Vic's poetry cont..

[Vic Johnston]

Cricket fan who still plays a bit and out of season writes a spot of poetry about the game, sad I know but it takes all sorts...Doesn't it ?

Here's a little sample, go ahead & fill your boots my friends...

A Perfect Holiday !

They say a relaxing vacation to a far off exotic location
will chase those blues away
Roasting daily in the sun, till you're baked and overdone,
for many is a worthwhile holiday!

Or perhaps a foreign cruise is even better news
to boost that flagging drive?
Indeed what could be finer onboard an ocean liner,
watching playful dolphins, leap and dive?

Yes, no doubt it is pleasure to recreate at leisure
on golden sands or becalming deep blue sea.
but what if I get burned, seasick and interned?
Alas, neither destination is for me!

So I've conceived a master plan, I'm renaissance man
to fill my summer days with blissful glee.
Guaranteed, cheerful fun, neath a temperate sun,
and all are very welcome to thejamboree!

Dressed in white glad rags, my kit in zipped up bags
I'm setting off to join a merry throng.
For my golden holiday ticket is spent playing cricket,
why don't you pack your case and come along?

 

[Vic Johnston]

Perhaps your cricket club started out this way ?

The Mayor of Kilgore

In the bygone era of shire horse and steam
when erstwhile men still followed the plough,
for working class folk, life was no idyllic dream
hard labour or starve, in contrast to the here and the now

The town of Kilgore an industrious place
linen and turf, the main produce and trade,
its workforce toiled daily at an unyielding pace,
united in pride by their skill with shuttle and spade

The Mayor of the town an affable peer
valued greatly, the effort his citizens gave,
so encouraged them all with relevant cheer
the annual town taxes, he'd gratefully waive

But work without play, makes Jack and Jill rather dull
so this innovative man, requisitioned some land,
realising, that to maximise productivity and avoid lull
recreation lifts morale, which helps business expand

So hence the inception of Kilgore Cricket Club
a venue where townspeople could meet after work,
to play, spectate, fraternise at this new social hub,
the Mayor to a regular patron, chaperoned by his clerk

They entered a first eleven into the county league
hardy men from the community united in cause,
and despite some initial derision and combat fatigue,
Kilgore soon became proficient at the game, it's spirit and laws

By the following summer like cream, they'd reached the top
admired the county over, filling grounds home or away,
in each discipline, their players the pick of the crop
capturing the league title, such was their fine style of play

But jealously distinguishes not, betwixt commoner or lord
so when Kilgore made the final of the Varsity cup,
Upton Old Boys the opposition, aware of potential discord
hired a few professional players, to avoid any embarrassing slip up

Crowds thronged to the stadium, gentlemen and dames
as the sun chased the clouds like an observant sentry,
and though certain chaps were playing under stage names
who would suspect misdemeanour, from respected gentry?

Upton chose to bat first, their skipper called the toss
having scant regard of Kilgore's ability to inflict a rout,
what could possibly go wrong, against lower class dross?
But those of arrogant disposition, often acquire a bloody snout

It started well for their batsmen, Upton's two skilful ringers
nonchalantly striking the ball to applause and cheers of approval,
but a change to a bowler, more adept at in and out swingers,
dismissed both, then what followed was sheer wholesale removal

After a calamitous collapse, tea, though Upton still optimistic
as chasing such a paltry total, would be no stroll in the park,
for within their ranks, a charlatan who bowled ballistic
and with victory secured, none would suspect duplicity or pass remark

Just as Kilgore's one and two, strolled out to the middle
in a nearby cottier's cottage lay dying, Patsy McSwiggan,
an old turf cutter and character, who enjoyed playing the fiddle,
his heart now weary from long years, spent lifting and digging

As a good pastor and family circle, solemnly stood by his bed
outdoors a paperboy yelled, " read all about an unlikely upset,"
then instantly up jumped the old navvy and exuberantly said,
"Please excuse me, I'm off to the bookmakers to place a bet

By now Kilgore's brave batsmen had their teeth firmly sunk in
like tenacious bullterriers, whose bloodlines are meticulously bred,
they countered the onslaught, ball after ball rearing up at their chin
by ruthlessly dispatching it, back over the bowler's head!

As the bowlers and fielders capitulated and crumbled in tow
Upton's chairman and committee panel, sat by the pavilion,
tendered their resignations, coinciding with the final, victorious blow
and Kilgore's proud Mayor raised the cup, attired in official vermillion

Despite Upton prevarication, speculation and rumour ran rife
the vanquished finalists had dug deep at immense financial cost,
by recruiting outside assistance, then fell on their own knife
as their mercenary players could not compete and so they lost

The victory celebrations lasted long into the small hours
many more joined the party, including a healthier, wealthier Patsy McSwiggan
for the spirit of working folk, knocked the toffs from their ivory towers
and to Patsy's fine fiddling they brought the cup to Kilgore, still singin'and jigging

 

[Vic Johnston]

" Providence", said a Pig !

The past summer had been long
and incongruously hot
still I played every game,
though my score remained nought
yet despite that empty feeling,
when you've lost the lot,
I remained steadfast in the hope
of one final, productive shot!

But with the very last match,
providence brought
those longed for scoring runs,
eagerly sought
then after, straight to an ale house
caring not a jot
of my betrothed elsewhere waiting,
like the lady of Shallot!

As that previous day,
a fine wedding ring I had bought
hand crafted and embossed with a jewel,
expertly wrought
my intention to propose
at a well known lover's spot,
a place where each evening,
we would meet at precisely 8 o'clock!

But too much booze and bravado,
mixed together in a pot
are quite often the undoing,
of many an honorable plot,
so later that night,
swaggering down a road I knew not
I tripped over my boot lace,
which had not been tied taut!

Tumbling head first into a ditch,
like a clumsy clot
I lay there cursing,
precarious and distraught,
then a passing pig sat down beside me,
in the grime and the grot
and with a look of disdain,
it spoke all snooty and snot?

"Providence can elevate a man,
or reduce him to squalor and rot
just as a drunken fool's efforts,
invariably amount to naught
and no lady of principal
would marry a man who can't tie a knot,
so if I were you I'd give these matters,
some pragmatic thought!"

Then quickly got up and made off
in a prancing, pompous trot,
leaving me to mull over a lesson,
sagaciously taught
and since this immodest encounter,
defiling and fraught
to this very day the wise counsel of the Pig,
I have never forgot !

 

[Vic Johnston]

My finest hour

It's with fond regards,
I return to heady days and a game,
played between 22 yards
on a green and pleasant field

First in my refer,
a cup final, an innings of flare,
like King Arthur with Excalibur,
my bat, I did courageously wield.

On a crusade of pillage and plunder,
each bowler, I took asunder
as against me,
their resolve, did totally yield.

Then later in scenes of tumultuous rapture
I rose up my arduous capture,
of that much coveted,
and cherished, silver shield!

Or from a recess in mind,
thoughts aplenty, return in kind
of a victory, from the jaw of defeat
I managed to snatch

Not one to bury my head in the sand
Like an ostrich, who can't understand?
with our team in dire need, I bowled at great speed
taking matters firmly in hand

I snaffled up a return catch,
then bowled the last three in a batch
to win a most enthralling, engaging
and highly unlikely, cricket match!

Now long in this bliss, could I reminisce
in memories, of nostalgia and fun
but my finest hour, the greatest by far
and it mattered not, if I lost or won!

Such feelings and sensations
mixed with joy and elation
the emotion I felt, caused my heart to melt,
more than anything, I've ever done!

When on that memorable day
I walked onto the field to play,
cricket, as a proud father,
together with his Son

 

[Vic Johnston]

You are old skipper !

Said a precocious nipper, to his experienced skipper;

"You are old yet still a cunning critter,
a very handy hitter,
you never miss a sitter,
over point a classy chipper,
of the pads a crafty clipper!
And you bowl a deadly dipper,
a floating flipper,
mixed with the odd, rotating ripper,
the batsmen's knees tremble and jitter,
when you run in patter-pitter,
the only sound a little titter,
as you release that stealth, stump splitter
to claim another five for, or double hat-tricker!
Not forgetting you are a serial, specialist first slipper,
a great fielder, catcher, grabber, gripper!
Pray tell, what makes you such an all round, cracking cricketer? "

Replied the experienced skipper, to the precocious nipper;

"Now listen very carefully, young snapper-whipper!
Time is much too precious, to throw away or fritter,
for if you choose to wander, or simply be a quitter
you'll end up on the shelf like a moldy kipper
so here are my proven tips, from an expert tipper!
Practice makes perfect and helps get you fitter,
so don't lay around too long, tweeting on that twitter
sending silly messages, by electronic transmitter!
Avoid smoking, or risk being a cougher and a spitter
though a social beer is recommended, or a pint of bitter
but don't go the way of many and become a steady sipper,
throwing away good money as you would the litter!
Find a supportive wife, who does not nag or nitter,
enjoys cricket, is domesticated, a thrifty sewer, stitcher, knitter,
don't fall for the first, who flashes long lashes with a flirtatious flitter!
Finally, enjoy the game and your career will surely glitter,
but remember, the umpire is the adjudicator, judge, jury, the sole arbiter,
his decision is final, so please, no back chat or silly chitter

And if you prove yourself, someday my son...You shall be the skipper! "


----------

( Although not specifically about cricket the great game does get a venerable mention within) !

Who am I ?

I am within without, here there and everywhere,
Unseen by naked eye, just as the pure thin air
Blow cold north wind that heralds winter snow,
Then beckon at spring lambs, to leap up high and go
Bring forth the summer sun in most resplendent ray,
When green leaf slowly fades, remind swallow to fly away.


Will on the mighty bird to fly free on the wing
Uplift the souls of weary folk, when little children sing
Inspire the spawning salmon not to relent the fight,
Against the raging current, with journey's end in sight
Returning to that brook, where was its place of birth,
To procreate the seed, then die in happy mirth.

Darwin spoke of theory to figure a solution,
How life formed singularly, the precede of evolution
But I've been here from time immemorial, before all life began
The plants, the creatures and the ape, he said turned into man
No doubt he was a scholar of much vaunted pedigree,
Though at life's end was heard to say, 'I believe in thee!"

I spur on the ailing chick to break the hard, encasing shell,
Awaken sleeping bear, with spring's sweet,enticing smell
Paint the colour in the flowers that captivate the bee
Aid the tiny acorn to grow into a massive tree
Which in turn provides haven and sanctuary
to many wondrous creatures, that dwell within its canopy.

Encourage new born baby, to cry aloud with zest
As mother draws up lovingly,to nurture from her breast
With bowler and the batsman, opposed in sporting rivalry
Who later sit together and enjoy each other's camaraderie
I march with gallant soldier, to answer his country's call
And serenely he shall walk with me, if in battle he should fall.

Many acclaim me as the Creator, or other names of merit,
Though often people refer to me, as Mother Nature's eternal Spirit!

----------

Beware a black duck !

Once upon a midnight eerie,
while I pondered weak and weary,
over volumes of old score books dreary,
from the season past and before,
while I nodded nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping
as if someone a gently rapping,
rapping at my front door?
Tis some late caller, my presume
rapping at my front door?
Only this and nothing more.

Ah distinctly I remember,
the cricket all over as was September
and at my fire-side,
flames cast shadows o'er the floor
eagerly I wished the morrow,
for these books brought only sorrow
sorrow as no runs did I score,
not this season nor none before
by my name a zero, a duck,
always this and nothing more!

Again the tapping at my door,
tapping, rapping as before
terror gripped me, nerves all tore,
so now I stood there, heart fast beating,
wondering who was entreating,
entrance at my door,
or maybe just the wind, maybe this
and nothing more?

Presently my soul grew stronger,
hesitating no longer "Sir or Madame,
truly your forgiveness I implore"!
But the fact is I was napping,
when you came rapping
scarcely so, I heard your tapping,
tapping at my front door,
so now I open, only darkness, nothing more !

Deep into this darkness I stood peering,
wondering and fearing
doubting dreams, no mortals dared dream before
and the silence was unbroken,
the stillness gave no token
was there outside a ghostly apparition?
For what I heard, lent to my suspicion,
as when meekly, I inquired,
" somday by my name, a decent score"?
Came back the echo, "Nevermore"!

Back into my room quickly turning,
all my soul within me burning
yet still the tapping,
even louder than before,
again though not certain,
next a rustle at my curtain
then tapping more profane,
now upon my window pane
this mystery I must explore,
pray only my imagination and nothing more!

Quickly, I flung back the shutter
and without fuss or flutter,
in stepped a stately black duck,
from the saintly days of yore,
not the least embarrassed was he,
what business did he want with me?
Jumped down upon my settee, then onto the floor,
standing there and staring,
with beady eyes towards me, glaring,
said I unto the fowl, "What is thy name" ?
Quacked back the duck, "Nevermore"!

Then I thought is he a prophet
come to warn me, time to stop it?
So closer towards him I did draw,
"Tell me now duck, don't be a bore"!
Even closer reclining, thinking and divining,
"Will a century I ever score"?
Quacked back the duck, "Nevermore"!

Ah, this bird he made me furious
but still, I grew more curious,
was he some tempter sent to tempt me
This duck I was beginning to abhor?
Again I engaged it into guessing,
towards the brute, expressing,
"Shall a fifty be mine to score"?
Quacked back it again, "Nevermore"!

Crazy yet more crazy I was going
but I had to keep knowing,
"Quaff oh Quaff, tell this
and don't say, Nevermore!
Take thy bill from my heart's core
and thy form out the door,
leave me for it is late,
dare not stop to close the gate!
And just before you go; "
Is it to be a duck, I'm ever destined to score? "

"Quack oh Quack" replied he, " Yes, you're spot on there mate"
Then left me to lament for now and evermore!

----------

('Beware a nightly Visitor' is of course my own parody on the great Edgar Allen Poe classic 'The Raven' substituting Poe's macabre Raven bird for a beguiling 'Duck' which haunts a begrudging batsman late one night while he laments over his ever seeming failure to score any runs !!)

 

[Vic Johnston]

The lark at dawn

An early rise with the lark at dawn,
to greet a rapturous summer morn,
far from my humble abode,
through fields of lavender, I strode

I raised my head and gazed aloft,
to view a sky of blue, clouds, cotton soft,
closed both eyes and inhaled deep,
vitality filled my lungs, as others sleep!

Pleasant aromas then infused,
with lark's shrill song, senses enthused,
erasing all folly e'er I knew,
rendered hence a welcome adieu!

'Twas then my reason to wonder why,
grown men in slumber, prostrate lie
and never rise with the lark at dawn,
nor hear its shrill, invigorating song?

Continuing on my pleasant pilgrimage,
exulted in harmony and redolent fragrance
to a venue of esteem and merit,
where a game is played with fortifying spirit,

Within an open and hallowed ground,
leather on willow, another summer, sultry sound
and on arrival to sojourn for the day,
I took my seat, as an eminent voice called out;" Play"


Money maketh not a man, nor a decent cricketer come to think of it ?

A Gentleman of Wealth

A gentleman of wealth, enquiring after my health
asked me to his plush abode,
thinking I'd been blessed, I agreed to his request
so together in his sports car, off we rode

His house was mighty fine, likewise, the vintage wine
sipped from crystal glass,
vast rooms full of art deco, contrasted to the echo
of servants polishing up brass

Then as was my fate, he took around his estate
over land where they hunt the fox,
as I listened to the sounds, of bugle and baying hounds
he turned to me and said, ' aren't I the dog's bollocks ? '

So with a look of disdain, I answered simple and plain
''I'm afraid, I disagree,
your car maybe nifty, do one hundred and fifty
but it only has two seats, no use to me

Your home may be grand, but I find it rather bland
bereft of frivolity and atmosphere,
I prefer my humble house, no servants but a loving spouse
and kids who fill each room with cheer

Though my garden's small, it's big enough to play ball
where we all take turns to bat and bowl,
now please take me home, no longer can I roam
with a man who has neither heart nor soul !

 

[Vic Johnston]

Back in the day such was my enthusiasm that even out of season, I would set off to my local park, stumps & ball in hand to practice. Christmas was no exception and one particular late, cold and clear afternoon, I had a surprise visitor ?

A Cricketing Christmas Cracker !

As I roved out one 24th of December
I had in my possession, as I well remember
an old cricket ball to practice my bowling
as I find this more engaging, than simply strolling!

Now bearing in mind 'twas Christmas eve
just what occurred, you'll barely believe,
but listen intently is my earnest entreat
this story is true, bereft of deceit!

When in position and ready to go
I heard a gregarious laugh and a hearty, 'Hello '
then from out of the shadows, suddenly appeared
a gigantic man, sporting a fine, flowing white beard?

Slung over his shoulder, a most massive cloth sack
which he set on the ground, from off his broad back
and from it withdrew, a brand new cricket bat
as nervously I pondered, what was he doing with that?

He then spoke to me saying, "Please sir if you would,
throw me that ball and I'll break in this wood,"
so I ran back and bowled at a very fast pace
at this impostor so alike, the late W.G. Grace

And for all that I knew, he may of well been
for he was the greatest batsman, I'd ever seen,
a very talented fellow, dressed in red and white
who hit every ball with perfect timing and dynamic might!

Then he set down the bat and with a broad grin
said, " Well bowled but next time try spin,
alas, now I must leave, no longer dare I tarry,
thanks for the game and have a Christmas merry

For tonight, I've many chimneys to descend
as on me, little children depend,
so please take this new bat, a present for you
also these parcels, for your good family too!

And before I leave, may I further say this
never lose faith in the spirit of Christmas,
for a little imagination is good for the soul
and what's more, can turn dull brass into pure gold! "

Then he bid me farewell and with a whimsical wink
instantly disappeared, faster than an eye blink,
so I set off for home and as it began to snow
far off in the distance, a voice cried out "Merry Christmas, Ho,ho, ho "

 

[Vic Johnston]

Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde

Jekyll and Hyde could not confide
Neither agree nor abide
Not two men but one of a kind
Each lived within the other's mind

Jekyll a doctor and gentleman
Do for you and me all that he can,
But Mr Hyde is not so nice
Opens his mouth, not thinking twice

One did enjoy a game of cricket
Though did not last long at the wicket
He made a potion, a kind of tonic,
To help him stay there, turn bionic

From the bottle he took a swig
No time to use a guinea pig,
Thus Hyde was born, the story goes
Hairy eyebrows, crooked nose.

He dare not wait, had to play
Off to the pitch, he raced away
Out in the middle, pads, gloves and bat
Took his guard, then coughed and spat

But all did not go, according to plan
For this rude, obnoxious man
He swung and missed at each ball
Each time to the Umpire, "Wide!" did call

The bowler then bounced one in short
Again to the umpire, Hyde did retort
"Call no ball; it is a disgrace
He clearly meant to hit my face!"

Next ball was fast, full and true
hit his pad, LBW and he knew
the appeal was loud, regards Mr Hyde
though he gauldered, "Pitched out leg-side!"

The effects of the brew, then disappeared
Back Dr Jekyll, so revered
Observing still, the pointing finger
About the crease he did not linger

As he departed, those poignant blue eyes
Looked towards the umpire to apologise,
Then made his way, without refrain
To pour that tonic down the drain
And thank goodness, Mr Hyde, never appeared again!


(During a match I was umpiring, a normally modest and cordial gentleman became rather irate when I adjudged him to be leg before ???)

 

[Vic Johnston]

Man's best friend !

A little bat & ball,
is good for one an all
but who would join me for a game?

Perhaps my next door neighbour
would kindly do me a favour
so upon his doorbell, my finger's aim!

"Ah the pleasure would be mine
but now is not the time,
alas with you, I cannot play!

I have just this hour,
to mow the lawn, wash the car
call back some other day"

Although a tad downtrodden,
I thought all off a sudden
with my skipper I shall call!

"Have you lost all sense of reason
it's long past was the cricket season"
and off he went to play football !

Now somewhat sadder,
an idea made me feel gladder
I'll ask my good lady, the wife!

"Do you think I've nothing better to do
than stand in a field and throw a ball at you,
be off, cause me no more strife! "

Now my mood low, alone I'd have to go
as usual was the trend
without obliging, human friend!

Then at my leg a tug, glancing downward at the rug,
standing there with ball, for my attention his call,
none other than my old dog Fred !

And it was plain to see, looking up at me
through devoted eyes, a genuine surmise
this is what he said;

"Throughout mankind, true friends hard to find,
neighbour busy, skipper thinks you're crazy
and she cannot always be there for you, your wife!

So day or night just call my name, I'm always up for any game
through triumph and disaster, I will for you my master,
gladly fetch your ball and of course that's not all, for You.. I'd give my life! " + =

 

[Wayne Dwop]

Of all the birdies in the world
I'd rather be a sparra
I'd sit on the edge of Princes Bridge
And sh!t into the Yarra.


I'll find my own way out

 

[DERO]

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Some poems rhyme,
Abasi MODERATOR

 

[Vic Johnston]

Sadly nowadays, even amateur cricket is becoming more professional with many choosing to put money before principle, no matter the 'cost' ?

So if you're a talented young fellow or lass and feel so inclined, may I respectfully urge problematic pragmatism, prudence and pertinent perception before plunging headfirst over the precipice, for as we all know, calm seas don't always remain so ?

Farmer Fred

A bunch burly of northern cricket players
sought a credulous cash cow,
so headed south to procure purveyors
not even taking time to say 'chow'

Stopping at a village quintessential
resplendent in flowering decor,
impressed by the apparent potential,
for it was steeped in cricket lore

In order to attain premier dollar
first, they must exhibit ware,
so from rooftops did loudly holler,
'We'll easily beat your team on yonder square'

News spread quickly of this bold impugn
and folk rallied to the cause,
their kinship collective and commune
just as it was, back in both world wars

Next day on the green village square
large crowds congregated,
to watch their heroes so debonair
face off, against northerners migrated

The toss fell for north's skipper
who elected to bat first,
and with their openers looking chipper,
the home side soon feared the worst

But when involved in bloody, bitter battle
men of guile and guts come fore,
so Fred, a farmer of purebred beef cattle
was called upon to check, advancing score

A most unusual, unorthodox slow bowler
would make that cherry dance like a fairy,
and in the mould of Awdry's portly controller
assumed command, denying batsmen chance to parry

Both openers fell flatly, one after t'other
as did the rest, like collapsing cards,
for when Fred's on form, nothing's a bother
an exceptional bowler, between a strip of 22 yards

Despite oh so encouraging beginnings
the journeymen were soon skittled out,
and as for chasing a paltry innings?
Fred stood aside, as colleagues completed the rout

So the moral of this tale is clear and primeval
grass looks greener, when viewed far ahead,
and lure of easy money, oft causes chaos and upheaval
especially if up against a wily bowler, in the guise of farmer Fred !

(Awdry's portly controller refers to a character from the Reverend Wilbert Awdry's famous children stories about Thomas the Tank Engine and one of the central characters along with Thomas and friends was 'The Fat Controller')

 

[Vic Johnston]

If you're Aussie, look away now !!


It's not that long ago when the all conquering Australian side seemed invincible,
though nowadays a pale shadow of their former selves, reduced to accusing their
opponents of cheating cause one guy was seen sucking a boiled sweet ?

Dearie me, how the mighty have fallen...

Ode to Arthur

They came from the land down under,
where woman whinge and men blunder
dressed in yellow, donning baggy green caps,
a touring team of cocksure chaps
each six foot plus and full of muscle,
they'd journeyed far to pillage and rustle

Their coach a moustachioed man named Rod
a kind of loud, abrasive sod,
stood on his soapbox and appealed
his likely lads were unbeaten on the field
my bowlers fast like Thommo and Lilly,
my batsmen made others look really silly

And it proved no idle boast
they vanquished all from coast to coast,
with county sides they wiped the boards
and even stuffed the M.C.C. at Lords,
then just a week before the first test
they boarded a boat and duly sailed west

Their first port of call a country pub,
who's landlord Arthur sponsored a cricket club
himself the chairman of that team,
on recognising his patrons, began to scheme
' would you fine men consider a game,
against our village side? ' His proclaim!

At first they scoffed at his bold address,
considering it a pointless, no contest
Preoccupied, lapping up the liquid black,
like thirsty dingos from the outback
But Arthur was not the least put out,
offering the winners gallons of free stout

The temptation proved much to great
as up spoke Rod, ' good on ya mate
let's get it on straight after lunch,'
then downed a pint with a stiff rum punch
So at two o'clock on a pleasant day,
two sides faced off and began to play

The touring skipper called the toss,
bowling first in hope he'd be back on the sauce
and yes they bowled at lightening pace,
but most deliveries went all over the place
sundries aplenty kept the scoreboard moving,
as Rod looked on so disapproving

Soon one hundred on the board,
even though both batsmen had hardly scored
they turned to spin and a guy named Shane,
but this caused Rod even more pain
as though it turned it must be said,
every ball was short and pitched outside leg

With two hundred runs easily accrued,
the home side declared, Rod now subdued
when his opening batsman took guard,
the umpire remarked, 'towards you a yard'
and on receipt of the first red cherry,
he swiped and missed, no more to tarry

So began a limp procession,
ten hapless batsmen, dismissed in similar fashion
no player even reached double figures
and with each wicket, louder grew the s******s
and as for Rod, such was the disgrace,
his coiffed moustache fell from his red face

As his rambunctious side began to chunder,
Rod resigned and returned down under
bypassed the poms conceding the test series,
as to why there's lots of theories?
The secret known only on the Emerald Isle,
where a landlord pours a pint with a smile?


( chunder...Aussie slang for vomit )



https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Guinness

 

[Vic Johnston]

During a recent match our own 'pro' bowled his allotted 6 overs straight through, conceding not that many and capturing a couple of wickets in the process.

Not a feat you'll say that will go down in the annals of cricket lore, he himself was critical of his efforts in that he bowled a wide ?

Still, I thought to myself not a bad return for a man who will soon be celebrating his 80th birthday!

Oftentimes I wonder, just what's his secret...

The Doctor's Letter

Though never better, I received a doctor's letter
requesting a visit routine,
puzzled all the same, regarding it's aim
to the surgery, I did convene

Reporting at reception, I was accused of deception
"you're not listed here," a lady remarked,
"this cannot be, here's a letter from my GP
though no regular caller," I barked

"Well my good fella, I'll have to go to the cellar"
the secretary grumpily said,
after one hour, she returned even more sour
holding a tattered folder of red

"Now sir please listen, you're not on our system
but it's clear from this old file,
although certainly latent, you once were a patient
so Dr Barker will see you, in a short while"

Whilst sat outside his room, I grew aware of the gloom
as folk waited to be seen,
transfixed to mobile phones, like listless drones,
awaiting a pardon from the queen

In turn, each through the door, then back out as before
still calling and texting,
clutching paper prescriptions, for various afflictions
a due process, I found rather vexing

Soon my turn, to meet the doctor looking stern
weary of the daily regime,
but he broke into a smile, noting the name on the file
"come in, sit down, I want to come clean

I personally looked you up, from your name on a cup
my grandfather kept in his study,
he was once your GP, and I further decree
a past teammate and buddy

He often spoke of your strong-will and athletic skill
combined, to defeat any foe,
yet down through the years, despite blood, sweat and tears
to his general practice, you'd never go

Now forty years on, how can you go so long
without ever a sick day,
regularly seen, out on the village green,
still playing and plugging away? "

"Now young Dr Barker, let me put down a marker
as to why, I remain free of all ills,
play the game hard but fair, with gusto and flare,
to negate the need for any pills

Always bat straight, to narrow the gate
and bowl to the sweat drips from your brow,
for the simple trick to it, is to keep playing cricket
so I'll see you again, in another forty years from now "

 

[Doss]

Maybe we need to invest in a poetry board.

 

[Vic Johnston]

Our ' Pro ' only played the two competitive games last season, yet as always, left a favourable impression on those involved and spectators alike. And even if old bones will groan, creek and may someday even give way, his enthusiasm abounds...

Fight the good fight

As an unassuming, energetic lad, he enjoyed a bit a craic
never gleaned or nurtured, like privileged Etonian stock
his upbringing less kid gloved, he carried his own sack
sidestepped idle talk, preferring more to walk the walk

That chosen path was cumbersome with many a jagged edge
but his gait was ever forthright, purpose in his stride
and if the way was blocked, he'd always find a wedge
to help remove the obstacle, then journey on with pride

Born of competitive spirit, he played the gentleman's fine game
indulged in victory's adulation, reverent in defeat
aware that when the crowd had gone, it was a moment's fame
and they'll judge not if you win or lose, but how you did compete

Faced down the aggressive tyrant, affording him scant regard
the thief he had no time for, chased him from the place
as for the sly old fox, spouting innuendo, conceit and canard
he silenced him in one fell blow, when he said it straight to his face

And now a chivalrous octogenarian, still, he has guts and soul
adversity he obliterates, from a self-effacing, humble turret
with truth and virtue by his side, he has but one treasured goal
to onwards fight the good fight, knowing, if the flesh should wane...
willing is the spirit!

 

[The City Boyz]

Our ' Pro ' only played the two competitive games last season, yet as always, left a favourable impression on those involved and spectators alike. And even if old bones will groan, creek and may someday even give way, his enthusiasm abounds...

Fight the good fight

As an unassuming, energetic lad, he enjoyed a bit a craic
never gleaned or nurtured, like privileged Etonian stock
his upbringing less kid gloved, he carried his own sack
sidestepped idle talk, preferring more to walk the walk

That chosen path was cumbersome with many a jagged edge
but his gait was ever forthright, purpose in his stride
and if the way was blocked, he'd always find a wedge
to help remove the obstacle, then journey on with pride

Born of competitive spirit, he played the gentleman's fine game
indulged in victory's adulation, reverent in defeat
aware that when the crowd had gone, it was a moment's fame
and they'll judge not if you win or lose, but how you did compete

Faced down the aggressive tyrant, affording him scant regard
the thief he had no time for, chased him from the place
as for the sly old fox, spouting innuendo, conceit and canard
he silenced him in one fell blow, when he said it straight to his face

And now a chivalrous octogenarian, still, he has guts and soul
adversity he obliterates, from a self-effacing, humble turret
with truth and virtue by his side, he has but one treasured goal
to onwards fight the good fight, knowing, if the flesh should wane...
willing is the spirit!

Best one yet mate!

 

[Vic Johnston]

A faded black & white photo hangs in my father's study, dated 1930, it's of a cup winning cricket team and my late grandfather, O.W.B. amongst the happy looking bunch of fellows smiling back..

A Brandyball Sweet..

From city's maddening throng,
a getaway
to lone mountain peak,
far away
like shipwreck survivor,
castaway,
I sought retreat!

Atop terra firma, the ascend
rocky terrain,
a tiresome,
lonely transcend
then high frontier
and journey's end,
complete!

Astonishment, an elderly man there
of my persona,
seemed aware
though unfazed,
remained his stare,
upon a jungle of steel
and reinforced concrete!

From outermost, protruding ledge
beckoning towards me
with crocked stick
of blackthorn hedge,
to stand by him
and gaze o'er the edge,
his clear entreat!

At first unease the feeling
then curiosity came stealing
his countenance,
his candour
most genteeling,
so alongside I drew,
to view the hordes effete!

Then in a voice unfazed
described a setting, less abrazed
though my appraise
his view was hazed,
thick smog before his eyes,
had surely wrought,
a wicked cheat?

"Regard below bereft of guilt
fields like patchwork quilt
within erstwhile men
swathe crop,
firm grip on sickle's hilt,
as others follow and bind sheaves
of golden wheat!

Engage the tranquil village
on this sunny day
children outside,
content at their play,
mothers busy in parlours
separating curds from whey,
mindful, neither two shall meet!

Behold yon pleasant green
and the uplifting sight
of men in cotton shirts,
flannels, linen white
who play the hallowed game,
spectators, ensconced in delight,
the scene, almost replete!

Observe the skipper
beckoning towards me
inviting his strike bowler, O.W.B.
to once more,
play the game esprit
and join in kindred spirit,
this team elite! "

Then looked to me
and pointed low,
I gauged his desire,
together, descend below
and on return to level plateau
within my palm, he did bestow,
a tasty little treat!

He bade me farewell,
as into the fog, walked away
straight to cricket club, my instinct
to head that way,
through decorated gallery, the foray
and behind silver accolades on display,
somewhat discreet!

A faded photo, then surprise
at centre rear row,
to recognise
a familiar face,
in younger guise,
inscription beneath the apprise
in letters, bold and neat!

The winning team in cheer,
' McMullan Memorial Cup' 1930 the year,
man of the match, O.W.B.
the initials, bold and clear,
then with reflective tear
within my palm, there still,
that little sphere, a favoured childhood, brandy-ball sweet?

 

[Cold Sober]

GET THIS INTO PRINT its wasted here

 

[Vic Johnston]

The Lone Umpire !

The ideas for all my little stories are of course inspired by the many cricket games, occurrences and humour moments that one tends to be involved in as the seasons pass by and equally the fascinating characters you meet along the way.

And so with my latest piece of poetry there's no exception, very happy to report that both clubs alluded too therein have since gone from strength to strength, and the official gentleman who guessed us with a surprise appearance, succeeded 'big time' in making the whole affair a very worthwhile exercise!

Although unaccompanied, nevertheless a colossus....

The Lone Umpire!

Mark this and mark it well,
for it was a fine, upstanding deed
he journeyed far to ring the bell,
so others may succeed!

'Twas with rumours rife of ill-health
a sporting constitution in decline,
that some chose the sanctuary of wealth
rather than dig in and mark time!

But two cricket clubs of invention
each, from nearby boarding lands,
knew cure was better than suspension
thus set about employing new hands!

They called a game, a friendly match
betwixt the eachother, by a factory ground
encouraging all to play, bat, bowl and catch
and to this venue, folk flocked from all around!

A problem then became apparent
organized chaos would ensue,
but fears allayed by the arrival of a gent
dressed in smart attire of navy blue!

Proceedings quickly fell into place
those unsure, soon got it right,
for he guided each with smiling face
as they learned to joist, overseen by noble knight!

Few are born with a midas touch
though all deserving of chance
and the lone umpire knew as much
that's why he took a forthright stance!

So if you find your club unmanned
don't crouch and hide behind the door,
negate with resources found at hand
and like the lone umpire, you will know; 'Esprit de corps!'

 

[Vic Johnston]

With 600 views & counting, time for a new poem by way of thanks to readers, commenters and the host moderators

Merry Christmas!

 

[Vic Johnston]

Though the venerable game does get a brief mention, this poem is perhaps a little more dire in subject and when I wrote it a few years ago, the world was a chaotic place!

And even now its still just as big & bad! Look after yourselves folks ..

Beware the beast !

Shun the tiger, silent and stealth
searching for its quarry,
stay indoors and mind your health
or you'll be very sorry!

Don't dip your toes in the water cool
where the crocodile patiently waits,
for you will look a silly fool,
if swallowed whole, in front of all your mates!

Be mindful of wolf on the prowl
when walking through a wood,
Run ! If you hear it's ghastly howl,
don't be naive like little red riding hood!

Heed the hyena's comical laugh,
it prefers meat, red and raw,
let not yourself to be chewed in half
by its powerful, bone crushing jaw!

Avoid the snake in the grass
hiding out of sight,
keep on the path, don't trespass,
or you may receive a nasty bite!

If playing the fine colonial game
in the land of mahout and elephant,
guard against the mosquito's aim
and rebuff it with repellant!

Step over the ant, small and placid
is my solemn decree,
for it is armed with formic acid
like a million brothers, from its colony!

And beware the beast, trust the least
the bloodthirsty creature man,
no deadly jaws or claws, toxic bite, nor acidic might
but he may kill you....Just because he can !

 

[Vic Johnston]

When some support England others Ireland, and then the two happen to meet on the international stage, three particular chaps belonging to my club were most ungracious in defeat, thus leaving me no alternative but to take remedial action....

The three Amoebas !

There grew three amoeba neath a stone,
down at Vic's cricket club
and you could tell by the look of them,
they were fond of their grub,
rare strains, scientifically coded
Shane Mullet, big Hank & Bobby Mac.
England to the core but mention Irish cricket
and your health they'd attack!

And so it came round, England drew Ireland
at the 2011 cricket world cup
but those amoebas grew anxious,
emitting a putrefying stink with each, 'tut tut'
just because one side play test cricket,
the other an associate nation
and dare England lose it would cause upset,
grief and world sensation !

But as we know cricket's a funny old game
quite often it will throw up a twist,
and England got hammered by a nation
the amoeba claimed, didn't exist?
Yes, Ireland's Kevin O'Brien,
bate the pommes all over the place,
and the three went berserk,
turning first green, then red in the face!

So Vic formed a cunning plan,
to rid us of obnoxious germs,
like those found down a loo,
for how could we put up with their stink,
if England didn't get through?
He told them dumbass Amoebas some silly old spake,
that England's Paul Collingwood,
was feeding the ducks, down by Lurgan lake!

The three slithered down
to the water's edge very quick,
each wanting to be the first,
to get to the Englishman's butt for a lick,
and when they had gathered together,
Vic knew that he'd got'em,
so shoved them into the water,
were they sank straight to the bottom!

Now despite big bellies and big egos,
we know only to well
the Amoeba's a simple life form,
it has only one brain cell
and will live very happily,
down below on the base of a pond,
with its good friends the bacteria,
leeches, toad and frog spawn!

Now please don't worry yourself
about the Amoeba x three,
they say that pond life,
enjoys its own company,
down by the lake,
their voices can be heard,
still blabbing away,
about the bizarre and absurd..
So feel free to wade into the water
and on top of them release, an enormous King Richard the third!

(amoeba :
a single-celled animal which catches food and moves about by extending finger-like projections of protoplasm. Amoebas are either free-living in damp environments or parasitic.)

 

[Vic Johnston]

Formula 1 Cricket

A winning cricket team
is a much admired machine
that can be likened to a racing car.
Each component must gel and glean,
on field be ruthless, mean,
as a well tuned engine will propel it, fast and far.

The captain sits behind the wheel
knows which buttons to press, pedals to feel,
reads the road and stays in constant control.
He seeks out weakness in the opposition
to gain advantage and pole position,
then decides if to bat or if to bowl!

It's the batsman who selects the gears
as the captain guides and steers,
with perfect timing on the clutch.
First, second, third then really club her,
fourth and sixth to burn rubber
fifths hard to find, stuck in neutral..Out! Return to the hutch!

The bowler fuels a powerful carburetor
by means of the accelerator,
he can rev it up and make those pistons sing.
A tricky obstinate hairpin,
can be overcome with a little spin
then pedal on the metal, mindful of late tail end swing.

The keeper is the pick of the lads
with protective gloves and heavy pads,
he looks after handling and applies the brake.
It's his swift hand eye coordination and reaction
to why the car retains perfect traction,
as the chasing pack are left behind in her wake.

Waiting by the pit, the groundsman with assorted kit
if the track gets wet he will cover it,
prevents nasty accidents, pooling water and soggy mires.
While the car nips in for shelter
ensuring the track remains a belter
as it refuels, ablutes and changes tyres.

On the course two men in white or blue
to assist and help all through,
they uphold the law and give each relevant sign.
Undue care and attention will incur wrath,
as will running down the middle path,
if unheeded they will impose a caution,
next, its off the road with a heavy fine.

In order to pass the chequered flag
its clear each cog is required,
to assist and prevent turbo lag.
So jump onboard, though heed the words of Aristotle
'the whole is greater than the sum of its parts',
then turn the key and as she starts,
can you taste the bubbly from that big green bottle?

 

[Kennedy Parker]

Love your work mate!