; 
From the land of peace
Who plays the Gentlemens' game...
They play for our land,
To make us all proud
Not for money or not for the fame..
Who made thou skins?
So tough and strong
And hearts so calm and mild..
You attack them all
With the bat and the ball,
You make them loose and wild..
All hail dearst SANGA, 
The great captain
The sailor of the Lankan Ship...
Adore you MURALI,
And you DILSHAN
Thy bat is more like a whip...!!
AJANTHA is the hero,
And SANATH the golden name
MALINGA is the stylish boy..
MAHELA the magician,
VASS the revolution
Together you bring us Joy..!!!

I had a favourite cricket hat
wearing it always enhanced my batting,
never did I forget to wear that
as if it was the key of run getting,
but one day something happened upsetting.


I was batting that day so well
and was heading towards a sure ton,
I went for a hook and my hat fell
directly on the stumps and I was gone,
without picking it I headed for pavilion!





**Hope most of you are familiar with the game
    of cricket which is like a religion in India




© kashinath karmakar 2011
===========================

Placement:8th (April 2011)

Contest:My favourite hat or bonnet

Sponsor:Carol Brown

By :kashinath karmakar (14th March 2011)

Lifting his slender leg
As though rosining his bow
Anticipation fills the woods
Magical notes begin to flow

Harmonizing with the bullfrogs
Lulling them to sleep
Concerto in A minor 
Mallards begin to weep

Unfolding an unfortunate story 
Communism made his music cheap
“Everything in China is mass produced”
“Yet we’ve barely enough to eat”

Nothing in his homeland had value any more
Not even his lovely song
“It’s been this way a very long time”
“Since the days of Mao Tse Tong”

Stowed away on a plane for America
His desire, just to be free
To play his fiddle and share his gift
In the land of liberty

Now the opening act every evening
Concerts one hundred dollars a ticket
He’s one of a kind
Let’s roll out the red carpet 
He’s America’s “Shanghai Cricket”

sing sing cricket sing
in my care
lonely no more

Out for a romantic walk
Under the evening moon,
We came across a street
That presented a pleasant tune.
The air would fill with rapture
It would capture every heart,
My husband and I
Couldn't wait for it to start.
At just the right moment
The Maestro rose His baton,
In melodious overture-like chirps
The crickets chanted their song.
They sang with tenor voices 
As they called out to their mates,
The symphony completed
As we walked on past the gate.

twasn’t an absence of belief in
hexes or voodoo shit, black magic,
witches or warlocks,
which brought to mind the maddening
of the crickets, for
900 species of those sinister gryllidae 
couldn’t be wrong &
they came anyway---
chirping their nocturnal nonsense &
forcing the writer to rack her brain,
as all she wanted was to keep the
mental
pedal
to the
metal &
yet, nature allows no rest for the
proverbial wicked---
with said writer being the type
who would stick it out to the last 
moment of supposed sanity,
she finally snapped!  

not being able to get a word down
because of those damn crickets,
not being able to get a sentence down
because of those goddamned crickets,
not being able to get a paragraph down
(with a deadline at hand) in the middle
of the goddamned morning, 
amidst the noise pollution just outside
her window,
all because of those
god****ingdamned crickets!!!

so swiftly, 
like the wing’s flap of the most 
eloquent great bird which comes to
mind,
she jumped from her seat & went to the
gun cabinet---
there, she kept a bb gun, a fashionable
revolver that once having the CO2 capsule
popped in, looked menacing enough
(she felt) to fend off an intruder,
whilst at the same time, it didn’t really
infringe upon her stance on gun control.

with this, she went outside, 
bb gun in hand &
started blazing away
without any real notion that what she 
commenced 
would put any dent in the insanity that these
goddamned crickets
had manifested upon her
&
as the chirping sounds did not &
would not cease,
she dropped to her knees after her 
bb gun was empty,
weeping, sobbing &
slobbering tears & spit all over herself,
curled up in a fetal position right out 
there in her back yard,
submitting herself to the servitude of
the insects at hand. 

in a rumpled,
black city
homes are sliced in half
the equality demands
the rights of people

sometimes you love a 
tormentor
he will be able to wed, albeit
shyly, with the physical
cleaning the love’s deficit

how far the waiting will go
skirting the mist
it was there
in you
in me
a rapist
a serial killer



Satish Verma

The cricket and the praying mantis
belong to a brotherhood quite ancient.
The cricket has always been suspicious
of all mantis who appear overly religious.
And, in the annals of their history,
mantis have acted less than brotherly.
Crickets like a simple life, without ritual;
the mantis, too, but it's false and hypocritical.
Camouflaged green and gray with pressed palms –
the effect is to relieve the cricket's qualms.
"Look here," proposed the mantis, "let's put aside
our differences and live in peace side by side;
Let's work for good and trust and harmony,
sealing the gaps in our brotherhood's unity!
Therefore, in good faith, to you I appeal:
Come, let us reason together over a meal."
The cricket, like so many, was persuaded
and rejoiced at the occasion as if sedated.
And at the table the two sat face to face.
"If I may," said the cricket, "I'll offer grace."
"By all means," said the mantis, "though I've said
mine" and snatched the cricket with bowed head.
and snatched the cricket praying with bowed head.