Only the very young & very beautiful can be so aloof
Hanging out with the boys all swagger & poise
Our new dashing wannabe tyro is ample proof
(coined by Tom with aplomb.. purloined by me)
Mused Caribbean calypso cool fused with well private school
Cherished plush rhapsodies segue with relished lush melodies
Lips licks fancy flicks & tricks picnics phoenix from the Ashes
Remedies for believers lulled by lullabies from lyrical levers
Poetic shapes lacy lines never frenetic balletic aesthetic
The boundary rope dope trope Jacob is our new hope
The computer says “YES” suitor for the future prophetic
Or down with the kids well Bethell’s the real deal rookie
Badgers hearts swell feels like proper Test cricket nookie
Tell his chilled southpaw drawer got more than Cookie
While other than Joe everyone else was playing hooky
Golden curls & olden twirls.. BET HELL for the bookie
They built this world for the other hand,
Every door, every tool, every scissors command.
Ink smears across my palm like war paint,
While spiral notebooks mock me with their constraint.
But I am the mirror breaker,
The rule shaker,
The one who writes backwards
And dreams in reverse.
Ten percent revolution ninety percent poetic evolution
I am the southpaw standing alone
Against a kingdom of clockwise clocks
And right-turn locks.
My hand moves left while the world turns right,
I am the shadow boxer in broad daylight.
Every signature is an act of defiance,
Every handshake, civil disobedience.
They say I'm sinister—
From the Latin for "left"—
But I am the artist
Of beautiful theft,
Stealing moments of pure rebellion
With every stroke of my rebellious pen.
I am differently commanded.
So here's to the lefties, the rebels born,
Who face each day like breaking dawn,
Carving our paths through a backward maze,
We are the 10 percent uprising,
The minority surprising,
The ones who reach across our bodies
To write our own stories.
Tho' right-handed
instruments the two do play
yet one is downside up
left-handed musicians both are they
or seem to sup
from a similar southpaw cup
and if you follow the trail of crumbs
they lead to Jimi
the Starr of guitar
and stick to Ringo
the Hendrix of drums
Disturbed forbidden valentine
you level me and that’s the draw;
I’ll be all yours if you be mine;
Your roughness I wouldn’t refine,
I eat up what’s enticing, raw;
Disturbed forbidden valentine;
Profile’s bent and that’s by design,
left is right when you’re a southpaw;
I’ll be all yours if you be mine;
Cliche’ of shivers down my spine,
there lies the appeal of an outlaw;
Disturbed forbidden valentine;
Two hearts completely intertwine,
ignoring each red flag and flaw;
I’ll be all yours if you be mine;
Rage at a different baseline,
holding my neck and a handsaw;
Disturbed forbidden valentine
I’ll be all yours if you be mine.
A porcelain jaw cannot stand up to the buzzsaw of a southpaw
There has never been a southpaw,
Who has the crushing show made poor;
Each in the ring a carnivore,
His left hook, his wasting death jaw,
Your swollen eyes already a law
Before the last bout on the floor.
A lateral body positioning
That The Left Thing keeps conditioning,
From the ring catapulting a victim
To an international hospital
And from its ward to its mortuary:
So, it had been with Callous Etim,
From a fight to a celebratory rental
And a speeding-up of his obituary.
South paws still have been licked
By the Maverick Right-Handed,
When they have such boldly picked
For the blows hatefully landed.
Pacquiao saying it was going to be Mayweather
And meeting with a bit of bad weather.
Round Mudville Market, foul air was omnipresent
butchers rent fowls’ necks to make tenant's rent,
the scene that was seen was most unpleasant.
As sunset fell, we watched through evening light,
as Casey mighty Casey held his stout bat tight
while striving poet searches to right words write.
Seems a southpaw would tear up bravado's montage
Casey’s legend scorched by unknown pitcher’s flamage
and tears like diamonds sluice down his visage
As darkness gathers, a lone bat flits round diamond site
with Casey wiff, the bleacher rift, for sure a sorry sight
as we quaff stout, raise glasses high, E. Thayer's tale recite.
~ Discipline Works Wonders ~
His parents tied his left arm behind his chair
So their poor little Gary wouldn't dare
To do such a sinister, such an evil thing
As learn to write with his southpaw wing
At school when he went to the board
His teacher did something untoward
She made Gary put his left arm behind his back
And when he didn't, she'd give him a whack
Well, wouldn't you know it? This worked great!
With his right hand Gary ate, and ate and ate
And in no time gained so much tummy weight
He couldn't even stand up straight...
...Now Gary's fifty-five and a mess
Takes him an hour to get dressed --
"Do I button my shirt with my left hand or right?
~ And which side do I sleep on at night?"
Higgledy-Piggledy Pop;
Make the madness stop.
Empty your bladder,
On the boob tube blabber.
Yackity Yak, Yackity Yak,
Our sanity is under attack.
Spin, Spin, Spin, the thing;
The world defined by the southpaw wing.
Chapter VI explained it all;
60 million died at that ball;
Higgledy-Piggledy Pop;
The madness needs to stop.
THE ARTIST
An artist from the city of Rangoon
Wanted to paint the crater's of the moon
Packed canvas, brush and paint
Told his wife who did faint
Then he took off in a hot air balloon.
THE SCIENTIST
A bright scientist who worked at the zoo
Thought in genetics he'd make a breakthrough
Mixed some bovine
With some feline
And now all the lions at the zoo roar moo.
CLIFF
A young butcher from New York called Cliff
Checked cold storage cos of a strong whiff
He then opened the lock
Forgot to use the chock
The next morning they found him quite stiff.
THE SHERIFF
Then there was the old sheriff of SouthPaw
Went up the hills to arrest an outlaw
It wasn't the sheriff's day
Cos the baddie got away
Shouted" up yours old sheriff and yee haw".
FREDDY
A womaniser called Freddy from Fife
Was caught out by his long suffering wife
Of course he denied
"You liar" she cried
And while he slept took revenge with a knife.
Written 6th July 2019.
My thought reek of bloopers
All I see is blue birds
Ever since you left me
Maybe I deserve it
A southpaw has to be used to this
Sleeping in the mud
Reminiscing the dirty games I played
Staring at the dice
you flipped on me
I hate how the tables turned
Used to mishandle the lighter
look at how I got burned
Flames of anger
puff out of the words I breathe
I was stupid for thinking winners never lose
I've learnt the best lesson in the worst way
I know my stars were cursed
for how I kept many in the dark
Cloud of lies
Crazy how I rained promises on them
Only to let ignorant fairies drown in disappointment
Spare me the regrets
I deserve this stunt
The wrongs I did hid in my shadow
The future looks uncertain
Still feeling reluctant to change
from those ways
Honestly
Breezes from my past don't feel good
The maybes will probably fade
If I start being true to myself
and the few in my world
I pray the earth helps me now
Or it will be forced to hold me down in the end
Lord willing
I'm gonna get it by any means
Bust my hands up and nights I lose sleep
I'm a get it even if I gotta bleed
Ain't no stopping this locomotive
U gone see
I got the magic potion
Secret elixir it's called devotion
Committed to the thought of hope and
It's potent
The drama that comes
It's can be so thought provoking
How it's so ever flowing
Like poetry in motion
Gotta stay on a pivot
Make the concoction even with ingredients missing
And when one way don't work gotta southpaw switch it
Be humble at times but move so vicious
It don't gotta fall together
But it still gotta pass thru trenches
Still gotta be relentless
Been thru the waves of the demented
That's how I know threaded for this
I'm better than this
Even if I a had genie I wish for nothing much the patience
To match the perseverance
Lord willing
Lord willing
The good Lord gave me the will so I'm exploit this gift then......peace
Frank Edwin was his real name.
This southpaw went on to garner fame.
With great accomplishments and few regrets,
he became the closer for the New York Mets.
This native of Martinez, California
finished his baseball playing career in Philadelphia.
He is indelibly etched in Phillies fans’ memories
when he struck out Willie Wilson in the World Series.
That was in the magical season of 1980.
What a colorful act on the mound he was to see.
Unfortunately, Tug is not around anymore.
He sadly passed away back in 2004.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
He is a San Diego native southpaw.
One of the best young pitchers I ever saw.
The Phillies chose him first in 2002.
In 2006 was his big league debut.
He has made his presence felt with all the teams.
He can baffle the best of hitters, it seems.
With wins and strikeouts, he will be the team’s ace.
Nobody can knock “King Cole” out of his place.
He will be pitching with many home crowd cheers.
May he delight Phillies fans for many years.
Just look up with either eye.
Do you see the color of the sky?
See those eggs inside the robin’s nest.
One is like all the rest.
Look at the peacock’s feathers at the zoo.
Tell me, do they possess which hue?
Remember Vida who pitched for the A’s
He was a southpaw from some earlier days.
What was his last name? I am asking you.
It is none other than “Blue”.
Robert Pettit for Russell Sivey’s The Colors Have It contest
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