Poem | |
Over 1000 poems and now seventy eye have been searching for a definition of
a rendition if you will of a different simpler time
a fabel maker a story teller not just a robot
You have a unique voice, like natural speaking.
this was given me today at your website
thank you very many fables made in a certain style of accomplishment
the proctor and the related at my home planet were elated and they did not sleep
last nite in anticipation of this antiquation to be delivered by the eye this old
fashioned smith and Wesson oiled typewriter is so old it makes a dot between
each word thank GOD it does not translate to the pages but the missing pieces
of the spacecraft have now been found and tagged. The people of this village
think that eye am just old homeless and so eye can carry on surveillance of the
public eye become a new Jim Dandy very handy with a pen and with a keyboard
flowing thoughts upon the word a document of sponging taking all eye have to
give her she gives something in return she keeps almost every word and turns
the pages in my future book with just a look in my direction and a genuflection
and a big reminisce The Lifer he is so avid of a fan a clear cut game boy game
man he roots for roots and never makes a mental happy statement he is so self
centered the quarter back is sacked and carried off the field and his sarcastic
friend says He died he up and died just to see what the LIFER will now say and
this is what the Lifer says about the dead quarterback. He just can’t do that he
can’t do this to me we have a third quarter coming up the ball is stuck in
centerfield without the quarterback to carry it to third base then we aer ruined he
just can’t do this unto me and while he blubbers while he cries his friend moves
away just out of sight and he the friend is now muttering this thought so dumb
eye did not knoe that my friend JOE was so dang dumb as to confuse the game
of hockey with baseball no its football with a quarterback not hockey what is
wrong with me I’m almost bad as him eye had way too many beers today please
take me to the gym and let me play with tying socks in knots and slamming
locker doors before the next quarter comes and they carry one more quarter back
away. Joe is so dang dumb.
Poem | |
I'm in the locker room,
our team is ready to zoom
Equipment is on,
for there is a game to be won
The music is playing,
nervous, my body is shaking
The game, just moments away,
it's the highlight of my day
Butterflies in my belly,
I hope our team is ready
Coaches go over our strategies,
of course, we don't want any penalties
Last second thoughts race through my head,
I'll make it a game that I won't dread
Coach says it's time to play,
I want a win for my red and gray
Now is my time, I got to go,
see you after the game, when I'm covered in snow
Poem | |
In Canada we do not cower
On ice we have a lot of power
When we're young we know our fates
No booties for us we wear ice skates
We dream of scoring goals galore
We pass the puck we shoot it more
We do not like our politics
In bed we hug our hockey sticks
Our country built around a game
Become a pro and get some fame
My seond home the ice arena
I skate and play so very keena
It's Hockey so Canadian
Some players are Arcadian
The game now ends lets shout it out
Winners cheer and losers pout
Hockey is a national institution in Canada.
Poem | |
Everybody loves it when the team scores a goal.
This is what all hockey fans extol.
The lights start flashing and the siren sounds.
Cheering is heard from the seats that abounds.
Many fans go to hockey games each night.
However, I go to see the players fight.
After some hooking, slashing, or a mean cross-check,
the victim wants to break the other player’s neck.
They drop their gloves and throw a left hook.
Before you know it, there is a big donnybrook.
Each of the three twenty-minute periods is nice.
It is all like World War Three on ice.
Poem | |
From Boston all the way to Vancouver,
the hockey season may already be over.
Right now, there is quite a bit of doubt.
The team owners have locked the players out.
For hockey fans, this isn’t very nice.
They won’t see their favorite players on ice.
It will take a lot of negotiating and luck
to get the referees to drop the puck.
The two bargaining sides are still miles apart.
Because of that, the season won’t start.
The team management and players should get it together.
On the horizon, I see lots of stormy weather.
Poem | |
blood on the ice
going for the Cup
who’s going to get it?
Poem | |
Caleb Smith's “Echoes of the Heart” has inspired me to recall those halcyon days long ago on the frozen ponds of my youth.
It was hockey from early morn to the darkening shades of late afternoon with only a short break for a quickly devoured Campbell's Vegetable Soup for lunch. My closest friend was Ken. You very rarely saw one of us without the other, we were inseparable. Our hockey sticks were battered and thin and only bore a slight resemblance to hockey sticks we got each year for Christmas. The pond was a wide frozen body of water beside a well traveled highway to the distant land called the United States. But in our minds it was The Montreal Forum filled with screaming fans cheering on our every move. We would take turns being the great Maurice “The Rocket” Richard while the other would be all-star goalie Jacques Plante! It could have been minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit but we never felt the cold and icy winds... we were superstars.
On a few occasions I have revisited that hallowed ground where we spent hour upon hour, oblivious to time, our faces frozen as well as our ears and our toes! The cheering of the imaginary crowds was all the inspiration we needed to fire a blistering shot through the imaginary pads each other was wearing. At the end of the day, we literally had to crawl home on our hands and knees, our ankles no longer being able to support our tired legs.
Those sweet memories have stayed with me for a lifetime. I'm sure with my last breath of life, the vision of Ken and me will flash before my eyes. Ah yes, hockey, it was what young Canadian boys lived for back then!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Poem | |
There's a young hockey player whose mask is all holey
When the puck slaps at his face he's glad he's the goalie
But he ducks and he weaves
And he falls to his knees
The young player then yells, "I've got it - holy moley!"
© ELR 2013
Poem | |
Each child has talents and Dee always loved to skate
One night at the lake she was called up to the plate
The high school hockey team was “slip-sliding away”*
So call her a chauvinist; Dee wanted to play
But when the coach recruited her for the team
One boy offered a bottle of shaving cream
They couldn’t skate backward; Dee sure showed them how
Stealing their puck, she curtseyed and took a bow
Take it from Dee, men don’t like to be upstaged
By her free-flowing glide the boys were outraged
When it came time for the school’s holiday dance
To find a date, this skater hadn’t a chance
Poem | |
SATURDAY NIGHT HOCKEY
Saturday night I sit alone on the couch
It's Edmonton at Toronto who face off game one
Bernier for Leafs and Dubnyk for Oilers
Dubnyk's a big lad: 6-6, a big shirt
Bernier at 6-0, won't take too much dirt
But nay, I'll not share any spoilers.
'Tis a well-played game and the puck's flying fast,
A strong game for sure but not too much fists
The score is 4-4 and second period has passed
Now the Oilers score again and the fans they do hiss
So the Leafs pull Bernier and TO fans all yell "SCORE!"
But the Oilers come back and we're in O/T for some more.
With 2:51 left on the clock the Leafs make a run
And with a classic 3-on-one the game they have won!
c ELR 2013