Long By blow Poems
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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!
I hang a left, my clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside, narrows taper to booths.
The talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of tenderness.
I overhear the history
of generations of icons. False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
vicariously share the bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.
The food arrives with a woman.
Dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over my senses
like a caress.
She knows I’ve been listening,
the waitress smiles, continues unabashed
a colloquy with my eyes,
recites by rote
her 'tip-me-big' love spell.
Management asked if I could evaluate one of the employees, and as that happens to be within my noted abilities and well within the scope of the hotel's agenda,
I concurred with the specific understanding that arrangements for the immediate assessment will be determined by me congruous to management specifications.
Derek's a year older and by the way, all union workers but me, including Jane, are older than me, including Jane by two years.
I advised Derek to play the gender card by taking control of the copy machine and be consciously aware of that nasty ink bottle's habit of coloring unwary hands, thus allowing the woman at the front desk to maintain their prim-n-proper selves.
At the end of that exchange that day, I concluded by asking him if his hockey team won.
He said he didn't watch the game. Derek, for the past few minutes, while I dealt with this dew-hickey, I told you of the game's highlights in blow-by-blow sorts.
That would have garnered a choice, even if your team was neither certainly one would have a Canuck like you.
I didn't watch the game either, I just read an article that highlighted the game, and fresh in my mind reasoned my call to you to go to the back office and wait for me by the copier.
I don not know how to feel
My broken heart will never heal
It is bruised, broken and shattered
From the awful way you battered
It to pieces blow by blow
I wish you could only know
How you cut me painfully
You dug my heart out so deeply
With a sharp sarcastic tongue
Each new word you told me stung
How could you do this to me
I was being so friendly
Each day helping all I could
My heart trying to be good
All my friendship pouring out
Talking every day about
Any problems or troubles
Always be there on the double
When you called, no hesitation
Bringing so much inspiration
To a life that needed it
Till one day I felt like sh--
You just threw me to the curb
Acting weird and so absurd
Putting up a wall, you blocked
Me out-- I was stunned and shocked
At the way you looked and acted
Saying our friendship was retracted
To no longer come around
You stomped my heart in the ground
What made you do a reverse
I was there through the worst
Times-- pulling you through each one
Now your yelling we are done
I really do not want to go
When you hit me with a blow
Of anger, violence and hate
Your eyes are saying it's too late
Go away-- do not return
Your sad red eyes start to burn
With tears your starting to cry
Slamming the door on me -- WHY ????
What would cause you to end
The loyalness of a true friend
I knew there would be a time
The day the Angels marched
To the River Styx they headed
There's evil to be torched
Lucifer and his lurid
To our surface they have risen
As they corrupt, plunder and kill
Our survivors to their hell like prisons
To eradicate this evil
The depths they need to go
Combat instead of mediation
To match them blow by blow
They meet at the gates of Hades
On mass with shields and swords
In evils, dreaded hellish eyes
The might, as the angels hoard
Lightening flashes zag
The cue for them to attack
In delta formation they swoop
Heroism, there will be no lack of that
Weapons blessed by higher
Cut down the lowest dregs of all
Winged saviour's all of them
In the end will stand so tall
This planet will remember
The day the Angels marched
When evil was finally defeated
Beaten, earthed and torched
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-4.php
"Nobody but God knows you better than you know yourself." By author
Dear Self,
What can I say to you about yourself
that you are not already aware of?
You’ve taken tests on personalities
and know how good it is to have self-love.
You’ve always known your strengths as well as flaws,
and freely you’ll let everybody know
just what they are if folks should care to ask.
All your faults you’d share, in fact, blow-by-blow.
But in a nutshell, here are the best traits
describing you: forgiving, conscientious,
loyal, kind, considerate, fun-loving,
thrifty and authentic – not pretentious.
Some traits of yours can be annoying to
some people who are not so down-to-earth
as you are, and you need to lightly tread
with those who don’t appreciate your mirth.
You are a rebel, but one WITH a cause
because injustice you can plainly see
though some do not see things your way at all,
so sensitive to them you’ve tried to be.
Sarcasm you were good at in your youth.
You’ve had to tone that down a lot because
today society is divisive.
and seeming callous is one of your flaws.
By now, the folks who understand you well
should realize it’s only truth you seek.
Keep staying true to who you are, dear self,
while making sure to think before you speak.
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.
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
Hang a left, clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside,
narrows taper to booths.
The place is slow-time empty.
The staff talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of regrets.
From the lips of waitresses
the clipped history
of shaky affairs
and dead-loss dudes.
False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
a bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.
Food arrives with a woman,
dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over glancing eyes
as a low-cut caress.
She knows I’ve been listening,
yet continues unabashed
a colloquy with my senses.
reciting by rote a silent
'tip-me-big' love spell.
A hand of sand in spectrum of flow of time,
ministering thoughts by simple pantomime.
So many sand-curies it has been,
and dessert hills moved gently keen.
Caravans slow vicissitude by blow of wind,
seasick on a camel ride pinned.
Motion rise and sink in endless obscure,
sensuous dunes proportioned contour.
Wandering aimless not by imagination,
creating landscapes of ancient preparation.
Illumed wilderness same same horizon,
only more sand for pilgrimage compromising.
The oasis coming in confident of fate,
to resolute the heart before it is to late.
Have we passed that shimmering crystal tower?
coming closer to the counting passing hour.
Gazing up and escaping these narrow walls,
the shifting sand and its sustaining falls.
This little golden thread dilate into column plain,
pursuing my thoughts regardless the time in vain.
A world too small for times in loving ponder,
timeless appreciation and all its precious wonder.