WINTER is...
Wearing woolly jumpers,
Inside days,
Nose-tip dripping,
Table games,
Early off to bed,
Reading books.
WINTER is...
Wiggling toes warming up
In my room as the heater blows.
Noses are nippy out in the cold.
Try on the boots: “Too small!” “Too old!”
Eating a pie with lots of sauce... and then...
Running off with a soccer ball.
They say age is just a number,
but its much more than that.
Now everything I eat or drink
just somehow turns to fat.
I used to kick a soccer ball
all over sunny fields of green
but now I throw my knee out
just pulling on my jeans .
My auburn hair that hung in waves,
long and full of sheen,
is now short and white, stands on end,
and makes me look quite mean .
Old age isn't for the faint of heart.
You need to be tough as a boot
and forget about those days gone by
when you were young and cute.
You need to develop a thick skin.
(Though in truth its thinner than ever)
Words no longer phase you
and your retorts have become quite clever.
Yes, growing old is really the pits.
Like living under a curse.
But on the flipside of getting older,
the alternative is worse.
During the famous Des Moines rumble
Sixteen boys landed in a giant jumble
No one bragged for they were horribly humble
Soccer ball was lost in this mad fumble
The first time we met
Was the day I knew you were the one to get
My first Jack Russell Parson Terrier
Was coming home without a carrier So small and plump
Holding you firmly so you couldn’t jump
Feisty and full of energy
I knew then you would bring us wonderful memories
Our walks together
I will always treasure
Your strong presence
Showed your wittiness for independence
How you never wavered
Your might and will both tailored
Giving me your paw
Showing me you’re smarter than before
Hearing your mighty bark
Would of called the entire animal kingdom to the ark
Playing with your soccer ball
Displaying the skills of a professional on team Nepal
With all your might in your heart
Helping us to understand the importance
of a restart
Your determination
Your life
Will always remain the greatest gift
that forever shines on
so bright
~October 08, 2008 - June 15, 2024~
Carry it like a babe in arms,
Or asymmetrical soccer ball.
Marvel at its inner chamber;
Threaded seeds sleep in its room.
Consider its genetic detail,
Its encrypted secret code:
Copies made for generations,
Manuscripts illuminated -
Still unknown.
The silent child sees Cinderella
Riding in her pumpkin coach.
The artist sees its painted jacket,
Sleek and smooth.
And now, it’s time to sit and eat it –
Orange, baked and sweet,
Remembering other Sunday dinners -
Now, all gone.
Kicking and hitting used to be unusual in a classroom.
In many classrooms it is same-oh-same-oh these days.
Icy screams that raise hair on your neck are becoming normal.
Sadly, parents are not in school to see what is happening.
They would be horrified at the behaviors we tolerate.
“You are not in trouble” is our mantra, but they should be.
Worse, out-of-control behaviors are worth a reward.
An out of control student can get a “break”.
They get to throw basketballs or kick a soccer ball.
Here is a five-dollar gift card if you do not tear up your classroom.
Schools are backwards now- rewarding bad behaviors, not good ones.
This is the reason so many teachers are leaving this profession.
Grimlocke was given a soccer ball as a gift,
Though he didn't know what to do with it.
He is an Oracle so crystal would have been prefered,
But the stitched pentagons are like pentagrams of which he did observe.
So Grim took the soccer ball and placed it on a rotating stand,
And then opened up his doors to allow querents to come in.
With dim lights, incense and some soothing music,
He began his foretelling, open to the public.
Now he tried his very, very best,
But grass, dirt and leather seemed to daunt his quest.
And before long, people would begin to troll,
As all his readings were simply ending with the exclamation, "Goal!"
13-September-2021
I jump up with glee
let the old lady do it
certainly they mean me
In the school yard
I am the only crone here
happy to play
no retirement
I could not stand being home
bring the body bag
children are cheering
the soccer ball comes my way
it goes to the moon
Given board and room.
A face, teeth, soccer ball feet and an almost perfect face. Funny when he shaves, He craves, begs, checks and says.... "Ndakamuka."
Soccer ball made from granola, dried grapes
Honey, brown sugar, oats, sunflower seeds
Almonds and chocolate chips form the ball that is fun to
Play the soccer game where everyone wins and the goalie eats the ball.
Eleven comedic players on each team want that
Soccer ball running after the tasty round thing, number 19 gets a Red card
Before the lemming, marmot, and prairie dog run
Biting a tasty crunch out of that flavorful round sphere.
Chocolatier is in competition for profit and prize with
Granolatier who in rivalry selling those two color round
Yummy soccer balls hoping the malamute doggie and
Spiky Yorkshire terrier stay off the game field and don’t eat the ball.
Soccer mom enjoys getting lots of granola soccer balls at the
Local grocery store every Saturday keeping one for herself,
One fun granola soccer ball lasts a week for driving and munching,
Accordion playing cheering moods for all biting that new soccer ball.
BACKSTREETS
In the back streets of my mind,
I play again the games of my childhood.
Vehicles few and far between, to interrupt our play;
Our soccer ball, leather scuffed by tarmac,
Thuds against the goal, chalked on the wall
Of Mr. Thompson’s house.
Until, his patience at an end,
He comes out, roaring, red-faced,
To chase us away, fist shaking.
“I know who you are, I’ll tell your parents”.
Further down the street, we start again;
Our goal two dustbins in the middle of the road,
Moved only when the milkman,
In his horse-drawn cart, approaches
When he has passed, before the game resumes,
I race home to collect a shovel and a pail,
To scoop up the horse’s parting gift
For Dad’s prize roses.
Then, all too soon, it’s time for tea
Of bread and jam and lemonade.
So long ago, the world so simple then.
But still those backstreets linger in my mind
25th September 2019
In the Backstreets of My Mind contest
Sponsor - Silent One
In Thrall
I’ve scooped plasma from the sun
To cook meals and heat my bath,
Moved Mount Everest just for fun;
None can ever walk my path.
I’ve had dinner on Saturn’s rings,
Kicked the moon like a soccer ball,
Plucked light rays like guitar strings—
I should adorn the walls of great halls.
I’ve swum the depths of every sea,
Journeyed to the center of the Earth,
Drunk molten magma like green tea;
My mind suffers no dearth.
I am the Law, the Order, and the King,
Free! Only to my mind am I in thrall.
I relish the escapes its figments bring,
Finding ways out of my every fall.
I’m a minstrel with an unchained mind
Or some raving loony in sanity’s cloak.
It’s no matter to what you are aligned,
Life is easier if seen, in part, as a joke!
Sept. 23, 2018
Human life my brother is complicated ordeal
some individuals live in sweet sunshine
others dwell in struggling tasteless moonlight
many live in the shadows of moon and sun
All in the circus to survive, live, laugh, sleep
Sing “human life is complicated romanticism.
Call it theater of pleasure, pain, and pretense
Or market place of romantic adventures it is”
The earth is a football pitch pitched in the sun
human right a sign post in sighing barren moon
fate in life a soccer ball played from hidden stars
happy are those sharing same womb with wasps
Life- fanciful, humans- dreamlike, earth- natural
All tethered by poetic tongue of fake romanticism
A heavy silence fills the night;
But wait, is that a whispered word?
It echoed by the closet door.
Is that a ghostly voice I heard?
I feel a very icy touch
Upon my face. I’m shivering.
This is a scary time of year
As shadows swallow everything
And houses in my neighborhood
Seem haunted as the moon breaks full.
What is that on my bedroom floor?
Is that a ghoul with battered skull?
My heart is beating very fast.
My throat is dry and I can’t scream.
My mother’s voice whispers to me.
Wake up my girl. It’s just a dream.
My room is quickly filled with light.
My soccer ball is by my bed
My shimmering costume hangs nearby
Caught in a breeze. There’s nothing dead!
© 2017 Pam H. Murray
Your white minivan isn’t much,
But it’s enough
To get us where we want to go
Or take us down some road we don’t even know.
I love taking car rides with you
And finding some good music to jam out to.
Even if we don’t know the song,
We still try to sing along.
It’s the perfect escape,
Even though the mirror could use a little bit of tape.
Being there with you makes my heart jump,
And same with every time we hit a bump.
You always have fun things in there
Like a soccer ball, a longboard, and some shades to wear.
In the back, there are no seats,
Just maybe a couple of sheets.
“Good for sitting on at the drive in,” you said.
I almost did drop dead
At the thought of us
At the drive in together with no fuss.
See, I love that little, beat-up old van.
I might even be its biggest fan.
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