Best Hooligans Poems
Overcrowded prisons,
brings joy to early released criminals.
Taxpayers may be happy,
but there's predators at playgrounds,
rapists at bars,
stalkers, stalking,
violent hooligans back at matches,
abusers contacting their exes,
jealous lovers beating new spouses.
Mobs on the streets,
will only bring mayhem,
unless vigilantes rise,
whilst the police hide.
Who will protect the traumatised victims?
THE GAME OF SOCCER!
Stadium overcrowded by
hooligans and fans
Cheering waving flags and
clapping their hands
Players on the field they’re
ready to start
There goes the whistle it pumps
up their hearts
Adding strength to the ball and
kicking it high
The ball travels overhead how
beautiful it can fly
Over center field and still it
goes strong
Pass received with ease and the
player runs long
There he goes for his
opponents goal
He dribbles through each player
he’s on a roll
He takes the shot and curves it
by
The keeper dives for it far and
high
The goalie misses it the balls in
the net
There’s a moment of silence
and no regrets
The winners jump for joy that
win was a must
Opponents heads tilt down low
they leave in disgust
A player’s life fulfilled is playing
world class
To be playing all year long on
the rich green grass
Play with heart, that’s the real
answer
Of how to play the true game of
soccer
"Man On the Corner"
Timing his loitering for the lunch time bustle
He picks up his tempo to mere acquiescence
Passing by without condescension or anything at all
Hooligans steal an earful on the way to their busy lives
With calloused fingertips working aural interest
His style plays for lifeless pennies and coins
Dropping dead into his guitar case from cold business-like hands
A state of being not far off for him if he doesn't collect soon
Minimum wage seem unfair for a man of such skill
Yet refreshing for the reality of what he's accrued
Ironically desperate for attention in a city of so many
Sharing his unintentional benevolence on others ears
The dirt on his face with a beard in its place
A hard life for the dreamer fighting for his due
He plays to assuage the very angst that builds up
By going so completely unappreciated
People don't bother with him for the most part
Putting the guitarist in a world all his own
Of intangible spirits walking away in skirts and suits
They are all to ignorant of his existence
So he spreads himself out like jelly
On a toast of tarmac at the end of the day
Fatigued for not being famous
Barely having enough money to eat dinner
He goes inside the very restaurant he had
The privilege of playing in front of
To use the bathroom and shave his beard
A once a week renewal of the musician
Buying a full course meal with soup and salad
Gaining confidence, fat and muscle
He is able to take over for Atlas with a single meal
And goes back outside knowing the evening rush has yet to hear him play
Not done yet.
In the middle of the universe, I stand
How can I complain when everything is grand?
In a vast space so immensely deep,
A watch for unwelcome hooligans I keep.
In the middle of the universe, I am
So spacious, so vast, no traffic jam;
Yet as the silent void within the enormous skies
I wonder if we are able to make an effort and rise?
In the middle of the universe, I am a wanderer
Are there beings like us surveying, I ponder;
Hoping there are other species to meet me and stay
For this would be an enormous and exceptional day.
In the middle of the universe we scrape by
Curious Earthlings for knowledge we aim so high;
With consideration space we shall conquer
An enormous opportunity a waste to squander.
In the middle of the universe, I stand
Everything strange around me, I can’t comprehend;
For God is the master of the universe
I shall willingly meet Him and converse.
Claressa Riddle
“The Lost Generation”
As being black it’s so hard to see the struggles in life we’ve been through,
through the deaths and pain, the hurt the strain and this is what we are left to?
They fought so hard in the battles, from slaves’ master on their horses’ saddle.
Now we sag and brag about who has the newest shoes, who will fight and who
will lose. Dr. Martin Luther King didn’t get shot for nothing and Rosa Parks didn’t
stay seated just to be strutting. We had it all and now we have nothing. We may
not be the richest race, but we can be amazing, we can be Holy, grateful as
grace. We are what we act like, my generation is just full of fools, they cut school,
break the rules and think it’s cool. We kill one another, it does not matter mother,
sister or brother. We destroy what’s beautiful, disrespect our elders, this
generation is not the future, elders don’t have anything to look forward to. Sad
their grandchildren are running the streets, skipping school, having sex at this
age you are headed for the worse. Fourteen with a baby that’s two, got a baby
daddy who don’t want to have or take care of the baby or you. And boys, who treat
girls like toys, use and play with them one day, then move on and play with the
next play toy.
And you wonder why people judge us and label us rude, that’s how we act like
hooligans, like fools. They worked so hard and now were letting them win, the
people who said that we would never be nothing. Well I’m something, I’m a piece
of work my ancestors fought for, I won’t give in to the stupid ways, I won’t fight, I
won’t be this generation’s slave. We’ve got to step it up, because this is all we
have left. You may let them win the battles, but I’m a fighter and they won’t win the
war. Stand confident, smile, for you are a beautiful golden child!
The twenty-first son born with a brat his caul and three sevens in Gaelic knot once apon a fairy tall Upon the distant drum seven clocks ring as a banshee the kenning she does sing Morriganus looking through the gallowglass Laughing hooligans interrupt the sweetbriar lass The galore of whiskey erupts in the shebeen A Irish rose on with the tall brave little colleen all dressed in green the leprechauness spins a dream from the corrie a turlough of the fairy ring What of the lad of fate and the fairy godlover Let your imagination sing have your druthers How coming of age he must drink the poteen of four-leaf shamrocks a glass slipper it seems Chasing rainbows can do you no harm but beware the gift of gob its golden charm
Castro! the Diablo of Life succumbs to Death
Castro! the devil’s advocate
orchestrated hooligans,
and kept a destructive quest.
Turned a civil nation chaotic.
Death, destruction, and demoralizing tactics
fell tears through the land.
Millions of cries hit the skies over Cuba.
This a cry that would never stop
as even the dead keep crying
with endless shouts for mercy climbing to God .
Castro! the terrifying Diablo lassoed hate
into the children
and grew generations that altered a beautiful land.
A man with demonic eyes
squeezed the air out of the lungs of Cuba.
Without chains Cubans were in chains,
as he burnt their innocence,
and strangles those who oppose,
A fear drilled deep in the land.
Even the dead finds no rest.
Castro the Diablo of lives even in death.
Ill fated
Life was so smooth
until one condemned evening
They bundled her up in a van
and then took to a deserted place,
She could sense her misfortune
to their sarcastic smiles,
A sense of hatred and agony
watered clear in her helpless eyes,
Treated as a vegetable
for no fault of hers,
Stripped of her modesty
was it a male pride ?
Five of them and her subtle being,
not a stitch on as the body shivered bare,
Hunger for flesh, scarring the soul,
wonder her strength to survive that scare,
Not a human being, she was just a consume,
rights can we talk as insane hooligans roam ?
Pity them for the crime not so heinous ?
or punish for murder of the soul as well ?
Unconscious they threw her on road to die,
to hospital she was taken by a passer by,
There was no end to the ill luck,
label of a rape victim dumbstruck,
Inquests, courts and then the ugly game,
in name of law, it was such a shame,
Her bubbly heard bled, stabbing cry,
Ripped soul could heave no sigh,
An year now, guilty roam free as tears burst,
as if females are born to quench their thirst,
Why not teach our sons to respect ?
Ill fated or is it our bringing up neglect ?
Quick justice the need of the hour,
she is no lust, she is a man's power,
Can sons ever prosper at daughters' price ?
Hold the flame high against gender crime rise !!
Written Sept 12th, 2015
For Charlotte's "controversial" contest
dedicated to all brave victims- lost or won the battle, but have given a tough fight.
man created thunder awakening brooklyn with the promise of hell to come
if god is generous it will rain on the night of unregulated fire works
for dogs and cats not to fear the roar of drunken hooligans
spending their dole for the trade of a night to escalate into fights
and a gun or two
do not ring my bell it is a decoy to fool the like of you
as my door is open only I know as who would be so crazy not to use a key
in the streets of brooklyn with nothing to fear seven pounds of protection
sleeping at my feet and a cat to snuff you if you insist to invade my world
and a gun or two
my blue eyes doing the killing as the are cold as ice looking through you
an heart untouched but ruined by tribulation of a life lived to the rim
I walk the streets to pacify a night as we all need our sleep
to make the world roll of its axis for the sun to smile
and a gun or two
it is what I signed for taking the allegiance to a flag and never took the time
to learn its stripes only stars to me but lafayette my street i am proud
to bring you the constitution with amendments and a rainbow to prove it
color I see I am an artist sharing a world
and a gun or two
more work need to be done for the right to educate your children
and enjoy a sensible meal earned around a table with laugh
frontiers open for any one to enter a future farm without pesticide
as the sun is not about to dim soon
and a gun or two
ISIS is a Black Vortex that has attached itself to and infected the World’s Soul . . .
Murder, Rape, Beatings, Beheadings, Destruction, and Terror,
These thugs, criminals and hooligans are the unholiest of the unholy,
The world’s painfully aghast and their victims are pawns of this horror.
A truly nefast nest of murderers, thieves and prevaricators of the lowest kind,
These thugs and their evil cronies lack any iota of human decency and scruples,
How could God tolerate these creatures in our society—such a despicable kind?
Almighty God in Heaven weeps so deeply at their unbridled savagery
But God is not here today (not yet) to stop their vicious, hideous rampage,
The Civilized World weeps so deeply at their malevolent snickering mockery.
The evil they do and foment and spread is supposedly in God’s name,
How dare they commit such a sacrilege and expect all of us to bow?
To the Civilized World their actions cry out the very worst moral shame.
It is undeniably tragic that mankind has this horrifying human cancer
In its collective DNA which bodes not well for the human species,
And 72 Virgins await them NOT as they enter the Gates of Hell—The Answer.
Nameless old and young people: men, women, children, innocent babies
Savaged by hunger, disease, injury, and an unrelenting palpable fear
Form the fodder of their ritualistic blood sacrifice as they destroy families.
All in the name of a Procrustean philosophy of nihilistic niddering nothingness . . .
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved - August 24, 2014
(Rhymed Tercet)
& the hooligans came
they came
an angry swam of locusts
spraying the venom
upon the green leaves
of unguarded cities
pitched upon the north pole
of the niger world;
& the sharp cries
came from broken mortals
ah, everywhere
children
pregnant women
& unborn babies cut
off from umbilical likks
& the sharp cries
are still heard
mothers wept
as the gray-haired
kiss the cruel tombs
for the hooligans must perform
the cruel duties
of the masters
the gods of the land
from dusk to dawn
& to dusk
again & again
in this civilised city of africa.
ButtercupShalimar was a cat, that was white
She was fluffy and furry and real girl girly.
One day, in a baskety in the bedrommy,
She had six kittiebabies with big, big loud cries . . .
Mew mew mew MEW! They all cried and, all the time!
And soon they grew grew grew grew and GREW!
There were three girl kitties and three boy kitties, too
The girl kitties were all sugar and spice sweetness,
And their names were SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty,
PebblesFluffyWhiteKitty and TickleCuddlesOrangeKitty.
The boys were called, DoodlesDafferBrownKitty,
WeeblesWonkiSpottedKitty and last PuddlesRascalBlackKitty.
The boys were all hoop and holler, you know boys!
Well, life for ButtercupShalimar was upanddownable,
It was CRAZY keeping track of the six hooligans
but she needed a rest outside, so she left them sleeping,
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ . . .
When ButtercupShalimar came back it was all topsy turfy
in the housedippity with the back and forth and up and down
of six rough and ready kittiebabies all aroaming unsupervised!
She gathered them up and started counting . . .
One kitty, two kitty, three kitty, four kitty, five kitty . . . huh
"OH MY WHISKERS!" Screamed ButtercupShalimar,
"Where is SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty!
So they searched the housedippity, they all marched,
up and down, around and around, up in the attic
and even down in the basement, they yelled,
"Has anyone seen SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty?"
They mewed mewed to the dog, the bird in its cage,
and even a mouse walking by!
"Oh dear, oh dear, OH Dear ME, where could she be?"
And the five all answered at once, "WE DON'T KNOW, know."
All exhausted and dragging their paws they went
to the baskety in the bedroomy for a wee rest,
And whatdoyouthunk they saw all curled upidy
SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty with her head tucked under her paws!
So, if you lose a kittiebabie, look in the baskety in the
bedroomy closetety, FIRST!
___________________________
August 20, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/ButtercupShalimarCat
Copyright Protected, ID 15-702-352-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Childrens Story, Dr. Suess Style,
Sponsor, Casarah Nance
Sixth Place
RECIPE: “Poulet Roti” French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 6
(NOTE: This French “ballade” is being composed on permutations of the number ONE repeated twice, I.e., 11. Eleven syllables to the line in iamb or anapeste, interposed with dactyls, I guess, and of course with the ENVOI added. Eleven lines to the STANZA in eleven in res media “instalments”involving the minutely PERSONAL in interaction with the larger hoi polloi in relation to the STATE and its tentacular authoritarian apparatuses designed to keep the independent INDIVIDUAL always nailed in limbo.) T Wignesan
STANZA VI
“So why don’tya get out of this Third World hell !”
Near-East stronghold now in Maghreb stranglehold
Where Asians and Africans mingle pell-mell
Where the French affix sign-boards on their soil: “SOLD!”
The moonlight flit now turned to Indian rope trick
Where East Europeans come thick and homesick
To join the ranks of those from South-Euro lands
Who make much of the Far Right extremist brigands
Les français de souche* still commute to keep jobs
Like they once nostalgic did in foreign lands
The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs
ENVOI
French lasses push prams with babes sunburnt inlands
No Tariq Ali* need turn back for want of bans
May the World colourless be sans hapless gods
Or will it taken over be by hooligans
The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs
*Les français de souche: the French of stolid French ancestry.
*Tariq Ali, the Berber Moor alighted on the rock of Gibraltar, in 709 C. E. , with 30,000 horsemen, and by 711 had over-run the Iberian Peninsula, but Abdul Rahman al-Gafiqi, the Governor General of al-Andalus, who tried to extend the conquests further into Europe was halted in his tracks by the Frank Charles Martel at the Battle of Poitiers/Tours in 732.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
It seems like only yesterday
I was young and climbing trees
Running through the forest
Scraping arms and knees
Playing tag or hide and seek
Hop-scotch or skipping rope
Making a bow and arrow
Building a periscope
Playing ball on the local lot
Wishing upon a star
Swinging on a hanging vine
Stealing from the cookie jar
Tossing a ball against a wall
Making figures out of clay
Raiding the local apple trees
Jumping in a pile of hay
Playing cowboys and indians
Saturday morning cartoons
Running around like hooligans
Acting like silly baboons
Memories all come flooding back
As I sit here and reminisce
Of halcyon days way back when
Filled with pure happiness
© Jack Ellison 2012
Modern Family
(A Christmas Story)
Little parasites wake up early
To tie me up in knots
They take my shoes that do not fit them
And my wallet too
Finished off my mini-bar and crashed the car
Emptied my bank account
Wished me Merry Christmas
I wish them my open fist when I get loose
They used my favorite twine to tie me up this time
Left the dishes in the sink to do them selves
The bums are having too much fun to do their chores
I cannot go to work with naked feet
How could they steal my shoes those little creeps
The one good bit of news is this
The credit cards have all expired
Being poor has some advantages
My parasites have names
Hooligans, wife and kids
My own personal crime syndicate
I call them friends and family