Long Cricket Poems
Long Cricket Poems. Below are the most popular long Cricket by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cricket poems by poem length and keyword.
Anxiety about what I might think preceded me
As I sat on the stool in the middle of my living room
Ready to think about who knows what,
I relaxed for a moment and then closed my eyes.
Gratitude and peacefulness were my first feelings.
I smiled inside thinking about how literal Ingrid had taken me.
He remembered that I intended to write at 3:00 a.m.
As the clock ticked, Ingrid kept time for me…
Fear crossed my mind next, afraid of my own thoughts,
What they might be. Nightmares. Horrors.
Repressed experiences dreaded.
But thankfully, the ringing in my head saved me.
At least for that moment…
A few things slipped in. The Jeffery McDonald murders
That took place when I was stationed at Ft. Bragg, N.C.
The horror had anguished me on an off over the years.
Then, I heard the crickets again. Thankfully.
Next, a hit and run accident that was reported in the news years ago
Flashed through my mind…anxiety from Army days.
It had happened on a road we sometimes traveled.
Fear, reality check, and cricket sounds followed.
Yes, it is that cricket sound that I enjoy so much.
It took me to the natural world in all its beauty.
Little seeds germinating in my sunroom...
Crickets outside making their noise; I smiled again.
And the crickets in my head chirped.
I was thinking that this isn’t so bad after all.
I have learned to find happiness inside myself
Then, Ingrid said, “Time’s up.”
I felt relieved.
© March 1, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
My DARE: Dane, you picked Dare* I dare you to sit in the middle of your living room...
(on a chair if you have toooo!) Close your eyes, and feel for 5 minutes... (you will need a
stop watch that alert you when the 5 minutes are up. During them 5 minutes, you have
to feel everything, allow your strong emotions to feel. Even if you have little one's are
running or your cat is purring at your feet. Don't allow it to bother you. You have to
concentrate and find that one spot in the back of your mind. The part that digs real
deep into every feeling we forget is there. After the 5 minutes are up... Sit in the spot
where you write, and write for 10 minutes, Write about every thought that passed
through your mind in a poetic way, sad~happy~ mad, crazy.. and so on... Take us deep
into your mind... Thank you..pd
Confession…I wrote more than 10 minutes…time slipped up on me.
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
Footnote
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
Where do you begin with Ravichandran Ashwin...intellectual impresario
Red ball romeo... conceptual maestro..the Kingpin of spin..leather lothario
Perpetual taunting...teasing..bubbling cerebral cauldron formenting..haunting
Troubling.. flaunting...tormenting..vaunting..fermenting..pleasing
Luminosity...but another one of the band of badger brothers
Reeks of unique chic tweak at its peak
Bare faced cheek of genius geek cavorting
Discerning pastor preaching while yearning for learning
More about turning…..curiosity pique...sleek sporting freak
Mythical master of disaster..have many if any been reaching 500 wickets faster
Viral spirals about this sage despite his age still taking centre stage
Batters like budgies trapped in a gilded cage
As though he had planned to grandstand the Ravinchand bandstand brand...stealing the back page
Revolution masquerading as evolution...cogitating...searching for a solution
Ruminating..problems to fix with his swag bag of tricks..spinning absolution
Precision physician with constant revision...each edition
A new rendition.. high jinks with winks.. and nods to tradition
Wondering...that furrowed brow..pondering how
Career of seams caressed with finger finesse ... architect..engineer without peer…
Can't debunk the magic funk…just respect from a Test tragic monk
Scientist enthrall..sorcerer gall...still one of us...the best of us all.
So hold your head high Ravichandran..still don't know why you were so often the fall guy
Fans vicarious view..our meme..you part of our team...daring to dream..your art of derring do
Iconic booty of noble probes…lush lullabies...strobes lapping global lobes
Sagacious..loquacious oratory...the tonic...fruity frolic
Fresh from laboratory duty..bodacious bucolic beauty
Even naysayers can't deny they relish that conjuring charm from your cherished right arm.
Let's zoom to the elephant in the room...is Ashwin the don of Indian spin
With the skill and will to top the bill and still pip Anil?
Kumble also a defiant giant on whom they were so reliant
Hot to trot just not as savvy as Ravi
The Don's got the lot..takes number one spot
Wealth of stealth...doyen among men..but never ever about himself
He loves cricket just for the cricket itself..zen then..
Now Christmas in July seems crazy - I’m sure I hear you say
That has got to be plain silly - but this is the Aussie way
Christmas is in December you insist it’s a well-known fact
But in this land way ‘Down Under’ our seasons are ‘out of whack’
July is Aussie winter while in December it's scorching hot
Those Three Wise Men may know the reason but then again maybe not!
A time for relaxing with family and friends spreading the good cheer
Sip a glass of Lilly Pilli wine or toast with a VB beer
Frosty Christmas in December - for some it seems so right
Tinsel and baubles festooned - Oh what a delightful sight
Presents around the Christmas tree decked with lights and holly
Cheery little Santa’s look so happy and so jolly
In December air-cons turned cold mimicking our winter in July
When Santa rode his sleigh down south to Oz coming from the land up high
With a Ho Ho Ho he now powers his jet ski - riding mighty waves
He coasts straight onto our golden sands joining parting people and raves
Remember my friends it is a time filled with Peace and Joy
To commemorate the Special Birth of a Baby Boy
Worry not friends we don’t miss out on all that wintry good cheer
For you see folks here in OZ - Christmas always comes twice a year
Author’s Note:
'Christmas in July', which is also known as Yulefest or Yuletide in Australia. July is generally the coldest month of winter, so celebrations emulate the atmosphere of the northern hemisphere winter. So that means hearty food like roasts, and warm drinks in front of fireplaces and bonfires. Don’t be alarmed folks! – Just for the record, here in Oz we have a second helping and do celebrate Christmas on 25th December with the rest of the world.
~‘out of whack’ - An Aussie term for ‘Out of Sync’~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Synopsis from the composer of the song and clip -
"The Aussie Christmas Song" by Batesy. Published on Dec 18, 2012
‘One Christmas eve I was singing carols about dashing through the snow & a white Christmas and thought "Aussies don't have snow at Christmas" and it was also 30 degrees outside, so The Aussie Christmas Song was born, it's about sun, sand, backyard cricket, pavlova, and a cold beer - Ah!! - Sing along!!!’
Let it be that - we are simply disconnected
And all of it that was before is now neglected.
Just as in an international call
And I'll stop knowing what you whisper all
Over her right ear,
Petting her mere
Hair. Listening to the cheerful imps
Of your disturbing thoughts. A glimpse.
And recognizing every rustle
Around you. A twitching muscle.
Here's the sound of keys jingling,
Here are her fingers mingling
With your fringe, here's the wind strangled in the curtains,
The load of memories it burdens...
Sms beep, the block is off,
The parquetry squeaks yet the steps are easy,
Flick of a lighter and that's it - the tone. How cheesy...
And I'll stay a bit in the telephone booth
Reciting poems of my youth.
Awaiting for the firing of invisible squadrons in my temples to cease.
Oh would I ever feel the ease?
Of simple being, I'm happy as old colonel Frehley
Who died with a reciever in his hand.
Let it be that as if it's five years past.
And we are all steady here at last.
We're not as booming with the decibels,
But we're worth a 1000 for a ticket.
There might as well be time for cricket.
We are working like real men,
Making money as easy as trimming a bush. We stem.
We're not giving our minds any downtime.
What's mine is mine.
And I am aware of what I am worth.
It doesn't matter that nobody is willing to pay the price.
We run in circles just like mice.
We meet and knock back three
Glasses of Chilean semi dry and you look at me.
And then you say "I am pround of you, Polozkova!"
But no - nothing breaks inside me.
That August we were still drinking outside
And you were wearing
My jacket - we are joking, singing and smoking...
Probably you never knew that from that night on you
Become the protagonist of my hysterics and mimes. All anew.
One day we'll recall this -
And wouldn't be able to believe it ourselves...
Let it be that my vim and naughtiness
Are back; My slouch and flabbiness
Are gone; And nothing's beating me inside
No pain within me would reside.
And there's no need to write
My poems. How can I ignite?
Let it be that I don't sob hoarsely with every chorus
Just like a dyed-haired singer with little morals.
How nice that you're sitting
In front of the screen and thinking
That you're reading
Of somebody else.
Form:
I remember, I remember my garden of joy,
It gave me great happiness when I was a boy
At the bottom of the garden was a delightful stream,
When alone, I would sit beside it, meditate and dream.
In the garden stood an ancient apple tree,
In the spring time its coloured buds were a joy to see.
In the autumn the russet apples were harvested in,
Our neighbours also enjoy surplus apples from our bin.
At summertime my two friends would come in and play cricket,
Game stopped when the batsman knocked the ball into the thicket.
On summer evenings Mum or Dad read us a story in the eventide,
Other children came in, lemonade and biscuits mum did provide.
Subject to weather mum packed a picnic on a Sunday afternoon,
To meet the local villagers, to gossip, farmers sold their eggs, that was a boon The villagers would meet, discus each others fortune, on the village green, There all the local gossip everyone could tell or glean.
The young ones played football, cricket or handball,
The girls often beat the boys, that did not go down well.
Some times in the evening Dad would take me down to listen to the local band, Some music I did not like, some I thought was grand.
I left home at twenty one to work in the city,
My little village is now a small town, what a pity.
I have photo’s to remind me of my happy past,
With an expanding world villages like mine will never last.
Are you ok?! Matt, asked as his eyes searched the dark. Fear gnawed at his spirit. “Yeah, I’m ok…wait!, I can’t feel my legs!”. His girlfriend cried. “I can’t feel my legs, Hon! It’s like they’re not there!” He leaned over, holding on to her, feeling for her legs. Then he breathe a sigh of relief, that they were fine. “Just lean on me, Baby”. “Where’s everybody?” she asked. One minute there were others walking, driving in cars, street and car lights lit the streeet, now they stood in pitch black darkness, confused and afraid of the unknown.
“I think we should sit right here, out of the path until we figure out what’s
happening”, he suggested. “Yeah, I guess". But what's with my legs?” “I
remember there was a bench a few feet back just alongside of the sidewalk, near
an oak tree”. He took out his cell phone, it would reflect some light and nothing
happened, it was dead. His nerves were rattled by the situation. “Look, we’re going
to have to feel our way towards that bench, Honey. Can you feel the street
beneath you now?” He asked. “No, I can’t”. She replied, her voice shaky. “Ok, here
we go.” Matt picked her up in his strong arms and with ginger steps, began to walk
in the opposite direction, using his left foot to feel alongside the concrete for the
wooden bench. With electricity this would take a few seconds, however, this
seemed like it would take forever. Finally his Nike touched the edge of the bench
and he turned to place her down gently.
Grateful that was over, his mind began to focus once more. Standing up, his eyes
searching the darkness seemingly endless, he realized that it would be
impossible to walk back home, as maneuvering the streets was something he could
do by himself, but not if he carried her in his arms. Silence ruled the darkness
with each passing moment. It felt like they were in a vacuum. None of the usual
cricket sounds you hear on warm summer night could be heard. He could tell she
was scared by her voice tone. Her whispers were hardly audible; just enough for
him to hear as he stood close to her. He sat down finally to rest. He'd lost track of
time and hours seemed to pass in dead silence, without one flicker of light.
~*~
For Matt's "Finish The Dream" Contest
Cont'd on Pg II
Dope boundary rope tropes…fans hopes..Ollie copes..thick skin…will find the strength within…ignores the din…as Pope unleashes that boyish grin..
Can hear Freddie and David…ddddd..Under Pressure…well..hard to measure the pleasure of the Pope’s treasure…papacy legacy pride..stops the slide..trumps the prodigy..got a ton to shun outgun..dumps the Bethell puns..rested and bested..still in at stumps.. after Stokes plumps for tried and tested..
Nasty ploys from the seedier media boys…that gambit or slight..of weedier..needier skittish rabbit in the floodlight habit..but such poise..delights despite the noise.. fights the red hot slingshot Jasprit highlights...that iconic.. chronic.. metronomic…never laconic..halcyon harbinger..joy bringer..humdinger swinger gunslinger....
Who’s got a clue what to do…where it will land…understand what the Bumrah brand’s got planned…should be banned…can’t watch it from the hand..love watching it from the stand..tames games…fanned flames…big names castles manned..but the sparkle of another debacle shames and blames…panned and canned..
Doff your hat…scoff..from the off…Test cricket doesn’t get harder than that…time we beckoned..back when Goochie opined…Essex accent whined..reckoned like facing the World’s test best one end.. and tother Ilford second eleven..
It was a story of small standing tall demanding another dance at the Bumrah ball as the diddy men zen of Ollie and Ben gave us a chance and dodged.. not bodged by the Jasprit lance
Even the boom boom cherry riff couldn’t biff the Pontiff of who we are so fond…no what if..made merry with his tintin strawberry blonde quiff in this tiff did respond..
Golly gosh the another level devil..tabloid tosh of him getting Bethell bish bash boshed…losing the race.. will never forget Ollie’s jolly face…gleaming…day dreaming yet screaming to those scheming and memeing…fury at the jury…beaming…the adored Pope ruled..his grace.. Dueled with the ultimate pace ace…an up yours…century scores…our faith restores ..Ollie.. rightly put out…brightly glowed..showed us what he’s all about..loud..proud shout to the crowd who know nowt…want him out…made it clear..peers cheers he holds dear..my best at your behest ..so sincere.. I deserve my Test place and rest my case..! Hear Hear..
I was just a girl of six or seven,
Stubborn, wild, yet touched by heaven.
Mornings woke with fairs in bloom,
Joy would dance in every room.
Only from Nani’s hands I’d eat,
Her love was warm, her touch was sweet.
We'd stroll through lanes with hearts so light,
The world felt safe, the sky so bright.
But if she left for work someday,
I’d find her...quietly run away.
No one saw, no one knew,
But somehow, she’d smile...she always knew.
She’d say, “It’s dangerous, don’t come like this,”
Yet never scolded, just sealed with a kiss.
At fairs she’d buy me candy clouds,
And balloons that danced above the crowds.
For minimal effort I will never fell
Shhhh!! it’s the grandparents’ love spell
That raised my standards so high,
That now even angels can’t qualify.
The ferris wheel would rise and spin,
I’d wave at her with the widest grin.
From way up high, I’d shout her name,
As long as she was there...I feared no game.
And Nanu, soft and wise and kind,
With gentle hands and thoughtful mind.
He gave me sweets called ‘calcium pearls,’
To me, they were my secret swirls.
I’d sneak a few and hide my face,
He’d smile and pull me in embrace.
“Stealing’s bad,” he’d gently say,
“But listen close, my child, today…
Even Sudama bore life’s pain,
For tasting what wasn't his to claim.
But Krishna knew what hearts conceal
What’s truly yours will find you still.
"Then he would wink, a playful tease,
And hide the jar again with ease.”
He built me swings in backyard light,
Where dreams took off in fearless flight.
He caught me every time I fell,
His arms...a world, a sacred shell.
He brought me toys, and games to play,
And always let me go first each day.
We played on rooftops, cricket and cheer,
I’d never get out...not while he was near.
When things broke, and Mom would yell,
I’d run to them...my safest shell.
Beneath the bed or behind her shawl,
They’d guard my heart from every fall.
If I could wish for just one day,
I’d turn time’s wheel and run away
Back to the warmth of those wrinkled hands,
Back to the love that still withstands.
Back to a time so pure, so true,
Where everything felt bright and new.
Where nani smiled and nanu stayed,
And fears would always fade away.
our children dacing
dacing at the sight of lighted bulbs
like when the eclipse occured
but their hope dashed
but his wealth is intact
for his greatest grand children
children that are more equal
more equal than the others
our mouths now salivates
on seeing mere nuts
like dogs for bones
bones of our lost sons
sons last seen on april
april of the pools
pools of ballots
ballots of inec
our stomach now speak
speak like the dogs
dogs that came beyond the sea
but they have learnt
learnt to look
look since their demands were not meet
our youths now play in moonlight
play games in the sand
games out of fustration
fustration due to lack of job
our graduates now employed
employed in barrow pushing company plc
with first class honours
obtained from war front
our universities now battle fields
our wards soliders
only to come home
with paper to prove it
all their hopes in it
in the designed paper
paper that cannot feed
even the fetus in the woman
they made him believe them
them that are beyond the sea
that his wealths are safe
though they beautify their land with it
he knew not that the value of
his wealth has been used
used to tare their roads
used to build schools
used to build hospitals
used to make things better
used to empower their people
used to make them what they claim
those beyond the sea
though his wealth are safe
it have generated hundred times
to say the least, its worth
he claims to be rich,
the cock that crew
the dogs that bark
the cricket that creaks
the youths that riots
the children that cries
all are saying in Unison
wake up and behave
like a black though are
for our blood flows in you
let them know that we have an origin
our origin so strong
our strenght so wisely use
our wisdom cannot be decieved
wake up and take from them
the wealth they took from us
wake up and suprise them
and make our homes the dream land
the dream land of our fathers
those that fought till sleep came
and those that still wait for sleep to emerge
wake up and let them know
that our wealth we can manage
to make our homes eden
the eden our fathers lived in
For our tribes are stong
as strong as the lion
the lion accros the equator
our home the heart of Africa