The canal poked like a finger
into the wrinkled abdomen
of the Port. Along its length,
ketches once bruised
wooden wharves unloading wheat
shipped from outports across the gulf.
Pigeons stalked the spill of grain
from hessian bags torn
by wharfies hooks. Port Adelaide’s
pigeons were kept well fed.
I can remember being harnessed
to a pole and taught to swim
in the cold, dark waters of the canal.
I thrashed and kicked but could not float.
I did not have my fathers dolphin grace
whose aquatic triumphs were engraved
on a silver trophy that stood proud
atop a fireplace shelf.
In its final days the canal slowed
to a halt. Wharves were empty
and gave way to rot. In the end,
dump trucks cascaded fill down
embankments until it choked.
A car park now seals its grave
where plastic bags sail endlessly
across an asphalt lake.
A shopping precinct recalls its name
in gaudy signage.
Memory still has me dangling
on the end of a pole, flailing arms
desperately searching for something
solid to hold, suspended
like a lead weight
above a cold abyss.
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy
Honoring the work of our Creator above,
Prize it more than any well-earned silver trophy.
Not only for that reason, I should think, solely
But as an expression of his consuming love,
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Who on the first day of the week became lowly,
And reminded us how to be pure as a dove
Prize it more than any well-earned silver trophy.
Willingly gave his life upon a cruel Roman tree
So, we might hence from sin be delivered thereof,
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Making possible for us to experience life wholly
Living under His demonstrated unconditional love
Prize it more than any well-earned silver trophy.
Consider yourself free; you are a divine parolee
In this life, we have nothing grander to prove
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy,
Prize it more than any well-earned silver trophy.
written December 27, 2021
Noonday dreamer weaves a blue ray visual
Sight and sound young orb amid the lunar tides
Silver trophy field of play renaissance type
mesmerising global village new wave hordes
magnum opus prodigy a limelight sponge
boy wonder figment, high-flyer on cloud nine
classroom bell transport me back to earth
It’s Only Make Belief Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Regina Riddle
Date Poem Created : 22-6-2020 Twenty-second June 2020
It's the game of the year
A contest for the ages
In attendance are celebrities
Government officials and sages
Ceremony, pageantry and pomp
As the gladiators get ready to stomp
Onto the field of battle, to contend
While we mortal onlookers pretend
That what all this tawdry tinsel signifies
Is that the combatants we so lionize
Will be worthy recipients of the grand prize
An impressive silver trophy the size
Of an altar, rests on the sidelines
As warriors position themselves on chalk-lines
To damage each other on a field of deep green
Each man prepared to rupture his opponent's spleen...
We say that teen-agers' flings and romances
Are half-baked, immature, risky flash-dances
Yet considering our game-time circumstances
It's we adults who canonize risky chances
Nadal came out on top today,
His eighth time at the French.
He looked relieved and quite composed
While sitting on the bench.
And when that silver trophy
Was placed firmly in his hands,
A roar was heard from all the crowd,
Rejoicing in the stands.
He kissed that bowl and raised it high,
His face lit up and beaming.
I’m sure it felt surreal, a bit
Like he was merely dreaming.
His calm remained until they played
The anthem of his nation.
To Spaniards watching, this was cause
For quite a celebration.
When Rafa heard that music start,
His eyes welled up with tears,
For patriotic feelings flowed
Commingled with the cheers.
A brilliant day of tennis set
One champion apart,
As we bore witness to
That Spanish pride within his heart.
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