"snooker" poems
Every night the underprivileged will be lifted up by the privileged.
Every night the rich will have everything right to eat, but the poor.
Every night the homeless will have nowhere left to sleep, but our old carpeted floor.
Every night scicle cell anemia will have everywhere right to be contained,
including your city heart snooker.
Every night peace will have everywhere to be passive,
including your japanese zen gardens,
Everyone will be right to make peace with us,
but our unkempt sons.
Every night the proletariat will sleep ignoring the foremen descending their picket fences,
Every serious thief will be rejected as a nightmare-
For they are owed nothing, and must reject everything more
than The Othello denial an ounce of starved soul.
They will lament, as we cool our overheated hearts,
on the pristine grounds of our single rooms.
And they will lament, as we lounge on the branches of our stoic oaks,
decomposing birthday songs for the Bad young nights of the wicked little girls…
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
This year, Spring has been stopped in its tracks.
Incessant rain has driven life underground,
so as a diversion, we're putting on a play.
It's not the real world, rather a representation of it.
The director is a control freak, so her role is perfect-
she can dictate without having to act.
Rehearsals take place in the Philharmonic Hall where the local
band used to practice. But the young have all gone to the city
looking for work, so the drum kit in the corner stays shrouded
in a black cloth and the unplayed snooker table supports our props.
On the stage, the backdrop is dominated by a church.
Its steeple points to God only knows where, aiming to instill pure thoughts.
Impossible to believe, its true aim is to inject fear into its people-
depending on your point of view.
The main player likes to be different. He turns up.
A vain attempt to give some structure to his life.
Late as usual, he's unshaven, and drowsy with wine.
No one can decide whether he's in character or himself.
Waiting for our cue, we stand on the narrow balcony,
flicking damp cigarettes into the river of rain below.
Eventually, we all change, put on our monstrous armour,
become the same curious creatures following the same script.
Except one....
who refuses to change, deciding in his own mind where he will play his part.
So he pulls on his proofed coat and heads out for the bar.
Outside, the power is off.
The streets are silent. Even the cafes have closed earlier than usual,
tables and chairs left out in the rain chained together, like prisoners
crying for release.
He slips along the cobbled streets, chanting his lines in time with his own footsteps:
'There are more dead people than living....the living are getting rarer.'
Even he's not sure if he's quite himself or still in character.
Briefly, the clouds part to reveal the cold light of the moon,
the only thing in which he has absolute faith to guide him on his way.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
say goodbye to alex a snooker star was he
around the snooker table he would quickly flee
the people called him hurricane and love to watch him play
sat there in suspense as the ***** were put away
flying round the table faster then the light
such an entertainer who filled us with delight
now is home is heaven and his suffering is free
the man they called the hurricane will go down history
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 6:52 AM UTC
our withering is changing. we have new lungs and the sour mercy of our discotheque is no longer
earth shattering. new bells that'll ring, ping the sonar of thus far, and right now. our iguana
is bothered but our cactus is out of practice, so we malice the wrong people. brown scotch
botched in the locust plume of our nothingness.
all in the night jar.
we palm the coin of many realms but snooker the genie into 4 wishes for kicks.
we split the bucket list and enlist strange agents to embroil the liturgy of our silence
with the umbrage of our slumbers.
where rumbles the blunder of our measured steps
as we stumble through the rapscallions of our private thoughts in the after hours.
we empower our oblivion
by kissing on the mouth.
this is how we keepsake sacred, but escape velocity by way of quiet... this loud.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
there was a little mouse snooker was his game
and to be a champion was is only aim
he bought himself a cue and a little case
hoping maybe oneday to be a snooker ace
he praticed day and night doing lots of shots
chalking up his cue practicing his pots
now his time had to come ready to compete
to be a snooker star and make his life complete
getting to the final he had beat the rest
now it was the time to see who would be best
mouse he was on form and used all his skill
crowd they all applauded he gave them such a thrill
in the final frame mouse took every ball
clearing the table mouse he took them all
now he was the champ he had made is name
a snooker ace forever in the hall of fame
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
The tennis player could not be heard above the racket.
The snooker player was so tired of all the cues.
The shot putter threw away all his chances to win.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
A life hangs painted on the wall of the world
made in brush and texture on the canvas
the hills and trees and rivers of experience
are drawn broad and large.
Bright points of detail shining in brighter colour,
memories sparkle like sunlight on water.
Standing out in jewels are snooker and cribbage and beer.
Jokes and stories are picked out like light on leaves
and mended bikes and late night lifts glow as flowers against the shadows.
No more trees or hills will find their way onto this view.
No more flowers or rivers will gleam or wind.
It is complete and we must see
though artist's brush is stilled and colours dry
the memories will remain undimmed and firm
and love will keep the picture clear.
We stand here now and mourn the artist's passing
but our heavy hearts are eased by the gleaming landscape before us.
And it is to our own pictures we must turn
and save that we keep the memories bright
and at the close we ensure our lives
may at least approach the beauty of my Father's painting.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
The night sky is wrapped in curls of black
and the air purrs, fizzes with the sound of hot
fluorescent lights, choking the air with vacation colour,
blinking fast like there’s something in their eyes.
Gulls guffaw in circles over 174,
where inside old wallpaper is torn
and dated lampshades dangle from above.
Two pegs on a line outside my box,
the bed is rickety and isn’t as fit anymore.
The novices, the returnees
seek silver and gold in the oasis
before their feet sting in scorching sand.
Win what you lose, lose what you win,
hold onto it before it tumbles back onto white cushions.
Money hiccups out of ugly machines
when they have a session of indigestion.
Young girls, carefree and cute walk around in a daze
as chubby men waddle along the pavement
thinking of that next pint.
Lined up at the bar with peanuts and bottles,
the large screen projects to all.
A clink of glasses and a click of snooker *****
past nine, past ten, past eleven as well.
And then the plug is pulled out,
everybody settles down to sleep,
but we all know they’ll do it again
when tomorrow’s summer evening calls.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”
Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.
“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”
The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.
Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).
Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.
Overnight the years twist.
Edgar Snooker has heard he is to play Hitler's dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.
As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,
As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,
As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,
As her money is without temperament,
As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,
So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.
As candles whisper in the middle of the road,
As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,
So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
I might have retired from employment
But I haven’t retired from Life.
Nature’s wonders are green for me,
So I still love to write.
For sure I wear those slippers
As I type another poem.
But no pipe for me
Or smoke to fill my home.
I strut the courts of table tennis,
And play the full game too.
Sometimes I’m quite the athlete
Though I always like a brew.
I’m not talking tea here,
I think you get my drift.
A pint or too of draught beer
Will always give me a lift.
I love a game of snooker,
And a night of indoor bowls.
I’m not much of a cooker,
That’s just not one of my roles.
Pub lunches are so yummy,
It’s good to have a chat.
I always fill my tummy,
What more can I say than that?
Yes, retirement is so peaceful,
And I am free from “Work”.
It may not suit all people,
But Life I’ll never shirk.
Paul Butters
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
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
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
Rejoice at Morning’s Miracle,
For We are here again.
The Grim Reaper
Has let us live another day.
God’s Grandeur shines upon us
As, again, the clichéd golden sun
Pokes her head through the Eastern clouds.
An orchestra of chiming birds
Greets the day
As again I say
Rejoice!
I repeat: Rejoice.
Time to check the temperature outside
And scatter some wild birdseed.
Time for breakfast
And the early news.
Time to have a pub-lunch,
Then a game of tennis
Or table tennis
Or snooker.
Morning’s time to meet my Muse,
And listen to her lyrical tunes.
To get composing,
No more dozing:
Broadcasting words
Throughout The Milky Way.
Enjoying the day
I look forward to
Some cloudless skies
So I can sit
And watch the stars.
Paul Butters
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
BONKERS FAMILY
I think the world is going bonkers today,
Eating two tubs of tiramisu for lunch,
Blow the savoury brunch.
Chased them down with two doughnuts,
And half a bucket of tea.
Women's roles just aren't what they used to be.
Never cooks,
prepares no food,
Cooks nothing to feed her hungry brood.
Daddies at home looking after the kids.
I think the world is going bonkers today.
When the gender divide remains undecided.
When the lovely lady in your life,
The one you once called your wonderful wife.
Disappears down the local to play snooker with her mates.
Every Sunday regular dates.
Always faithful,always true.
While you the dutiful husband is knocking out Sunday lunch.
The children are positioned very quietly ,sitting in front of the latest widescreen TV.
The only babysitting service, that's virtually free.
So, I think the world is definitely going bonkers today.
Mum smiles sweetly,
As she pulls on her boots,
She's off out to play.
Again.
(C) Livvi
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
Bordered by an old fashioned picture frame
A man, curiously familiar, moustached, astute
With a smiling bride, his eyes aflame
And a brown "The Spy Who Loved Me" suit
This was the first "real" connection with him
Displayed on my grandparents window shelf
Some how I knew I was missing a limb
Some how I knew I wasn't entirely myself
Patches of my memories dwell in clusters
perhaps I am mentally impaired.
I remember going to Ghost Busters
I remember being really scared.
Shaking inside trying to be brave
ashamed to being frightened of ghouls.
But that film soon became a fave
just as did playing snooker and pool.
I am aware that I have not let him know
that whist every time I have nearly drowned.
An island of him has rose from the flow
and let my two feet again find the ground.
Also, that as I have moulded myself into a man
he has been an integral aspect of my design.
Thanks to him I can have an extraordinary tan
I love a pun, good whisky and being on time.
So lets heartily toast the bygone days
now we can laugh about the happy and sad.
And let's swirl a whisky each others way
Because when all said and done, your my Dad.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Limp ***** deep writers . . .
Hang themselves raw playing,
. . . Snooker with a rope.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.
On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.
Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidedly symbolistic manner of preparation in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.
Jan 8, 2024
Jan 8, 2024 at 2:29 PM UTC
i know it pacifies,
national socialism was experimented
in germany,
but national capitalism took over,
you have a McDonald and a KFC
in Slovakia and other places...
it's not killing people,
but it's definitely numbing them...
they have no chance of a cultural
uniqueness, this national capitalism
has america in BIG PRINT seen
everywhere, and china in small
print worn everywhere: MADE IN;
which basically means everywhere
starts becoming a lookalike alike alike alike
******** hence the emergence of
internet shopping, everyone becoming
like the rich kids: pool, snooker hall
and all other social functioning distractions
enabling congregation under one roof,
with richy rich over here, having to pay
for a ******* too gluttonous to do it himself;
hey, it's just a muscle kid...
the clergy have a monopoly on the *****
esp. if it's all girlie girl girls.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
the self destruct button
is waiting for that fellow to push
he'll blow himself up like
a snooker ball off the cush
it won't be any surprise
to see him blasting himself away
this very explosion was fated
on a forthcoming day
the firing switch is set
for the big self strike
whereupon he'll be ******
into the air as a flying pike
soon the event will be
happening on television
let us not miss watching
his most important mission
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
This fat British fellow.
His much inflated ego, rolls across the grass masked ground.
Eternally on the level, never obese, just jolly rotund.
Always gets given a present, the noble order of the boot.
Out for rough and tumble, very thick skinned always full of hot air.
Jolly good sport, a **** good catch.
Goes up in a volley or down on the beach.
Amend his waist, change his shape, abuse him for rugger.
After the match, can be a right ***** ******
Anyone for tennis, a game for two on the court.
Snooker or a maybe good game of pool,
Silly poet lady, she talks a load of balls,can't get enough of playing the fool.
(c) LIVVI
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
it begins with saint piran's flag... well, let's just
say that, there ought to be two "offending"
but classicly marxist, separatists governing bodies
in, what's know as geo-politics...
upper-class retards think that the people
occupying the home county known as essex
are, complete idiots...
well... hello my "fellow" londoner!
nibble on some rat-shit, get a pigeon **** *******
on your top-hat? **** **** off!
the northerners can't claim, that i'm
a southern fairy... in europe there the north / south
and the east / west divide...
the southerners seem to prosper, as do easteners...
and likewise...
essex, and the whole "point" of the south-east...
no... cornwall wan't to be indepedent,
like the basques in spain...
and that flag...
may i make a suggestion to counter the cornwallians?
revert, allow essex to have a teutonic inspired flag
in reverse to yours...
i.e. a black crux on a maiden's "body".
living in essex, i've started to become, irritated
by this county becoming a joke fior the whole nation...
like a bunch of indians saying goa in portuguese...
sure, i know: northern monkeys...
wild antics and bits and bobs...
essex has produced snooker champions...
the other sort of chess-players... the geometricians...
and then the serving geographic is simply quote as:
sun-tan orange "quirky" accent;
and all, from a megapolis that exterminates rats,
but feeds urban pigeons.
in essex? we have woodland pigeons,
and they look like the very-most pristine theologians,
if not priests...
and they're fat...
blooming... and they have the equivalent of
a dog collar... and sure as ****
they won't have one their legs, reduced to a stump
with all the claws removed... like an urban pigeon might,
strutting... well... "strutting"... merely limping.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
At five in a morning they scavenge about,
Punters at a car boot sale
Searching for bargains with torches.
Why the lights?
Because it’s still dark.
Why dark?
Because it’s SEPTEMBER.
September: the month when the kids go back
To school.
When bowls goes indoors,
Snooker starts;
Cricket draws to a close,
As bad light stops play.
Premiership football into its second month
And Rugby Superleague into the Playoffs.
Telly programmes that have run all summer
Grind to a halt
And Winter TV takes over.
“Question Time” is back
Along with parliament,
Though Boris soon closed it
This year!
The nights get longer,
Minute by minute
And soon those leaves will turn
That lovely golden hue:
Ironically the mark of Death.
Thoughts will soon be turned to Christmas
As we steel ourselves
For another Winter.
Halloween and Bonfire Night
Are coming soon.
This year we have “The Brexit Deadline”,
A new distraction
Drawing our eyes away
From the eternal passage
Of time.
Paul Butters
© PB 23\9\2019.
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 6:15 AM UTC
“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.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 5:09 AM UTC
The weeping willow offered a branch
for me to hang myself.
I tied a knot in boy scout memory,
always prepared and never without
The Lord. I smoked my last cigarette
and watched the town lights
swallow up the stars.
There is a receipt for a soft drink
in my pocket.
I don't know how long it has been there,
but father fell asleep so long ago
and I have had enough caffeine
to last me a life-time.
I watch the frogspawn ooze
in a brook full of piss-water and mayflies.
The moonlight bounces off the headstones
like a snooker room in the old men's club.
Life can find a way along every ill attraction,
through alcohol to poverty; to the way you
are never noticed, until you are already gone.
When I told the tree I couldn't do it,
the street-lights dimmed
and eyes stung from the brine in the sea.
I stole a chip from the Weeping Willow's
shoulder, hung the bark from my neck
as a necklace: a collarbone sign for peace
in a landlocked town full of drunks
and absent-minded teachers.
The Weeping Willow told me to get some sleep,
before handing me a self-help book
that promised change and new wisdom.
I read the first couple of pages
and realised that I was lacking in self.
Ever since I just use the willow
to **** my pain again.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Playlist by the fire
as we drink tea
& roll one,
circa 1983.
The Cure & Talking Heads,
Big Youth & The Congos,
Killing Joke & Dennis Bovell,
Patti Smith & Misty in Roots,
Mike stroking his long
long beard,
Kim always up & down
like a yo-yo,
I hung loose as the guy
from next door put his
head round the door
to see if we had anything,
he was a laugher that one,
used to watch the snooker
on a small black & white
tv with the sound down
while he listened to Keith
Jarrett play his piano,
nice guy.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 11:14 PM UTC