two tribes of footballers
on Wednesday night shall meet
to play for the State of Origin's
championship greet

the three games in the series
always being hard to win
as the sides stage a battle
on the field of league's min

they who follow this most
compelling test of sport
will see tackling and ball carries
so formidable in sort

Maroon and Blue jerseys
striving to conquer each other
by matching motors with
the goal of a triumphant smother

a propitious
look hinge
as whether
marlin snug
hallow fecund
water depth
yet rotary
band that
circle their
nets as
wires that
web thier
dire nots
with odds
of winning
this perfect
marine harbor

I excel
at the sport
of
fal
(in love)
ling

“Who let you in?” jokes Henry the Doorman,
Waving the signing-in book
Like a wanton dervish,
With a glint in his eye.

But in you go,
Into a dimly lit room,
Filled with smoke in yesteryears.
Men in huddles
Hatching plots
Or just playing cards
Or Dominoes.

In the corner those darts are flying,
While blokes stand chatting
At the bar.

Next door you find The Snooker Room,
Where all is silent
As “World League Championships” are underway.
Snooker and billiards to be precise.
Men so serious
Some sitting sternly
Worrying about their match.
The odd breakout of conversation
Over some dispute or debate.

Back at the bar
All is well.
No need to be PC here.
You can say whatever you want.

We drink and drink,
Until the bar closes
At whatever time.
The chat gets louder
As the ***** loosens our tongues.
Then home we roll together.
Every Club.
A place I love.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\11\2017.

Autumn hit us like a truck
Our 90 degree race was promptly followed by days of 40 degree practice
Our elbows chaffing against our shirts, nevertheless grateful for the rest,
The shelter from the humidity
I don't think I was actually breathing as I crossed the threshold of the second lap of our three mile loop
In some odd twist of fate, I'll be running in the varsity semifinals next week
As my lungs tried to tear themselves from my chest, I tried to remind myself that this wasn't my first run
I've had six months of slamming my heels into the ground, just like every other ******* this trail
I heave every time someone passes me
I think, "Just one more deep breath and I will cross that line,"
I think that my height is betraying me and my joints are grinding to a painful halt
I think that I am still moving.

DONALD TRUMP IS MAD AT SPORT
ALL THE ATHLETES MUST STAND UP
DON'T DISRESPECT THE AMERICAN FLAG
THE WHITE HOUSE HAS HAD ENOUGH



ALL INVITATIONS TO THE PLAYERS
THE WHITE HOUSE HAS TAKEN AWAY
CURRY AND LEBRON JAMES
CAN VISIT ON ANOTHER DAY




DON'T DISRESPECT THE AMERICAN FLAG
LETS MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN
TRUMP ATTACKS THE SPORT AND ATHLETES
FOR ON TWITTER HE WILL SEND


TRUMP CHRONICLES   amazon.com

if the Broncos are to win this Friday
night
the intensity of their play must be
right
they'll need full commitment in the
fight
half measures won't cut a victory's
light

the Storm never give an inch on the
field
that why they've held football's top
shield
they keep the pressure on and don't
yield
each member of the team up to the job's
wield

possession of the ball determining the
game
any player slackening off will bear
blame
the premiership's battle is there to
tame
so we'll see a dour contest that's not
lame

less than forty hours to go before the rivals
meet
where footy fans shall experience quite a
treat
the ref's whistle calling upon the vying
beat
there'll be fireworks and no team going into
retreat

Simon “Hurricane” Hudson prowls the snooker table
Like any good mixed metaphor would.
A modern day Pythagoras
He triangulates his shots.

Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart "Rocket" Richard,
Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,
Is on his mobile Googling
How to play the perfect “snooker”.
And the two Perfect Pauls
Discuss the latest football,
While “Whirlwind” Wendy sits in judgement,
Knitting the night away.

At long last Simon plays a stroke!!!
And rattles those unrelenting jaws
Of that elusive pocket yet again.

The game rolls on.
But where the hell is Simon?
The clock on the electricity is running down
But where is Simon?
Where is he?
He’s at the bar
Telling barman Nick how Rochdale
Will win The Cup one day.

Hurray, he’s back to play again.
Cascading planets collide into new orbits
As they did in the Primeval Solar System.

We play on,
Safely keeping those precious *****
Away from those black holes
They call the “pockets”.
We try to pick our shots
(At those pockets lol)
But all we keep potting
Is that white one.
Maybe we should switch to Billiards,
Or *** some plants instead.

Paul Butters