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Pickled poems

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0
Every thursday morning
I come downstairs
And find jibberish
Lying on the kitchen table
And usually, I bin it

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 But now
For the first time ever ….
Drunken rhetoric makes the cut!

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 ~ i ~

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 The ball rolled
And it rolled
And it rolled
It rolled on down the path ….
It was supposed to be under my control
But I watched it roll
And roll
And roll away

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 It had been lying there
In front of the house
And then ’twas approached
By the ‘legend’
Known as a mouse
A flick
A sleight of foot
That worked once upon a time
But like the absence of rhyme
The juggle
Was muddled

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 keepy uppy after pints …. never works!

7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 ~ ii ~

8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 Wednesday nights
5 a-side
Sacrosanct

9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 A weekly pleasure
Without measure
Duly thanked

10 Leave a comment on verse 10 0 If there isn’t ten
We count again
And divide into two

11 Leave a comment on verse 11 0 Hardy souls
Searching goals
Finding only a few

12 Leave a comment on verse 12 0 Play up!
Play down
And collapse

13 Leave a comment on verse 13 0 At some stage
Second wind ….
Perhaps

14 Leave a comment on verse 14 0 I’m too old
Or so I’m told
For all this palaver

15 Leave a comment on verse 15 0 But it’s what I do
And live for too
Until I’m a cadaver!

16 Leave a comment on verse 16 0 ~ iii ~

17 Leave a comment on verse 17 0 I felt humbled
As I stumbled
Giggling
And wriggling
For want of the smallest room
On the way
I chanced upon a bloom
Of creativity
Borne
Despite a sea
Of captivity
One, where the body
Refuses
Or part of the brain
Snoozes
Yet artists
With such an eye
Go beyond
The tortured ‘why?’
They’ve dropped the plaintive ‘me’
But help us to see
And capture
With a rapture
What no poet
Or footballer
Or mixture thereof
Whether sober
Or with drink
Could hope to match
Or be a patch
Upon the sleeve
As the mouth and foot
Painters weave
With agility
To so spendidly highlight
Their ability

I doff my cap,
with able-bodied hand,
to the genius of the
Mouth and foot painting artists


(ii)
For the 5-a-side troops :
Tony, Paul, Paul, Paddy
Alan, Des, Kevin, Colin, Coyler
Eamo ‘n Damo, Gary, Conor
Kieran, Terry, James, John
and not forgetting Gustavo, now back in Brazil.

Or young Paul, who broke his leg playing Gaelic, the following week.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/pickled-poems/