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Hannah Marie Jan 3
i don’t understand rugby,
Much to your chagrin
I’ll try, I promise
But I can’t confirm a thing

Your knowledge of Jane Austen
Leaves much to be desired
I’ll educate you some time
When we’re both less tired

You support another London club
At least it isn’t Spurs
That Aubameyang shirt
Is the worst thing you could wear

Our differences bring us closer
They provide some talking points

We’re different, I suppose
But we’re different together

Me and you
You and me
Different, the same
One day I’ll understand
Your beautiful game
Decra Kerubo Jun 2019
You knew it,
You knew how much you meant,
But I didn't know,
I was the chaff
And you were the grain

I was ready to withstand,
I saw how you drunk with them
You came tipsy
I didn't mind
In the name of love

I am not a dreamer
Neither do I see visions
How could I know?
I was there like a stream
For the sake of lack

You dropped me in an ocean,
You were sure I couldn't make it out,
Waters washed my scent away,
And you poured darkness upon me,
It's only you who knew.

I'm sending a drop,
It's carried by the rains,
Save me from this ******* of fake love,
I need my free air,
I'm suffocating, you can trust

Taste that tear drop,
It's salty unlike the raindrop,
Make sure it's bubble doesn't break,
Just that,
Just let me down slowly
That's a love poem, just asking to be released from love that loves a part and I'm not loved back
Decra Kerubo May 2019
Tell me,
How does it feel to write?
How does it feel to twist phrases,
How do poets feel?
How do writers hold their pens,
And I will know how to Hello a poetry.

I am not Harry Potter,
I wasn't born holding a pen,
I wasn't bought for pens till three
I am told, Harry wasn't born with a pen either
I know, he writes so perfectly
And now I know, I can hello my poetry

My fingers are too feeble to write
My focus  isn't in rhyming my scheme
My prowess is above the rule of poetry
My wonder is, why my pen makes such patterns.
My prayer, tell me how I hold my pen
And you will hello my poetry.
This poem is based on the organization title,
"Hello Poetry" and creativity in style where the pen is being held differently with regard to the holder. Then, other poets, recomend and the persona recomends theirs too.
Faryal Jan 2019
Each tackle, allows us to get past our barriers
each try scored, takes us closer to the goals we attain to
the wins teaches us we got this
the loses, show us we all make mistakes
and to not let anything stop you
playing sports is like an art
the adrenaline to just get out there
families, friends, strangers, encoring
you take that shot,
whether its a miss, or a hit
we didn’t let it stop us from taking bigger chances
it’s about taking risks
show them how to be slick
we grow into much bigger people
knowing the skills between life & what’s a game
everyone’s a winner
just seen in different visions
A Rivers Aug 2018
In a border town between England and Wales
Lives a halfer boy working in sales
He wakes up everyday to welsh cakes on the stone
Pops two in his bag and runs off to the unknown
But not today, today's special he knows where he's going
And on his face he knows his excitement is showing
He swings by his folks and his dad runs out giddy
Every year this happens and they head to the city
They jump out the car and shuffle to their seats
Today's the day his two halfs will meet
It's the 6 nation's today and all else pales
Their favourite match, England v Wales
the Manly team racked up a big score by half time
they executed play with the brilliance of prime
Parramatta couldn't register one single point
their brand of league not of the try or goal anoint

when play resumed for the second half's concluding session
it was clear that the Manly Eagles would lead the procession
the Parramatta Eels were lacking game commitment
they needed possession of the ball's vital equipment

penalties and mistakes bought Parramatta dismay
of their play there'd be no hip hip hooray
the final tally showed Manly's field advantage
which was to the loser's woeful disadvantage
They said to buy local so I tried to buy Dave Cull’s lung.
But he wouldn’t sell it.
They said to buy local,
So I tried to buy Michael Woodhouse’ heart,
But it was out of stock.
The shop girl told me she would check out the back.
They said to buy local so I tried to buy Lee Vandervis’ hands,
He said he’d sell them to me but I tried them out and they had no grip.
The said to buy local so I tried to buy Harlene Haynes nose,
But it was already in something else.
(she told me it was malicious of me to ask and threatened me with defamation)
They said to buy local so I tried to buy the Highlanders cauliflower ears,
so I’d have enough florets for a salad,
But it turned out they weren’t organic, so I left it.
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
And I tried
And I tried
And I tried

They said to buy local
-but between the dilapidated hospital and the drafty-damp flats there were no good organs to purchase.
Paul Butters Dec 2015
Skipper Kevin Sinfield
Rugby League man who’d never yield.
Inspiration to his team,
Leeds Rhinos: Living the Dream.

Paul Butters
Kevin came a creditable 2nd in 2015 BBC Sports Personality of the Year Awards. He was the first Rugby League player ever to be nominated, after captaining Leeds Rhinos to a glorious treble.
Edward Coles Oct 2015
Rugby, Warwickshire
16/10/2015

Unholy streets of G-d, liquid tobacco,
gentle froth and steam
from the coffee estuary, split beneath the clock tower
on the idle hour; more pigeons than people,
more buildigs than choices
on this small-town, charity shop parade.

The women are still beautiful, still unattainable,
still on the brink of a breakdown
in the most confident dress.
Street-pastors carry the drunks home,
the street-cleaners appear by the afterparty,
clear out the old bottles
before the commuter picks up cigarettes
from the newsagents that never rests.

Tattoo parlours, barber shops,
Christmas on the radio come Hallowe'en-
this is the town that crazy built:
war-time poetry, jet propulsion,
chief inventor of sport,
of mild alcohol addiciton.

There's hundreds of places to get drunk in this town,
hundreds of places to hide away;
a foreign face in a sea of family and friends.
Landlocked, gridlocked,
centrally located but left out on a limb;
this town clings to the tracks,
it's avenues of escape
the only margin to keep the residents
out of mind and in their place.

But this is where I grew up,
always more car-park than parkland,
my first steps on Campbell Street,
on Armstrong Close,
first time I broke the law on Bridget Street,
on Selborne Road.
I'd push my bike all around this town,
no stopping off for a smoke,
for to get my fix-
I'd push on and on past graveyards and open bars
without a second gance.

Now, it's all shooters and soul-singers
and happenstance;
chicken wings on a late-night binge,
a box of wine, a night of sin,
wake up in shame,
life's a guessing game
and guess what, you'll never win.

Chewing gum, patches,
vapour that scratches the back of my throat,
nicotine in my blood,
you know, I'm trying my best to get clean.
Blister packs of vitamins, bowls of fruit,
buying coconut water over the counter-
green tea by the rising moon,
incense sticks and vegetables in the garden,
yet by the time night rolls on by
the locus of my eyes, they darken;
I'll be back on the beer,
I'll be smoking a carton.

This is the town that crazy built,
even the flowers by the roadside wilt,
cement factory, hum-drum poverty,
post-code belonging to Coventry,
kept out of the war
by a matter of minutes,
kept from the future
by corporate interest.

Hospital lights, supermarket glow,
I can't remember the last time
I wasn't loaded with chemicals
every time I get home,
every time I sign out
and put my head on the pillow,
I see familiar streets, familiar signs,
the job centre, the floodlights,
the 12% lager, the twist of lime.
I struggle with rhyme,
I struggle most days to get out of the house,
but at night, I know, that sea of doubt
is a river of light, to ruin my liver,
to spike my fever, to calm me down.

There's hundreds of places to get drunk in this town,
and this world it don't spin,
it just throws me around.
A beat poem (adapted slightly for reading purposes) about being young in my home-town. You can hear a spoken word version here: https://soundcloud.com/edwardcoles/poetry-and-music
MdAsadullah Dec 2014
Two uncivilized platoons
fighting each other like wild goons,
just for a small oval ball.
I feel like giving each one a ball
to settle the dispute once and for all.
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