Keith Oldrey

Keith Oldrey Poems

This glorious game, we named it cricket
The finest sport (besides our middle wicket)
How can you describe the fun we get
With mere verbs, adjectives or epithet.

Marriage is for when you find
A lover to share your life and mind
A friend, who without a doubt
You cannot possibly live without.

Sometimes no matter how hard you try
The hole’s as big as a bucket, but the ball slides by.
Then you have a day
When it goes the other way.

Plus fours, flashy sweaters and electric carts
Its golf, so you must dress the part

How we long to reach the shelf
Currently held by the poetic wealth
Shelley, Keates. Byron & Poe
Amongst those names we’d like to go

Golf is such a silly game
The less you play it-The greater the fame
But not alas for your average punter
Who stalks the long grass, more like a hunter.

Motorway traffic, all in a stew
Endless vehicles, in a queue
Onward, ever onward, trying to press
Headaches forming, all from stress

National Service, was the time when
They took young boys, and turned them into men.

I have a filing system
I know that you will adore

Watching the middle classes at art shows
Panamas and teachers with classes
Peering intently through misty glasses
At Indian carpet knotters

Give her a canvas for her delight
Give her a brush and watch her brush
To acrylitise every bit in her sight
Paint that flies, so bright and lush

Keith Oldrey Biography

Educated at Yardley Grammer School, then went in to Insurance(hated it) . National Service in the RAF 1955-57. Moved into sales in the Steel Industry and then represented a German Mill in the UK for 17 years. Finally worked as an agent selling cold rolled strip for a German Mill in the UK. Retired in 2002 and moved to Norfolk. Three children and been married happily to Beryl for 50 years. Six grandchildren and still plays cricket when he can, golf & bowls)

The Best Poem Of Keith Oldrey

Cricket-A Mans Game

This glorious game, we named it cricket
The finest sport (besides our middle wicket)
How can you describe the fun we get
With mere verbs, adjectives or epithet.
For cricket’s hardly a game at all
Overs of boredom with bat missing ball
No it’s the chat that I love
Placing this game on a plane above.
The pleasantries exchanged between bowler and bat
It doesn’t come, much better than that
The chat twixt keeper and slip
The humour without malice, the icy quip
There is nothing like the camaraderie
The laughter and the hilarity
When leather hits the inside of your knee.
Solicitous inquiries about the pain.
Captain quietly praying for a dropp of rain.
White flannelled fools in sylvan places
No rubbish talked here, of pars or aces
Leisurely walks around tree-lined grounds
Senior spectators with tales that astound
Of beamers and yorkers and players well hung
On summers evenings their praises are sung.
Nothing gives quite as much pleasure
As the craic, the fun, sounds of bat on leather
A hot summers day, the shout of HOWZAT
It just cannot get better than that.
Waking spectators from their cozy snooze.
“Well just a half then, we’ve nothing to lose”
It really doesn’t matter, win, lose or draw.
Cricket’s the game, we truly adore.

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