George Howard

Rookie (14.02.53 / Pontefract (Broken Bridge) , UK)

It's Just A Game! - Poem by George Howard

By GeorgeHoward 08.2010

She never got on with the ‘Wembley look’
Somehow the hat, well it never quite stuck,
To the top of her head where it did clearly belong,
And as for the music! Call that a song?
She bade him “Goodbye! ” midst the noise and tumult.
He’d complained to the ref, and called it “another bad result! ”
Then came Rugby the mud, the tackling and the falls,
Men playing around with their odd shaped balls.
Huffing and puffing in a scrum with glee.
“Bathing in muddy water, with his mates, not me! ”
Golf came next, that never was a blast,
Pulling his ruddy cart, in the rain, coming last.
Then back to the “good old nineteenth! ” the watering hole.
Telling all those hole- in- one tales, selling one’s soul,
What a drive off the fifth, in one, on the green.
She’d scratched her head, must have been one, she hadn’t seen!
She didn’t explain, didn’t want to, if he couldn’t see.
She waited till the seventh, trolley in the lake, him on the tee!
“Cricket must be better! ” she’d said in great hope.
Fast bowling, or nice slow balls, she reckoned she’d cope.
Infield and outfield and silly mid on.
Stopping for tea, delicious jam on a scone.
Rain stopped play, so all into the club.
“To get your balls spinning, give it a good rub!
Wickets and bails and leather on the willow,
“Not again! ” she cried, head stuck in her pillow.
“I know Tennis! ” She’d give that a try.
“The ball was out, sir! ” was the Umpire’s cry.
Serving and volleys, give it plenty of top spin.
When it’s over the line, argue like crazy, it’s in!
Sat in the crowd, ball back and forth, head on a stick.
Making you dizzy and feeling really quite sick.
Thirty- forty, deuce! Now break point you must get!
Drinks thereafter with the Gin and Tonic set.
Floating about, out of depth, feeling like a prawn.
Too many G and T’s, throwing- up on the lawn.
He suggesting she get a taxi handing her, her jacket.
Her shouting “Fine! ” Belting him with his racket!
Tumbling out of the taxi, falling onto the floor.
A gentle hand lifting, it was John, “I’m from next door”.
She looked up to his eyes, they were sparkling and blue.
Funny that, it had always been her favourite hue!
He smiled at her now, sending her in a tizzy.
Funny now she felt once again very dizzy.
He held her in strong arms, she felt safe and complete
All that searching in vain, then the boy next door she would meet.
No boots or pads no guards, bats or numbers five, nine or seven.
Just a man from next door, a bed, and her own games, just heaven!


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Poem Submitted: Monday, August 2, 2010



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