"crossbar" poems
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.
Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.
Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
Fanatics fixed their eyes upon
The screen to cheer their team
The mood there in the air was tense
Tricolor seemed out of steam
The clock was counting down
The time was drawing nigh
Doomed to lose and head on home
Bid Russia their goodbye
An errant shot deflected out
Gave them one last chance
To score a goal and prance about
Show off their famous dance
From the corner, the ball soared in
A hero rose above
Mina smacked it with his head
And won his country's love
England shocked to see the win
Snatched right from their grasp
Colombia delirious
Successful at last gasp
And thus the game was sent along
Into the overtime
Two periods were played to nil
Two teams full in their prime
Penalties would now decide
Which team would advance
The locals glued to their tvs
The nation in a trance
Falcao scores! Kane as well!
Cuadrado, Rashford too!
Muriel then strikes one home
Tricolor up three to two!
Ospina blocks the next one
Hypes up the frenzied crowd
But Uribe hits the crossbar
And the silence echoes loud
Trippier knots it up again
We're down to final shots
Bacca fails to get his through
Past Pickford's valiant swat
Fate rests upon this final kick
Well placed with perfect spin
Just past Ospina's outstreched hands
Dier seals the win
The cafeteros reel from shock
No sign of jubilation
But still the crowd, crushed in defeat
Show their appreciation
Colombia eliminated
We give them all a hand
And though their World Cup here is done
I'm now their biggest fan
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 2:58 AM UTC
The back pass comes to me,
I look up and see their goal,
And spot a great opportunity.
Their keeper is off the line,
Tired after 88 minutes,
But he can't read my mind.
I consider taking a shot,
Then my conscience says no,
And I know I should not.
But the urge is too strong,
And I imagine the fans,
Singing my name in their songs.
I roll the ball from me,
Look up and pray,
For my name to be carved into football history.
I strike the ball cleanly,
It sails in the air,
I hope that it drops neatly.
Time stands still,
Please please I wish,
Let it be God's will.
The ball begins to drop,
And I imagine my jersey,
Flying out of the club shop.
Their keeper realises what's happening,
He sees the effect on his career,
Could be s h a t t e r i n g.
He runs and runs,
I feel the rays of hope,
Sent from the sun.
I can feel this is my day,
But then the ball hits the crossbar,
And rolls on out of play.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 4:43 AM UTC
It's not an even playing field, my heart,
It's my arena,
But you've had the home court advantage from the start
It's not an even playing field, my heart,
You score every goal,
And I barely hit the crossbar
It's not an even playing field, my heart,
Its defence was always strong,
But your tackling skills are a different art
It's not an even playing field, my heart,
It let's you foul,
And gives me your red card
It's not an even playing field, my heart,
And you knew all along,
Your tactics have always been smart
It's not an even playing field, my heart,
It's my arena,
But you've had the home court advantage from the start
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
His angular head
Hung in glory
For the things he carried
Were not his own.
The cross he carried
Was his father’s story.
He hung upon the
crossbar of deaths row.
“Mother may I, go on and die?
There is nothing left for me.
Nothing!” He bowed his head—
He died.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
There was another brother whom history forgets
And though born a fisherman, he preferred other nets.
The coterie of rink rats who lived on the Left Coast
Thought he was sine qua non, and they would often boast
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
His slapper had heat to make a goalie wet himself;
His wrister was money either five-hole or top-shelf.
After the goaltender felt another puck **** by,
He’d curse and bang the crossbar as fans took up the cry
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
He dominated rinks out West like no other man
From Calgary to Saskatoon, Fresno to Spokane.
He’d hat tricks in Winnipeg, six-point games in Moose Jaw
Moving scribes to hackneyed verse written in fits of awe.
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
Though the man was a fine skater, strong, agile and fleet
The slightest flaw in the ice caused anguish to his feet
And he would scold arena crews—*What’d you call this mush?
‘Tis nothing but chips and ruts; I’d rather skate on slush!*
(More prickly than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gio.)
After one match in Oakland on ice unduly rough
He stormed into the locker room, shouting ‘Nuff’s enough!
He didn’t change his sweater as he stormed out the door,
Hopping on a trolley car, to be seen never more
(He’s a bit loony, don’t you know.
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
He was sighted in the Yukon, once or perhaps twice
Engaged in some mad mission to find the perfect ice.
Neither man nor beast can say what became of this fool,
Though bits of skate lace appear in petrified bear stool
(Tastes better than his brother Joe?
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
CHINGACHGOOK SPEAKS
still see the saw
cutting through time
the small boy's mind
Da's spirit level
disappearing all the time
becomes my Star Ship Enterprise
the saw hums to itself
time eclipsed
with the smell of pine
the song of the saw
sunbeams & sawdust
dancing in time
and lo
wood becomes window
the small carpentry of miracles
a heart-shaped block of wood
becomes my saddle
on his crossbar
we fly through time
tame hills
the tick of bicycle wheels
lost in speed
down down Dobbin's Hill
we the bubble in the spirit level
we haunt the dumps
hunt for a wheel here...a frame there
Da creates a bike
new bikes from old
our "Frankenstein bicycles"
we the new masters of speed
"Look at me...lookame...no hands!"
the hill smiles to itself
"wheeeEEEEEEOOOOOOOOPS!!!!!"
trees breaking gently in our hands
become our bows and arrows
stolen from young plantations
I a nine year old Chingachgook
limp horribly home
an arrow in my left calf
my Da shaving wood
it curls
to his whistle
sawdust amongst his curls
my Da smiles
as the wood comes good
I still see the saw
pine
opens memory
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
*** & RED BULL
Out of our skull
on *** & Red Bull
we play football
with a grinning
plastic skull
(retrieved from a skip)
using the Momento Mori
for a drunken kickabout.
You dribble
& drool it.
You shoot
I save it
tipping it over
an imaginary crossbar.
Spectacular!
I bathe
in an imaginary roar.
I clutch
the skull
to my chest
begin to spout:
'Toby
(or not)
Toby
... that is the jug! '
'Oi...! ' you shout
'Me Lord Hamlet
...over here
on de head! '
I dropp kick
the skull
(grinning still)
in your general
direction.
I can see
two of you
& don't know who
to pass it too.
You rise
beautifully to
the occasion
losing a stiletto
in the process
your body arched
like a sublime salmon
jumping
upstream
you head the skull home
past my groping outstretched fingertips
'GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLGOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! '
you scream
your blouse
over your head
in exultant
celebration.
A 'Now then...now then' police man
confiscates our skull.
Tells us
to ****** off.
'Awwww Ref! '
we argue but
he ain't
having any of it.
Hanging on
to each other
you ululating.
We stagger
down the street
look back
to see
P.C. Plod
mis-kick the skull
through someone's sleeping
window
crashtinkletinkle.
We wonder if
he'll have to
arrest
himself.
We scarper
in case he tries
to blame it
on innocent us.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
*** & RED BULL
Out of our skull
on *** & Red Bull
we play football
with a grinning
plastic skull
(retrieved from a skip)
using the Momento Mori
for a drunken kickabout.
You dribble
& drool it.
You shoot
I save it
tipping it over
an imaginary crossbar.
Spectacular!
I bathe
in an imaginary roar.
I clutch
the skull
to my chest
begin to spout:
'Toby
(or not)
Toby
... that is the jug! '
'Oi...! ' you shout
'Me Lord Hamlet
...over here
on de head! '
I drop kick
the skull
(grinning still)
in your general
direction.
I can see
two of you
& don't know who
to pass it too.
You rise
beautifully to
the occasion
losing a stiletto
in the process
your body arched
like a sublime salmon
jumping
upstream
you head the skull home
past my groping outstretched fingertips
'GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLGOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! '
you scream
your blouse
over your head
in exultant
celebration.
A 'Now then...now then' police man
confiscates our skull.
Tells us
to ****** off.
'Awwww Ref! '
we argue but
he ain't
having any of it.
Hanging on
to each other
you ululating.
We stagger
down the street
look back
to see
P.C. Plod
mis-kick the skull
through someone's sleeping
window
crashtinkletinkle.
We wonder if
he'll have to
arrest
himself.
We scarper
in case he tries
to blame it
on innocent us.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 7:53 PM UTC