When I was in my personal cell, I heard a low ring tone from my cell,
Actually it was the weakness of the cell, The buzz made a vibration in my body's cell, It remembered my pet dog's bark,
when the storm had broken the tree's bark, The noise caused the flight of the bat, Finally, I fashioned the bark into a cricket bat.
Cricket Bat
My old cricket bat stores all the
divisions of
geological time.
On the sport’s field we started to set up
To play cricket but the ground was hard
And the stumps would not go in. So my mate
Used the cricket bat to hammer them home.
The game’s master was soon upon the scene,
Shouting. “That’s no way to treat the willow,
You cretin.” Sir then snatched the cricket bat
And with hefty sideways swipe cracked my mate
Across the head. The lad collapsed and was
Shaking violently, lying on the ground.
Then his shaking stopped and he was still.
The whole team went silent and stood and stared.
Then one lad shouted: “He’s dead. You’ve killed him.
You’ll be hanged for murder”. Sir was silent.
He looked worried. But the victim came round.
He then stood up, a bit wobbly and we
Carried on with our game of cricket.
Unlike the Famous Five,
with capers, japes and adventures,
boats and well stocked picnics, we lived
a back street life. With a sock and masking tape ball
and mucky fat sarnies.
The Family Allowance Five.
Each one of us an extra pound.
With facsimile school photos,
in hand me down jumpers and carving knife tread pumps,
floorboard cricket bat and under the bed air rifle.
Crab apple scrumping and tresspassing for mushrooms,
rabbitting before school,
paper round before school,
milk round before school.
Everything came before school.
Sunburnt scoundrels but "never any bother"
Corrugated asbestos roof walkers.
Cinema ticket hawkers.
Unseen, inconsequential, together but apart.
No roots or football boots.
Hot pot bollocks.
One foot here one foot there.
Immigrants finding their way,
but without the ginger beer.
I swear I saw a cat;
she held a cricket bat
and swung it at my head;
I danced upon the bed;
and then a dog appeared -
his clothing looked so weird:
a hat and floral dress,
all tattered - what a mess!
And flying cows in jeans,
all eating jelly beans,
were herding singing sheep;
oh, boy, that snow is deep...
for Kai's Delirium contest
Who am I
I asked the whiskey
You are ugly
Pat came the reply
The cricket bat told
You are never bold
I do want to love her balls
Your eyes invariably crawl
The computer screen said
Your mouse still hesitates
Where to press the key
How to use control v
The eucalyptus looked down
I like you very much
Though you are a dwarf
You dream to reach my shoulders
Who am I
I asked the sword
My enemy
Why, I asked
I cannot slay your words
The afternoon shadow was passing by
We shook hands and I asked
Who am I
Always a friend who refuses to die
November 20, 2018
Dad has ordered a new shed,
he'll site it in the shade
replacing the one put out by
the local Fire Brigade.
The wheelie bin is full of food
almost a three course luncheon
with sausages as black as coal
and harder than a truncheon.
Home made sauce clings to the sides
like toffee, not that viscous,
and burgers that could be re-used
on sports days as a discus.
Mummy's apron, holed and scorched,
no whiskers on the cat,
bare lawn where flames extinguished with
the neighbour's cricket bat.
“Will there be another one next time?
we'll have to wait and see”
says Dad as he goes to fetch Mum
from outside A&E.
His frizzled locks like coiled springs,
he will not need his comb,
but never mind, the family sings-
“she's coming home
she's coming home
she's coming,
Mummy's coming home....”
(* A&E- Hospital accident and emergency department in the UK)
You’re such a nasty bugger,
You slumming, scheming lout,
No conscience or misgiving,
No arguing about!
And when next time I see you,
Sucking on the poor, I’ll give to
You no quarter, you shameless
Writhing whore.
To you people are just profits,
You stinking rotten rat,
I’d love to squash your laurels
With my old ash cricket bat!
Drugs are for the sick, not
For pockets to be lined,
To be in this type of business,
You really must be kind
So take your profit margins
And income streams and like,
And point yourself at nearest cliff
While tied on to your bike
HURRAH!
I stood at the gate and heard their screaming as I walked up the drive
children left to yell the proverbial hell, adult torment and live's
yet how do you make life better how do you make life fun
the dreams lie within you it's games you need to play
Timmy walked around the house with a hammer hitting the fridge
I asked "why why do you give him the hammer" "because he likes it"
With dispair can't you see the danger other children's heads
just because the child like's it dosen't mean it's right
I would play with my son threaten to put him into the bath
threaten to put him into the wardrob laughter became the game
I would not give him a hammer just because he liked it
I gave him a cricket bat and taught him to hit the ball
I gave him lessons and taught him to catch the ball
I read to him and taught him to read
I allowed him to to try different clubs like wrestling and scouts
and with it all I joked and played teaching him to enjoy
It's not so hard to enjoy bringing up kid's
all you need to learn is be an adult set the rules
and teach then to find the joy of life.
Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name
For Love of Language
Cricket-Rounders
A new bloodsport in the town,
We call it Cricket-Rounders,
The bowler runs up to the pitch, (22 yard run)
And the bouncer surely crowds ya, (rising ball gets ya)
A cricket ball as hard as iron,
At a hundred miles an hour,
If it gets you in the head,
On ya grave we put the flowers,
So ya better wear head protectors,
Good gloves upon ya hands , (broke fingers)
Borrow Joel Garner from the West Indies yes, (world champ bowler, cricket)
He’d bowl ya outa the grand stand.
When ya run tween the bases, keep ya eyes upon the flic,
The ball is coming to knock ya down , with bruises bloody quick, (knock down yer out)
If ya hit the ball over the fence it’s a bloody six,
And to the boundary only four, so eat your weety bix, (3 strikes yer out)
11 men a side till they’re bowled or caught/knocked out,
Bruises are good for heroes, yes no bloody doubt,
A world wide game it is to be, a war on the field of battle,
Don’t forget to duck your head for sure,
Or yer brain might start to rattle…
Cricket bat or baseball bat for the batter. … Pad up…
Don Johnson invention 3-nov-11
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.