A young bowler he liked to play cricket
In his career took many a wicket
the crowd he enthralls
as he shines up his balls
He tempts the Pommies to snick it
TABLE TENNIS
A keen young sportsman named Dennis
Favourite game is called table tennis
hits balls over the net
won many a set
A plumber when young an apprentice
Didn't make old bones, me dad,
Taken from us far too young
Barely reached his sixties when
He was killed by Farmers’ Lung.
Too many dusty threshing days,
Noxious fumes dipping sheep,
He seemed to live a life
Just to eat, work and sleep.
A farm labourer which made
Him a man of many skills,
No time for a doctor’s visit,
No time for potions and pills.
Loved greenhouse and garden
But he loved even more
Lonely walks across the fields
Carrying a loaded twelve bore.
Not a sportsman shooter,
No, everything he shot
Very gratefully accepted
Into the family cooking pot.
A man of quiet wisdom who
Set me standards to live by
And most importantly showed.
A man at times is allowed to cry.
We never really did talk much
Never did have much to say
Sitting watching the old TV
In our quiet companionable way.
He looks back at me in the mirror,
As I look back at him with pride
So glad I could be with him
At his side the day he died.
I sat there with quiet pride
For I really hadn't suspected
That my dad had been
So very well respected.
The church was packed
On his funeral day
Most of the village came to
Quietly send him on his way.
In Hungary
On the train. It’s night. Late at night. I got a late train
Rushing from the airport, then closed one of the central
Train station. Get the metro and bus to the next available
train station. The idea worked. The way to my parents
Thank you for the idea, dear security man at Keleti Railway Station
Home, to my parents’ home, where I come from. Grandparents
Memory, tradition, more, good to arrive at this house, Memory
Unforgettable childhood, laughing with my grandfather, I see him
Fantastic, his garden, and the memory of his life. He taught me to be strong
He was a famous sportsman and revolutionary. And a poet. I love his memory.
He sleeping
Living
In the Light
I wrote these words from his earthly home. 08:14 the time. Early sun is yellow. Shiny
He knows my room here. Thank you. My grandfather. I respect you.
I am following you. Your life. Your philosophy. Your guardian angel
But my one is better
Because you are that
Thank you, my life
Good to arrive in your land, house
I keep your memory
In my heart
Well known sportsman, balanced views and commentary
Are the foundations; upon which he stands.'
Our loving sportsman, Sen. Pacman
Never missed a chance of being a samaritan
His humility and hard work earned him great reputation
And yet his whole body endured more refutation.
I remember a group of little ones
Playing in the sun having fun
Each one a mate and a cobber true
All having a say in what we’d do
We grew to care for each other specially
Inseparable together laughing so easily
Alan was the best sportsman
Playing football and cricket was at his command
As we grew we knew that life was good
Making our way together as mates should
Growing up we started to go our separate ways
But the bond was made for all our days
One day they found something was wrong
And Alan fought cancer so long and strong
Finally he passed on at eighteen
Then the group is missing one not again to be seen
We all have mates that come and go
As we go through life and its show
But there are only a few true mates
And we are at the call of life’s fates.
© Paul Warren Poetry
yes I saw a UFO
Or what's now called a UAP
GLIDING ABOVE THE water
Of the river Tennessee
I was with my brother
We were stoned
It is the truth
There on the bank
About a mile from our mom's
Back in my misspent youth
Yes.It was shaped like a saucer
Encircled with lights around
A spotlight upon the river below
It never made a sound
My brother the first to see it
Exclaimed
Do you see what I see ?
My mind trying hard
To repell it
I said point it out to me
He said I cannot believe this!
As I slowly came to grip
With this other worldly sighting
If it happens to you here's my tip
Accept what your eyes are seeing
There is no point to deny
And irritate your fellow man about visitors from the sky
The strangest thing about it all
When I've brought it up
Over the years
Is he never wants to
talk of it
As if resurrecting his fears
And I can't help but wonder
As a sportsman
They seemed to have sought
In Waterloo Alabama that night
Was it actually
My brother they caught
If it's true
They threw him back
With nary a hair out of place
At least with none
he discussed with me
By our visitors from outer space
A sportsman from Burton-on-Trent
Had such a peculiar bent
The kick that he felt
Was below the belt
That’s how his manhood got a dent
Progeny
Of a famous
Sportsman
Entertainer
Or
Brilliant mind
And find yourself
Being the significant other
sibling
Who doesn't inherent any or
receive any of your paternal
gifts or traits
Ask yourself how on earth
is that fare
And is that shadow not
hard to shiver in
So, let us have guns and more guns in the USA
Pistols, shotguns, rifles, and AK-15s galore, I say,
Let those peace-loving pinkos scream and howl
I will blow their heads off if they get in my way.
Let’s go back to the good old days out west
Where shoot-outs in the street worked out best,
Every dude carrying a six-shooter gun in his belt
Where justice was prompt with a shot to the chest.
Let’s teach our children how to play with a gun
So they can have he-man, sportsman type fun,
Never worry about accidentally pulling the trigger
After the shots are fired they can take off and run.
I say we need more guns out there on the street
In case two people of opposing views meet
To settle their differences right then and there,
Someone lying in a pool of blood is such a treat.
Written April 21, 2021
For “Guns” Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
I am
Old - and will be older still
Tired - with lots of room to rest
Scientist - I know things big and small
Sportsman - a fisherman extraordinaire
Husband - a gorgeous wife with patience
Father - with kids scattered here and there
Grandfather - with kids who let me tell lies
Poet - with a muse that feels his age
Traveler - to whom destinations do not matter
Texan - given to bragging on every little thing
Friend - to people who make me smile
Nag - who pesters those who dislike algebra
Political Conservative - just because I'm Constitutional
Athlete - with little gas left in the tank
I am a Happy Man who grumbles little and gives Thanks a lot
4-26-2020
Contest: I Am; A List Bio Challenge
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Sportsman
I don’t care so much about football
that fills the screen so often in this mad country.
I do sometimes watch the highlights but
not the whole game which has long dull moments
when the players pass the ball to each other
and nothing dramatic happens.
I played football too as a boy, goalkeeper I was,
I took it personally when my team lost and walked home alone.
I didn’t want to play, but the others said I was good
didn’t feel like this when the horde came running to
my part the field wanted to run away and the bloody ball hurt
when saving a goal.
One day I took my uncles gloves he wasn’t pleased, but let
I pass he couldn’t use them again to impress the ladies.
Finally, I found sanctuary in the local library they never thought
looking for me there.
I disappeared in the maze of books friends never found out
it was a great time, so much I had to discover,
still does, come to think of it.
Pressed
I am up to the task,
it is… right now…at hand…
I will do all that I can,
to be there, for you.
First let me call to fight, all that I have learned.
Enticing drugs, of every color,
flavors of the unknown…?
Be ware… (spoken, in a whisper of violent reverence)
I draw breath.
Cast and lure,
like fishing for men,
an evil sportsman indeed.
I stab at thee.
You are not the winner,
Here!
There,
in that crazy place,
I find it is not … I.
At all!
To fall upon my sword,
to die…
I am a cub.
A small flower in a sea of green.
Tiny, hopeful created,
mortal…
The Lion roars,
He knows your name… (as only He knows…)
Be fearful and afraid.
The Maker is in power…
and has come unto my aid.
One minute, one hour, one day, one life
The same face, the same eyes
Ask this baby born what does he want to be
When a grown man in a world full of insanity
He had dreams and lives to dress
Been a hero or a sportsman at least
But now as he look at his sons eyes
He pledges for a life that lies far from his sight
Become a hero to his son? Become a prince to his daughter?
This man has no self-identity, he never knew himself
Lived a life for other eyes to see, as being someone else
He now tries to get the past chards to build the tracker
“What makes me happy?” he soars
A rare selfish moment of a busy lost mind
Closing the eyes and pretending someone to be
Or eyes opened to face the mysterious realty?
“Whatever, I don’t know”, those are his preferred words
Too vague for a man that had dreams as a boy
Too much for a grown father with empty pockets for his sons
And too slouch for his eyes as looking at the mirror
But, another day, another thought
Chills and pessimism may get weaker
But the black shadow may become stronger
The father looks at his family’s smiles… and gets away for a while
FOOTBALL
Playing in a team,
kicking football in vigor,
captain controlling.
To win or lose: No factor.
Sportsman spirit of the game.
Excited viewers enjoy.
03/09/2019
Bite size poem No. 39
Contest by Line Gauthier.
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