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The afternoon’s drippy and muddy,
And kids are kept out of Dad’s study.  
There’s nothing to do
But mope the day through
Or living-room rugby with Buddy.
Zywa May 2022
Shoulders to shoulders,

the flower bursts open, spurts --


away in snap-weeds.
Rugby scrum

Collection "PumicePieces"
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
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.
Edward Coles Oct 2014
The cats sleep on the rooftops,
an ambient beat from the shower radio
comes tone-deaf through the open window,
replacing the hum of lawn mowers
that had been harmonising
all Sunday afternoon.

We buried one in the garden,
an overlooked shrine within the deep grass,
child-like magic markers  with a simple turn of phrase;
yet all I can think about
as I look over her grave
are how the beetles are nesting in her brain.

I lost the knack for sympathy,
ever since they medicated my drink
and told me I was their patient.

I lost the will for empathy,
ever since I tried to hang myself
and still they told me to be patient.
c
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