Out of bed as late as I dare, pick up my bag from the kitchen chair
Dash out to the street, sleep in my eyes, late again, no surprise.
Get to the ground and shabby hut, the changing rooms all locked up
'How many lads have we got today?' 'Not sure right now we're playing away'.
In we go, only ten men we've got, we now hope to win from the penalty spot
Dried mud on my boots from last weeks' game, unwashed shirts and no one to blame
The ref' turns up; all whistle and flag, 70 years old, a cough and a fag
What a sight we make as we take our place, fat and hung over, such a disgrace.
We pass the ball, in practice we're good, superstars, already blathered in mud
The pitch, like a ploughed field but undeterred, we kick off, tactics unprepared
We scream and shout give us the ball, as we huff and puff, trip, stumble and fall
Ten minutes in, we've had our fill; the opposing striker makes it one nil.
Our keeper screams, now highly strung, the midfielder gasps as he looks for his lung
The forwards cough and gasps for a smoke, defenders give chase without any hope
Nippy and zippy the opposing team, after 35 minutes they've scored fourteen
Now down to eight as our side depletes, but we carry on, facing another defeat.
Ref' looks at his watch, the whistle he blew, a half time sight, this motley crew
Come on lads we're better than this, what you doing out there? You're taking the piss
A plea goes out 'learn to pass straight', as the captain and forward, break into a fight
With bloody nose and black eye, back onto the field, its do or die.
It's not going to plan; in fact it's going to hell, another five goals, in a 12-minute spell
Now twenty two nil, but we're not beat yet, as a miracle happens, a corner we get
The ball is kicked, wrong direction it soared, it bullets down wind an own goal is scored
Awe! Referee! he tries his best, up and down he runs in his string vest
All studded and scarred as we try and play, this stupid game on this stupid day
Remembering back, how fit we where, when we where young without a care
But refusing to give up our yesterdays, we carry on in our veteran ways
Lighting speed, and quality flair, has made way for clumsy despair.
One last attempt, only a minute or two, we can still come back, 'put the ball through'
As the pass is chased, a trip, a fall, sixteen stone of deadweight nowhere near the ball
A penalty is given, the ref' must be blind, but who cares, we're twenty eight behind
Our forty year old striker, who used to be good, places the ball in the wet mud.
The pitch is silent, the wind blows around, with baited breath, without a sound
Our striker bounds up with all the grace, of a drunken giraffe falling flat on its face
With one last effort he connects with his boot, the power of a snail he begins to shoot
The keeper is rooted, our striker swings hard, his miscued shot, the ball moves a yard
The whistle is blown to end the match, another drubbing, dejected heads we scratch
If we played better, a win we could sneak, but never mind, there's always next week
Poetry - Job Description (The Confessional Poet) By Sandra Lester
The essential qualities required
- for this unique, Christ-like bard- are:
The ability to receive eccentric tutelage
twenty-four/seven from your muse.
You must ponder aloud for all to hear,
emotional abstractions, musings and fears.
Perceiving, feeling and thinking in ink - from a well-spring Read more...
Poetry - Larkin 25 - Who Do You Think You Are? By Catherine Scott
Many Hull people are aggrieved
At the way they feel that Hull's perceived
If Southern Softies are to be believed
Hull should never have been conceived.
Just who do they think they are?
We don't have Kew Gardens or the O2 Arena
St Paul's Cathedral or the tennis for Serena
Poetry - Larkin 25 - Declined Laureate By Mark Walmsley
Philip Arthur Larkin,
Rough diamond set in loose facet
As once described 'The saddest heart,
in post war supermarket'
A piquant mixture of discontent
And one of poetic lyricism.
Critiqued tides of modern jazz
He steeped his work in dour pessimism
Poetry - Larkin 25 - The Suburbs By Gary Clark
You don't want to live there.
Says the condescending old biddy at the end of the phone
With a tone in her voice that cuts to the bone.
Already I'm a loser and she hasn't seen my face
A feeling you get used to when you come from this place.
I feel as though I'm rubbish when I'm talked to like this
Drummed into me daily since I was a kid.
Poetry - Larkin 25 - One Straight Road By Julie Corbett
Holderness Road you stray
from edge to heart of my city.
Your miles once paced by
cream telephone boxes.
You pass over veins,
from the Wolds and Holderness Plain
Barmston and Marfleet Drains
the brackish water mixing with,
Poetry - The Boathouse By Michelle Dee
I recall this night with warm, inviting people,
huddled around fires, within and without.
I remember passing around wine and
losing all sense of time.
Faded news cut-outs fragmenting on bathroom walls. And
the dusty allure of an overcrowded kitchen.
I see pictures of fire-lit faces;
Poetry Larkin 25 - It Really Was!
(Inspired by Annus Mirabilis)
By Mike Watts
Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen eighty three
(Which was brilliant for me) -
Between the end of Tennessee Williams
And Madonna's first LP
Up till then they'd only been
A sort of wanking
A secret stash of porn
Poetry - Larkin 25 - This Be The Curse (Inspired by This Be The Verse) By Joe Hakim
They fucked us over, our mums and dads.
They didn't mean to but they did.
They took free education, cheap housing and jobs
And left nothing for us, their kids.
Because they inherited the future,
Opportunity, optimism and hope,
While we got disappointment,
Poetry - Larkin 25 - Larkin With Us By Gary Clark
The Hull you knew has long since gone
How could it remain the same?
The deep sea port you wrote about
The town you wouldn't name
The grim faced, head scarved northern wives,
With Kathy Kirby lips.
Dusty Springfield peroxide blondes,
Poetry - Kowalski's OGM - With audio download By Brindley Hallam Dennis
So, ya got through to Kowlaski's number.
Well, Kowalski ain't 'ome.
Mildred, that's his old lady, she ain't 'ome either.
Ya see, that's what ya get.
That's what ya get fer callin' such a dumb-ass hour.
That means you Hank.
Ya wanna leave a message, talk to the machine when it beeps.
Poetry - The Gap By Chris Culshaw
He lives in a bedsit now,
in a house peopled by footfalls, piles
of junk mail on the mahogany hall-stand
where a broken umbrella hangs
like a snared crow beside the pocked mirror.
His room in the eaves looks out over
sooty privets, to a gap between
Poetry - Handing Down By Trevor Matthews
She was sitting at my kitchen table
looking at her hands.
These, she said, are my mother's hands.
She had big hands like these.
Every time I look at them now I see her,
and she held them up in front of me.
Bright sun pierced the thinning flesh.
Inside I saw the shadows of her bones
Poetry - Harrogate Bedrock, 1899 By Sarah Hymas
What I love about you
I have yet to quarry.
Your worn granite face
holds the promise of mica
and buttoned sandstone,
a cladding for our home.
As limestone is local diamond,
Poetry - Don't Know How To Put It In Words By Dayne Coyne
Don't know how to put it in words
But I'm wanting to thank you
For being so honest with me
And though it might sound absurd:
But, apart from myself,
It is you who most helps me to be
So excuse me if I seem pedantic
Poetry - I Don't Know What To Do By Zachary Brannon
I don't know what to say, what to do;
all I can ever think about is you!
Not sure what you think about me never have been;
But in the end it's your heart
I hope to win! I
Will always be around, always here;
My heart, I'm sure, even skips a beat
Whenever you come near.
Poetry - This Is Not A Love Poem By Mike Watts
A hole through
My breast bone
My still beating heart
And then volley it
Out of sight
Poetry - Since You Came By Bronwyn Ellis
Is it a chore?
And nothing more
A phase you killed off years before?
A painful bore?
An anger cure?
An 'I can't be bothered anymore?'
We're both so young
Love should be fun
As good as when we'd first begunRead more...
Poetry - Acres Wide By Terry Ireland
Come sleep with me she said
Bring some warmth to my bed
That seems to spread acres wide
Now that it's empty on his side
Just for a while hold me tight
Shorten just one endless night
So full of hours that I have wept
Until exhausted and finally slept
Poetry - Larkin 25 - It's Good Innit? By Catherine Scott
This is Hull - wot we got?
Unemployment, no motivation
Teenage mums, no inspiration
It's good innit?
This is Hull - wot we got?
Beggars on street
Coppers on beat
Poetry - The Last Great Adventure? By Laurenceaux.
An 'end-game' of addiction, the despair of a life only going one-way: some people are pre-disposed to drug abuse, as they are to alcohol abuse, quite possibly because they are 'bored', but more probably because they have lost essential feelings of self-worth or have become detached from mainstream society, a society with ever increasing demands for total conformity.
Poetry - I Lost a Girl and a Car By John Dervishian
You shit on my car
because I was
but that's alright
I was days shy
of getting that
anyway Read more...
Poetry - Another Night Out By John Dervishian
She pours my drink
As often as
And she pours
A Jack on the rocks Read more...
Poetry - The Nearly Men By Terry Ireland
I am one of the nearly men
Never quite the best
Not really of the crowd
Not quite one of the rest.
You see us in every photograph
When the prizes are handed out
Making up the numbers yet Read more...
Poetry - Persecution Express By Mark Walmsley
A full head of steam, to fulfil one mans dream,
The train leaves the station, with recognisation
Bellowing black smoke, as the cargo does choke
The heave and strain, of the departing train
Carriages all broken, blindness no token,
The screams and the wails, at the stories and tales
Across field and valley, does not dilly-dally,
Poetry - An Old Vets Christmas By David Delaney
He shuffles down a quiet darkened street,
alone, he always dreads this time of year,
cause locals, he just does not wish to meet.
He eats collected scraps and drinks warm beer.
Now as the rain begins to softly fall
he crawls beneath a long deserted shop,
and hears the singing from the nearby hall
Poetry - Dreams By Dino
These are the things
I'd like to call dreams
These are the things
That are just dreams
Big glass heads
With eyes of despair
Poetry - Easy By Jessica Meador
It's so much easier
When I can't stand
Living in this
When I can't stand
Poetry - Gone Forever By Katelyn Langston
As I looked across the glimmering lake all I could do was sigh,
for I could never forget my husband, for he watches me way up high.
I can hear his old chair creak, when the whispering wind blows,
I still see his jacket on the coat rack when it snows.
I miss his soft and tender voice, coming from the den,
I miss his gentle footsteps whenever he came in. Read more...
Poetry - Out Rage By Belinda Barchard
pacing up and down
no one around
to hear the sound of me screaming
my gut wrenching squealing
might as well stop breathing
grab my wrists
and pin me down