Blazing humidity & amazing stupidity
In a lather the palaver rather pathetic
Erasing hopes fans gazing splenetic
Starc’s all round pink ball cupidity
Never clever with willow or leather
Wide wild wafts at end of our tether
Snicked off again just a little feather
Helter skeltering in sweltering weather
The Aussies strengths of line & lengths
Our bowlers retort let’s go wide & short
Flopped blame copped catches dropped
No defense or pretence was just nonsense
Not just below par couldn’t wouldn’t spar
Which is why we say ta ra and au revoir
To the Ashes at our bete noir “the Gabbatoir”
Awe & shock bowlers in the dock our warlock & glock “the judge”
Rapscallion and stallion wrangling with dangling golden medallion
Facing the pacing battalion on our latest sinking Caribbean galleon
Our burly oracle with each follicle so curly a rock that won't budge
In that 90’s dungeon Robin our classy curmudgeon brassy bludgeon
Truncheon fine dining on a hurly burly Courtenay & Curtly luncheon
Calms alarms and qualms delivers us from harm with stoic heroic psalms
Call to arms more like baobabs than palms those offside charms “the Judge”
Speedsters scary & lairy others wary prime time for our hairy chest fairy
Robin our pace Pontiff willow ace not a whiff or a riff or sniff of what if
Believers in his jobbing levers will go biff in any tiff that's the pith of Smith
Not just a county squire but quite possibly the ultimate Hampshire Sire
Calling card hit it so hard earned the fable label of both BATman & Robin
Hall of fame name can’t smudge hats doff to a complete one off “the Judge”
Stokesy has already said
Shell shocked how Head sped
Smarting departing fielders fled
Chief belief thief..bowlers bled
Not silly got willy nilly Gilly cred
Ben's men grief left for dead
Travis mischief led fed the dread
Slogan from rogue Bogan bred
Mighty Blighty faces still red
They made this Baz ball bed
Ashes thread of hope shred
So fears where angels tread
May be we should say instead
Going out for a great Travis mate
Rather than I'm getting off my Head
No channel skipping ..no flannel...it was so gripping…hearts melt…Pant's ripping svelte pelt and belt..stripping and whipping..the fab never drab Rishab lab..was it real..felt like I was tripping… no pipping..surreal cartwheel flipping..
Some verse about the Panto Pant curse…does traverse…like a hearse….won’t reimburse..adverse bowlers terse..things getting worse…reputations nurse…Rishab flash panache smash and grab..rehearse that ramp reverse..in his own homegrown perverse.. with only himself will converse..no fretting..go getting…record setting universe..
Now has outshone and outdone..shoves show pony Dhoni.. as the Indian man alright talisman with the gloves everybody loves with the most tons..holy moly..more three figures scores on England tours than the folklore of before..Sunny and Kohli..
Records splattered shattered..gallivanting Pant parade..cascade and cavalcade …flattered .. Rishab paddled..bowlers addled and raddled..skedaddled
Ignore any naysayer…prime sublime Pantomimes…haymaker…cocktail shaker…p**s taker…tik tok peacocker..run for fun maker…cool cat with the bat..almost indecent crimes..the Indian’s best test player and slayer of recent times..
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 think I know something in these fraught times
Several arguments later and debates
Accusations that I don’t at all chime
They have the gall to charge me with their hate
And now I know something which is not grime
Bro, I looked high and low for the answers
But they concealed themselves behind thickets
The knowledge I needed was a rogue star
And hell-hound bowlers knocked out my wickets
I then thought I would not get very far
I think I now know something through the fogs
Something that can now be nicely cogent
Something I won’t throw to the red fire logs
I’ve gotten it and my long search is spent
I know this thing: I’ve clean gone to the dogs
Cricket in the 70s was great
When the future was up to a World Series fate
And Rod Marsh was one of Kerry Packer’s men
To get better paid was their demand
When the Chappells, Doug Walters, Lenny Pascoe and friends
Returned to cricket properly with fulfilled demands
We saw Thommo and Lillee bowling down
With Rod Marsh crouching where the cherry was bound
In the record books there are 343 dismissals
Athletic catches to the bowlers missiles
The greatest number were catches made
With the crowd roaring and farewells to batsmen were bade
The record books show bowled Lillee caught Marsh
As the usual dismissal in an attack quite harsh
But now he is one for the ages in our memories grand
Forever in his baggy green with a beer in hand.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Who else in the city staking paper like l am doing?
I have been around the block but the Gucci and Galbanas got me looking kinda different.
People really love me they will be asking for them autographs , l be like no , no l got a flight to catch , no time to chill got to make more deals so she gets more heels just to avoid the feels.
Every time the blues on me l just roll and sip some till my heart tells me yeah let's do it again!
Life has been bumpy ever since l won the lottery, sleepless nights on rooftops blowing dollars like we bowlers , partying on a Tuesday in a suit and spending pounds let the Queen call a meeting!
If this is a dream don't wake me up l am to slumber in heaven.
Pilfers into preachers through my work now that's a blessing.
Used to be a berger , now they beg me to stay but they never wanted me near them until God raised me from the dead!
surreal
fragments
from the past
visual
encounters
with dark fantasies
plots
without dialogue
small drama
with
strangers
on the
seashore
coincidences
chimed
in passion
desire
& indulgences
in virtue&
vice
pursued
by umbrellas
&trilbies
by ladies
of the night
in mackintoshes &
braces
meditations
in
sunshine
reflections
in
mirrors
of bowlers&
beaches
melancholia
in moments
of colour
veiled
in the enigmatic
longings
for yesterday
today
in nostalgic
roads
to nowhere
of quietudes
in hidden
stylistic
wistfilled
narratives
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
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!
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
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.
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!!!
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.