The final minute’s ticked its last
For “60 Minutes”’ time has passed.
A word of warning should suffice –
Its murderer was Bari Weiss.
First Anderson announced he’d leave;
His absence will make many grieve.
Then double axes heaved a chop,
Letting 2 reporters drop.
The Sharyn and Cecilia bust
Removed 2 women I did trust
To tell the stories, blow by blow,
The public has a right to know.
When Ms. Alfonsi spoke her mind
About a cancelled show, she’d find
The bigwigs didn’t like her nerve;
Her canning she did not deserve.
But worst of all was letting go
Scott Pelley, who, as we all know.
Was “60 Minutes”’ heart and soul
And perfect for his starring role.
He pulled no punches and did speak
With well-placed anger; his critique
Cost him his job. Ms. Weiss sure botched
A show we eagerly once watched.
Appalling.. hard not to diss the taking the piss
No not talking about the corking bliss of Travis
Bazball calling card just a scarred hubris abyss
Head’s rabid ripsnorter slaughter so rapid
Livid our boys stupid not vivid instead vapid
Fan fury wishing they will stop fishing
Hack jury dishing out flak still swishing
Go toe to toe with our oldest coldest foe
Blow by blow new low ego the worst woe
Wickets in a row..have a go free flow they all crow
Forget every aficionado all about Bazball bravado
Can hear them say no other way to play we know
Can’t teach reach each puppet that Mac did bestow
Beseech after another breach it’s the Muppet show
Boycott & Vaughan did warn along with many ex baggie greens
After the laughter at rafter of dafter scenes…still chill your beans
Really.. Stokes bespoke blokes choked were smoked...“Has Beens”!
Big Ben chimes again
With Bazball zen
One of those men
From special stock
Shepherd of the flock
Hewn from strewn Volcanic rock
From New Zealand's Southern Isle
But only there for a wee while
Mighty flame haired flair laird
Without doubt more about Blighty's North East
They forged this bellicose beast
Ripsnorting sporting cavorting squire
Glutton & gourmand gorged feast
Test town crier
Puffed buffed chest
Inspire..burning
Proper copper topper
Churning fire..
Endless zest..desire
No dull lull
No bore draw
Simple...aspire
To score more!
It's not arcane
Stokes campaign & reign
Train like you're insane
Always entertain!
Remember us flounder
In the gutter
Trounced...17 on the bounce
Could we have found
Pound for pounder
Better all rounder
Nutter...go getter
Sounder founder
Run rate record setter
Of the evolution
And revolution
Of Test cricket
Toe to toe
Blow by blow
Heave ho
Give us a ticket
In the Baz ball or
Ben buzz grotto
Gung Ho motto
You will never know
Till you give it a go!
An empty space that seemed to yell
Come hold me tight and this hunger quell
A gentle touch, a warm caress
A kiss so light without duress
Over the rock the words flowed
Breaking it down blow by blow
Make no mistake – though it looks fake,
The snow is coming down
And every flake will help to make
On cars a snowy crown.
Yet on the news, the weather crews
Predict a change to rain,
So kids will lose their avenues
For sleddable terrain.
We never know just how much snow
From Nature will abound,
Yet blow by blow, the radio
Will track what’s on the ground.
She stood beside him, vows once true,
a promise bright, then burned right through.
She wore his ring, she spoke his name,
but love to her was just a game.
I saw the distance in her eyes,
a quiet hunger wrapped in lies.
Smiles that never reached her face,
a heart already out of place.
She wanted more—what, I don’t know,
something reckless, something cold.
While he held on, she let go,
shattering him blow by blow.
And when the truth came crashing in,
I watched my brother break within.
His voice went quiet, his hands unsteady,
grief too heavy, heart not ready.
But it wasn’t just his loss to bear—
she left a silence everywhere.
She wasn’t just his—she was ours too,
a sister, a daughter, lost to someone new.
Now holidays don’t feel the same,
her absence laced with unspoken pain.
We give gifts and leave a space,
but never dare to say her name.
I wish I could hate her, wish I could forget,
but all I feel is deep regret.
Not just for him, not just for me,
but for the family she chose to leave.
I’m followed by two eyes that gaze out from
the picture on the parlor wall. Those eyes!
If they were real, I think I would feel numb
to know from nowhere I had seen arise
a monster from the dirt that was the grave
of my great-grandfather; his photograph
conveys he was a Scrooge that barely gave
a care for family or for his staff.
Infamous was he; arrogant as well
(as we’ve been told by Grandma). She would know!
His eldest, she will swear he’s gone to hell.
Her reasons she recites to us blow-by-blow.
The picture won’t come down, for in his will,
that was his requirement. He rules her still!
white balloon of pulse beats
its sluggish hops on March land
matted with half melted snow
freed from a nearby high rise balcony
cut from its red and blue compatriots
still hooked onto the railing
a matter of strings becoming frayed
small white blimp
reacting to a wind that means much less to others
unsettling to think it can't find its mooring
its bustable skin
flimsy
like the shallow breath of an aged sleeper
how long before it flees to some kind of shelter
small white balloon
soon to be picked up as litter
bouncing in its frailty
blow by blow
a swivel from side to side
and always
its sense of being under seige
Poetry is, a Martial Art.
To give, receive angled view,
looks and feels, old and new.
Moves softly, with lethality.
Delivers strikes out of chaos ballet.
Focusing, on vulnerabilities.
The battle ensues, in the yin and yang, ebb and flow.
Each 'rain, drops the bow, in lieu tenanting the blow by blow. Beauty and pain.
"I call this one the "look at me now b itches, I am a butterfly now, technique."
~Caterpillar
A shadow falls across
the path he’s yet to walk;
like the one that follows;
torments, bedevils, then
all the lightness swallows.
A shadow falls across
his thoughts each day he wakes;
ebbed by evening’s booze,
which blow by blow spawns an
ever darkening bruise.
A shadow falls across
the doorway where he sleeps
on cardboard featherbed;
in dreamless slumber where
there is no road ahead.
A shadow falls across
the folk that see him lie;
walk past without a thought
towards this fallen soul
whose life has come to naught.
The wind, a conductor of memories past,
whispers of boostalgia, in each gust it casts,
every play by play, blow by blow,
moves us in the direction
of refinement, victory, goal.
It carries laughter, like a playful lambada,
stirring the plot, where we can embark the
crossroads of shallow depths of flood, rescue, boat, armada, with it's tugfloat-
, antics, dote.
Upon the breeze, momentum, ab solution,
scensctes emotions,
mingles with Petrichords of spring tugging ferry
of family amalgamation, observatory.
The wind, a conductor of memories past,
whispers of nostalgia, in each gust it casts,
every play by play, blow by blow.
Vesper-wilding crystal clear antecdotes.
Where the wind can carry pain,
wound salts in exclamate whirl of spin.
It also carries a soft hum and a touch
from person to beast to person,
playing in the yard, naked, raw,
carefree,
as we begin again.
Your will is what will now, let me be free ...
'Tis be darker times than before, more childless,
This is crazy! Topsy turvey they'd be,
matters of convenience act the mindless,
It is the right of every woman, or,
Is it the right of every woman, so,
Some folks fighting for life inside the core,
others say the fight is more blow-by-blow.
The written trek crossed Egypt and the world,
Rome, Greece, Mesopotamia, and more,
rice patties and bamboo trails that were pearled,
procedures taught too numerous the score.
Be crib death, world plagues, poor, starving, and this,
quest be, will we exist ... 'Tis hit or miss.
~~ Bestill ... lil' maybe!
Graves of many, dreadful dark and spooky.
Spiders hung and swayed a little kooky.
Pumpkins fierce howling red glow.
Walking-dead knock blow-by-blow.
Black wild cat moved its tail slightly fluky.
Dracula went out dressed as cranky Grinch.
Drank few too many got into tight pinch.
By foot dangled the mayor,
Threw him over conveyor.
Towns people came around with rope to lynch.
My somber moments, no one will ever know
They're not open images, I choose to show
This is my fight to win or lose blow by blow
No one else planted these seeds row by row
Many claimed to be in my corner but turned to go
They brought me their scythe, I reap what I sow
Give them no quarter, nor do they earn quid pro quo
At last, I'm free no one left worth my trusting to bestow
Vaults are all empty to thine last breath, none left to owe
North natured neutrals
South sultry simmerings
East easy endeavors
West wind wailings
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