Best Bowlers Poems
You bowled the ball...that made them fall...
'twas done in games and pleasure...
Many saw... with thrill and awe...
as you bowled with skillful measure.
The rumbling of thunder
From some bowlers in the sky
Makes me shudder, gape and wonder
Why we tell our kids that lie.
Does it reassure them, thinking
All that noise is just a game?
Or are they aware we’re winking,
Making such a silly claim?
As a child I did envision
Rip Van Winkle getting strikes;
And I pictured the collision –
Pins and ball – each bowler likes.
But I knew that my perception
Didn’t make a lot of sense
And that grown-ups used deception
At their little ones’ expense.
Still, perhaps their best intention
Isn’t really so off-base
If it soothes some apprehension
And puts giggles in its place.
So when thunder starts resounding
I will think just like a tyke
And find comfort that the pounding
Is another bowler’s strike!
SPORTS INJURIES
I come in at number seven for Wanoona cricket club,
to face the bowlers from Dargetta, a mob from out the scrub.
I was doing pretty good, right up ‘til I was forty-four,
and then a bouncer dropped me cold, so I couldn’t bat no more.
My world was spinning ‘round in circles; I’m in a gyrating waltz,
until confronted with the first aid box and the evil smelling salts.
I was feeling like the morning after a night out on the grog,
and with nine down and six runs needed, I’m back batting in a fog.
Just hold your end up urged my partner; he’ll knock off the needed runs,
but I kept seeing two balls coming, as if they’re fired from guns.
Dargetta showed no sympathy, they still bowled at quite a pace,.
When another bouncer got me; me nose was splattered ‘cross me face.
This time it was more serious, the first aid box was useless now,
for a broken nose and flowing blood, needs more than they allow,
so it’s off to to the outpatients, to see if they can fix my nose.
I held a towel up to my face, and blood covered all my clothes.
I booked in to see a doctor, but then sat out in the foyer,
and half a dozen people passed and suggest I see a lawyer,
then a bloke who’s anxious joined me, and so for what it’s worth.
I watched him pacing up and down as if his wife is giving birth.
He was dressed in golf attire, so had come straight there from the course.
I tried to calm him down a mite and seek out to find the source,
of this fellows agitation and why he’s in this panic state,
but when a nurse confronted him, I heard about his nervous wait.
The nurse asked the bloke if he’s okay and heard his shaken quote.
“My golfing mate needs to remove me golf ball, driven down his throat.
He’s being operated on right now”, and then I heard him drawl.
‘I hope they’re bloody careful, and don’t do damage to my ball.’
Unquotable quotes - III
When in Rome, do as the Roman Nero.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the vain and the
insane.
A grenade a day keeps the refugee away.
Cut your coat according to your girth.
The kettle calling the pot back.
Like father, like son; like mother, like neither.
Singing in the rain can get you pain in Spain.
Singing in the rain in Paris can get you chicks who do
the twist with fairies.
A sound heart in a sick body is like a tart groggy with
toddy.
The sun also rises best in the West.
Who said beggars are not choosers: they can choose the
place and moment they beg.
A white tiger abhors orange.
A policeman’s girl always wears handcuffs behind her
back.
A lawyer who licks the back of hands always gets paid
first.
A judge who yells at you tends to reduce the sentence to
a phrase.
Building castles in the air with sand is cheaper by far.
A marathon runner remembers the thighs but not the
laps.
At the end of the day is when you make your greatest
mistake – you go to sleep.
Churn milk to make curd: churn speech to make turd.
Pounding rice as a marriage rite brings no surprise on
the wedding night.
One swallow doesn’t make a drunkard out of a
teetotaller, but it sure signals a dry summer.
Cricketing jargon
The late-cut is the shave you missed out.
The off-cut is the cover drive turned phut.
The leg-pull is the batsman’s bras de fer to the leg
spinner.
The long-stop is the twelth man on the field.
The straight drive pierces the umpire’s reverie.
The full-toss is the fast bowler’s slipped disc.
The ton-up comes after the spin bowlers give up.
The innings defeat is the army beating the retreat.
Test matches end up in ditches for pitches.
A bumper is an un-coded message from the bowler to the
batsman.
A bumper is an overt warning to the inveterate blocker.
Tail-enders get to face the best batsmen all-rounders.
Umpires inspect pitches at the start of a match for coins
dropped by lawn-mowers.
An over-throw is a fielded ball flung by an outfielder at
the umpires and which misses the wickets by miles.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Unquotable quotes (More Cricketing Jargon) – IV
A « wide » is a ball aimed by the bowler at some absent-
minded fielder.
The « silly-point » is the fielding position so close to the
batsman that the captain forces his rival to occupy at
the risk of receiving balls on the head, solar plexus
and balls hit at over 300 m.p.h.
An « inswinger » is a bowled ball which changes course
in mid-air and gets round the batsman to nick the
bails.
An « outswinger » is a bowled ball which the batsman
thought he connected for a six but which merely
nicked his bat to reach the safe first-slip’s hands.
A « run-out » is given when batsmen running between
wickets wish to get back to the pavillion in a hurry.
To get « one’s eyes in » is to see cricket balls the size of
foot-balls.
A « partnership » in batting occurs when one batsman
does all the stroke-playing while the other hurls abuse
and advise on him.
The « night-watchmen » are batsmen sent in with
blankets to keep the pitch warm at the end of the day.
The « opening batsmen » always take their own sweet
time between the pavillion until their crease rituals.
The « one down » is the batsman who makes the ground
look like an empty billiard table.
The « top scorer » is not the cousin of the official scorer.
« Clean bowled » happens when the batsman is looking
at a blonde in the pavillion.
« Hit wicket » usually occurs when tall batsmen choose
long-handle bats for their centuries.
« Leather-hunt » takes place when one ball takes to
visiting all corners of the field in quick succession.
A century or two could very well take just half-a-day
these days.
The « hat-trick » always occurs when the umpire is
dozing after lunch.
« Good shot » means no one has dared put a hand out to
stop the ball.
« Medium-paced bowlers » are fast bowlers who have
been hit once too often out of the ground.
The « leg pull » always catches the leg and mid-field
talking to one another.
The last batsman always takes a wild swing at the first
ball in the hope that it would land on the captain’s
head.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Sebastian said Dim Whitty,
So as to make this funny
I asked the coach and said
"Honey...Who's on First?"
Coach said eYes!
And I got that part. Write.
Costello asked for the bat
Said he loved the game so
Coach gave him That.
Confused as can be, he swung
it round almost hitting me!
But missed he did when he
hit his own head and said...
that he still couldn't see.
Man wears a bowlers cap.
Indeed.
Who drops the ball so the
runner goes two seconds and
then to thirds. I don't know,
that's just what I heard as
I skirted around to base 3.
“Run Forrest, Today is
catching me!” I heard the
ball cry as it flew on by, hit
by the Bat to be Cause!
I Don't Care said I Don't Know
and so, the game was ended.
Short Stop got an attitude.
..... but I like the game .....
I said to Coach, rename them
in the field. I'll take that bat
and his hard felt hat and we'll
see what a girl can yield.
Who's on first
sWhich two seconds and
What is replaced on 3?
Lefty's out in a field and Why?
Be Cause, the center is Hers
I said, How, Tomorrow can't
throw and Today knows nothing,
it's beyond my comprehension.
New Batter is up and Again I
mention... It's Time Two play.
With. A Team called Woman.
Let it be before I go from where I've seen moons after moons,
crescent and full; let memories carve yellow suns on the
dark-skinned children, polishing them with sweat and sea salt
to surface their natural oils. Let me see them smile again.
Let me see September's winds push cane leaves into spirals,
while singing like jukebox in an almost hollow bar,
far from where her spirits caused heartbreaks.
Fix my mind so it can carry me, like country bus
on scenic routes, to custard apples & mango fruits
on the ground in thick pangola grass,
drooling like miss Mabel's full black lips,
leaving nectar for she-goats, & pests that frequent
drop toilets. We tied T-shirts (necks & sleeves), make sachels
for the loads, while skipping a few ounces of uncivilized
honey bees, living, but dying to hurt us. To soften
the venom, we slowly pissed on the unwanted gifts
appreciating when a girl's bladder is full;
painful, but still, they are good people with virtue
Life was okay; every story has one lie and one truth
despite our age, and the arrogance of its teller
It was the mountains that speak most;
cannabis smells have a way of creeping betwixt
wild coffee trees, finding evening breeze
heading for our noses, asking our clothes to take them home,
and parents were customers who buy no excuses.
They have no evidence to support accusations;
without red eyes or high, our truth was sold as lies
Sunday was a beautiful woman. She would bring
cricket; two bats, one ball. Now I sit here, one bat
two balls, almost helpless. The bowlers,
deceptive like the president and a seer in a mask.
They have leathers behaving in unusual ways;
cutting out, cutting in, all gay, nothing straight
You have to be forward to intercept. Exposing
shin, like Arabian god, unpadded to face
unpredictable elements. Sunday was a lady.
I missed her on the open common in Goodwill.
Hagerstown, Indiana
I strolled my hometown Main Street today (about a quarter mile).
Many happy memories flooded my soul, causing me to smile.
A friendly bench beckoned me and I sat awhile to ponder,
The past I left so long ago for vast horizons out yonder!
The building where Doc Mays' drug store was still stands,
Where my sweetie and I sipped sodas and held each other's hands.
The Cartmell Hardware Store sat catty-cornered across the street,
Catering a variety of gadgets to make our lives more complete!
Ah! The aromas emitted from Seeb's Bakery down the street!
Those savory pies, cookies and cakes - what a special treat!
I recall Harry the barber and his razzing as I sat in his chair.
I reeked of bay rum and the Vitalis that he slathered in my hair!
The bowling alley no longer exists - setting pins was my first job.
If the bowlers liked my work, a quarter tip to me they'd lob!
Gone is the L.B. Owens grocery store where as a lad I worked.
He was a demanding boss, admonishing me if my tasks I shirked!
I left my hometown when I was a young and unpretentious lad.
There were just too many distant vistas and adventures to be had.
But o'er the years I return there every chance that I can get.
I left many fond memories there that I just cannot forget!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
So! You think you're ready to ’Bowl’ with the ‘Big Dogs?’
You think you got what it takes to hang?
This is no place to be if you are ’Weak of Lung’
or suffering from a chronic case of ’Crap-4-Brains’
We’re Real Live, Big Time, Home Grown, Hard Core
‘Bowlers’ around here Pal. So have no doubt.
Welcome to ‘Bowling - 101’
Once we’re finished with you, you'll know what
“BOWL CALL”
is really all about.
Having your act together tends to pay.
As a Bellowing ‘Bowl Call’
can occur at any time of the night or day
When this happens, Do Not Panic!
Do Not Dilly - Dally - Dawdle or Delay
Just calmly drop what (or who) you're doing, and
report for ‘Bowling Duty’ straight away.
Arriving late for an ‘Official Bowl Call’
is considered a blatant ‘Party Foul’
Penalties run very high indeed. A first offense carries a mandatory surrender of your
bowl and the immediate confiscation of your weed.
Rookie maneuvers, followed by feeble excuses will not be tolerated,
So make no mistake! We smoke our brains out around here,
but only until we’re lightly toasted. It’s the Brownies that keep getting baked.
So this is it Pal, step up, smoke down.
It’s not as harsh as it seems.
This is your chance to live every Bowler - Wanna - Be’s Wet-Bowling-Dream.’
So the next time you're just kicking it with your favorite
‘Kind Bud’ and a familiar ‘Bowl Call’ echoes thru your chronic haze...
You’ll think of the years of dedication and practice and how you’re still so amazed.
‘Junior Bowlers’ from all around will hear of your early ‘Bowl Calling Daze’
and how high that it pays…
to be a ‘Bowling Icon’ as you keep Rolling Bluntly,
through your ‘Remaining Bowling Daze’
Loreen Parke
November 11 2003
Written for and dedicated to my friend 'Tiny' who originated the very first Bowl Call
BEERS
One is a lager, one is an ale
One of them darker, one of them pale
One has aroma with plenty of flavor
One you might guzzle, one you just savor
One tastes of oranges or maybe its wheat
One a bit bitter, one kind of sweet
One comes from Europe, one comes from Brit
One from the store, maybe one from a kit
One forms from the bottom, one forms from the tops
One alters the flavor depending on hops
One in a day is ready to pour
One tastes much better in three months or more
Don’t drink from the bottle, use a pint glass
The former’s for bowlers, the latter shows class
Poured down the middle with a white foamy head
Releases aromas so the experts have said
Ales are ancient predating the Sphinx
But lagers today the connoisseur drinks
Barley and water, some hops and some yeast
And you’ve got a drink fit for any old feast
I hail from the “City of Bridges” –
Where "la belle riviere" is born,
Where th’Allegheny and “Mon”,
Come together as one
And the proud black and gold are worn.
I hail from the “City of Champions” –
Home of Pirate and Penguin and more,
Of th’oft Super Bowlers,
Our “Terrible Tow’lers”
The Steelers that we all adore.
I hail from the city of metal –
Where iron was made into steel,
Where blue collar muscle
And hard-working hustle
Helped th’American dream become real.
I hail from the city of Pittsburgh –
Of the Incline, Heinz Field, and the Strip,
Kennywood and Carnegie,
Of Clark bars and “hoagies”,
Yinz guys should come – take a trip!
I wanted to write just like soup's Sean Kelly
But every time I tried my knees went like jelly
So I put on my bowlers hat and tried an ode
Alas the wind was too heavy and it ended on the road
My hat, that is, not my ode you understand
And my ode turned out so totally not grand
However hard I tried to concentrate
The words coming out were just not great
I tried to type with finesse and a giggle
But the writing just looked like a wee squiggle
Oh dearie me what bad luck that was
I can't believe the amount of fuss
With knees of jelly and not even a laugh
With words of squiggles and a darn in my scarf
With a hat on the road and simply nothing on telly
Just for me trying to write just like Sean Kelly!!!
The ocean waves are active,
The breeze is nice and brisk,
The children play in the sand,
Towers and parapets with moat.
I am surprised that no one has noticed
My footprints in the sand.
Leaving the moving acres of tan and foaming water
I stand at a stop with two other folks,
Paying me no mind, they stand quietly.
The autobus approaches and the eager attendees tense.
They enter and I follow,
The conductor demands no toll from me.
To Baker and 72nd we approach,
A man pulls the stop line,
The carrier pulls to a stop and the man erects
I follow him off as it is my stop as well.
I stand ready to cross the street, and as I cross
The behemoth lurches forward and strikes me.
I bounce off of its front, landing painfully on the curb.
Bleeding from several wounds acquired from the crash,
I stand.
The city streets are buzzing,
The air is rank with fumes and smoke,
The denizens are busy scurrying about,
In bowlers, and two-piece suits with coat.
I am surprised that not one of them has noticed
The blood trailing my steps.
I call out, to no response,
To no aid, and no hope.
I continue forward and call again,
A man huddled in the corner of a building,
Freezing, like the heart of a cruel mistress.
He tensed when I cried out for help.
He heard me.
I approach the shivering man,
I inquire to his state, he quivers and remains silent.
I know you can hear me, I need help!
I grab his shoulder and pull him over to face me.
My arms fall limp to my side, in awe
The man staring up at me is a reflection.
I turn to flee, mixed feelings of doubt and terror
How could it possibly be? How can he be me?
As I amble forward the air becomes sharp and cold.
Bleeding and shivering, I fall to the ground amidst the crowd.
Fading, the day becomes night at 1:42pm.
The streets suddenly become deathly quiet.
Just another day in the city.
DREAMTIME: STATE FAIR OF MIND
the barren vendor
sold wishes
to those
hoping
to
forget
at the back of the room
wizened old men
sat together on a bench
across from old fur hats
tricornes and hamburgs
bowlers and fedoras
high hats, admiral hats
and others
too rare
for my knowledge
or experience
all positioned firmly
on
head stretchers
covered in dust
a reminder
linking the past
now
the old Black man
who governed this booth
sold large
round chocolate bars
handmade
of finest quality
he offered my friend one
but
strangely
ignored me
everyone
gathered in the field
as wagons passed by
on parade
the
atmosphere
was quite gay
carnival like
friends
waving to each other
no
one
recognized
me
A game played by gents they say
But at over ninety miles an hour
A fast bowled cricket ball
Really has some striking power.
A longed for confrontation between
A superb bowler and a class batter.
A match on a wicket so benign
Every ball just got flatter and flatter,
Until he managed to dig one in
And get that little bit extra rise
Which, were it not for his visor solid
have blacked both the batters eyes.
With a blood curdling yell he ran
Up the pitch swinging his bat around
And Following it up with a vicious kick
Felled that bowler to the ground.
Bloody body line bowling he said
I’ve just about had enough
Time you bloody bowlers realised
Us batters can cut up rough
I suppose now he said
There’s not much doubt
The bloody Ump will decide
Ive been and run myself out.
After a quick toe jab to the ribs
Causing the fielders much alarm
He strode manfully from the field
Bat tucked firmly under his arm.
And that’s how it happened when
Under a constant bodyline attack
All the class batters decided it
Was past time they all struck back.
And so the disciplines split
As a result of that fateful morn
And, in the fullness of time
Combat Cricket was finally born,