"quicks" poems
Klusener could whack it, yes Lance,
To spinners, down wicket, he'd dance,
No defensive tricks,
He smote them for six,
The same for the quicks without prance.
Sometimes he could bowl pretty quick,
Sometimes the batsmen he'd trick.
Gave balance to the side,
Served country with pride,
All without ever being a *****
His best score V England, remember?
Our bowlers he got to dismember.
Zulu hit it so high
Way up into the sky,
It didn't come down 'til November.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 10:40 AM UTC
as the Indian pitches
are always spin prepared
few batsmen ever
get well spared
the bowler's turn
of the ball does the trick
there is that out sound
in the bat's snick
Aussie selectors must be
aware of a slow delivery
when they name the team
who'll carry the livery
quicks are a dead loss
on the subcontinent
time and again this
has been so consistent
if we want to win
a test series on Indian soil
we can't let our eleven
be sent there to boil
the wicket has constantly
favored wrists and fingers
so we don't require
fast stinging zingers
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 8:47 PM UTC
One thing that get's me all venty
Is bad talk of jolly 'T' 20.
It's much better by half
So much more of a laugh
Because 50 is far more than plenty.
England play Pakistan later.
I think that our players are greater.
But Gul bowls great yorkers,
And other rip-snoters,
And the ball, oh Afridi, he ate her!
For England the openers are wrong
Neither will give it a biff or a ****
We need someone tough
And aggressive enough
To win it for us when on song.
Our bowling is coming on nicely
The spinners are landing it precisely
But the quicks can get hit
When missing length by a bit
Shouldn't do it like that more than twicely
Will we win it today, well who knows?
By then I'll stop blowing my nose.
I'm now on my knees,
So a close contest please.
I cannot wait to see how it goes.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks,
O tell me where the senses mix,
O tell me where the passions meet,
Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf,
And in the midmost heart of grief
Thy passion clasps a secret joy:
And I--my harp would prelude woe--
I cannot all command the strings;
The glory of the sum of things
Will flash along the chords and go.
788
Sitting pretty and
tight in my crib
got me the quill
gonna get me the
nib
and poke out your eyes
with the poetry that
ties us
together.
It's nearly Christmas
and I'm going out
I may be some time.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC