Poems Entered in 2009

One hundred and six poets submitted a poem for the inaugural Cricket Poetry Award competition.

The judges, Adam Gibson and Jessica Halloran mentioned that a great majority of the one hundred and six poems were of a very high standard.

As such, they had a very challenging time when reading and re-reading all poems; having to make some very hard decisions in the end to get the field down to twenty for the first public reading; then select the last four for the reading at the Cricket Art Prize opening.

Adam and Jessica were particularly attracted to poems that “…spoke about how cricket was interwoven with life in an unforced and natural manner…”

“It’s Just Not Cricket” by Jude Aquilina

It just isn’t cricket

breaking two louvres in Dad’s shed

everyone scattering; losing pocket money for months.

It’s just not cricket

Daisy out Daschund sausageing

between legs, George the galah shrieking ‘Howzat!’

It just isn’t cricket

older brothers using me as the wicket

always caught first bowl, cheeks redder than the ball.

It’s just not cricket

that magnificent Chapelli dive

caught right on pile of Daisy’s pitch fertiliser

It just isn’t cricket

neighbours’ gutters plugged with balls

tin shed beyond the wickets, pitted like orange skin.

It’s just not cricket

mother yelling, declaring death

to all who don’t come to tea on this final and third call.

It just isn’t cricket

when big spots of rain raise Adelaide dust

flood the back lawn with coolness and laughter.

But it is cricket

when the gates at Adelaide Oval open

and we cheer the home eleven to victory once again.

“The Dream of the Baggy Green” by Gary Armstrong

Once I even dared to dream

I’d one day wear the Baggy Green.

As Dad gave me my first small bat

I wish it came with the bottle green hat.

I dreamt I wore it sitting high

and plundered runs as the years went by.

As other interests came and went

the dream of green – it never bent.

But now alas, I have a son

and the Baggy Green was never won.

He now dreams long and hard as I

once did and for the cap does try.

I watch him play for his local team

guess what – his helmets’ shiny green!

And as he strives for the baggy cap

I sit close by and clap and clap.

So old test men who’ve gone before

and worn the cap but once or more.

As your baggy caps sit on the shelves

think of those boys in the under twelves.

“Mum’s Backyard” by John Ahern

The Victa mower slammed low to the grass

Striping everything green in a twenty yard pass

The matriarch panicked “What’cha doing to my lawn?”

The curator dumbfounded “Cricket season has dawned”

Tennis ball waist taped, ashes rules read and proofed

No LB: six and out; one hand catch off the roof

A gentleman’s game, snick and walk or face strife

Two boys and their fieldsman, cricket brings them to life

Garden Bed lined at slips

Rubbish Binney wheeled far deeper

Hills Hoist spun round to cover

Old Matt Ress, the land’s greatest keeper!

The Thommo sling was bodyline ripping into the cage

The batsman leapt, the bowler danced in rage

Cac Tus, he juggled the sharpest of snatch

Replayed forever, a classic catch

Not rain, broken pane of mums’ calling light

Stopped the two lads slashing fight

Yet when March arrived one sledge went on

“Repair my bloody lawn, junior Don!”

“The Democracy of Cricket” by Don Adams

Cricket.

Pre-Cromwellian origins.

Early years haphazard. Schools, clubs, countries.

Embraced by Britain’s colonies.

Adopting their own styles.

A game played princes, urchins, professionals.

Ah, but only one gate now.

The venues are backyards, beaches, parks, paddocks

overlooked by corrugated iron grandstands, or flatbed trucks and utes.

Concrete behemoths, tree shaded swards of green,

the teeming streets of India, Sri Lanka, the Veldt,

coconut palms and white sands,

the playing fields of Eton.

The contrasts are emphatic.

For those who only watch –

Reflecting today’s society are games

played at urgent speed.

The bish bash of Twenty Twenty, the One Day format

with its ever changing rhythms reaching a crescendo –

most times. As democracy demands

a widening choice.

Cricket – for all ages, stages, colour or creed.

Please, I ask you, Gods of Sport,

‘Bless all flannelled fools’.

Whatever colour cloth.

Roll on Summer!

“Cricket Dream” by Graham Austin

I was

dreaming

very vividly

of playing

serious cricket,

wickedly,

wearing white

and suddenly

finding myself

run right

out, no score.

It was not

a pleasant

dream at all.

So I don’t dream

of cricket

anymore.

How’s that?

Cricket seemed

for me

bad luck,

no score,

I was out,

out for a

duck!

“Willow, Tit Willow, Tit Willow” by Roger Summers Barrow

The crack of leather on willow echoed through the trees

As Aunt Rose poured tea from her old thermos into metal cups

‘My my’, said Uncle Charlie, ‘that fella can swing a bag’, as he

Put two lumps of sugar into one of the cups

The fourth Sunday was a very special day for certain people

Such folk that would always be found at the oval on that day

The locals invited neighbouring teams to visit

And albeit social, the competition was fiercely tuff

Crack – and another one shot to the rope

Crack again, and again, – ‘Good thing we have a retire at 25 rule’, said Mum

‘Don’t you worry love’ said Uncle Charlie, ‘your Donny’ll get him

Smart lad your Donny, – I’m his uncle you know’

We didn’t win that day, but that didn’t matter

Aunt Rose’s scones were the best she’d ever baked

I reckon

“Timed Out” BY Lyle Barwick

With bat and ball

Crickets for all

And it began with the cricket test.

That went 5 days

And in most ways

The test showed crickets best.

Then you know

For greater show

We got to the one day.

Quick and fast

The overs past

Hey, what a way to play!

Now the latest thing

In the cricket ring

Is the 20/20 game.

Six after six

A quick fire mix

But cricket just in name!

So what’s next?

Well I regret

The game might be even quicker!

Bowl 20 balls

And that’s all

The cricket’s just a flicker.

So crickets gone

As time went on

From test 20/20.

Maybe soon we’ll see

Over the break for tea

That six ball cricket’s plenty!

But the dwindling game

Is such a shame

And not in the spirit of cricket

So I suggest

We do our best

And avoid that sticky wicket!

“Driveway Cricket” by Stephen J Bolger

Roll your arm over, face a few;

I’m Ian Chappell and Dennis Lillie, which player are you.

Brother versus brother, neighbours against mates;

The driveway became the cricket pitch, once we opened the side gates.

Bins for stumps, cracks in concrete the crease;

Taped up tennis ball, movement if you hit the car spilt grease.

Automatics slips and wicketkeeper, for edges against garage doors;

A majority rule was umpire, or who had the loudest roar.

Fielders placed all round you, stirring as ball is bowled;

Straight drive best scoring option, along the ground to be safe we’re told.

Over the top more exciting, soaring past clutching hands ducking heads;

Shouts of catch it, miss hits ricochet off fence palings and sheds.

Parents come out screaming who did it, after glass window hits cement floor;

Don’t’ tell me it was Chappell of Lillie, or your driveway cricket days are no more.

“Keep Dreaming” by Glenn Butcher

I was maybe 8 year old, curled up on the floor

Transistor held up to my ear, to try and catch the score

I had a dream that night, when I finally fell asleep

I’ve had it more than once since then, so…it’s my dream to keep

I dreamt of modern heroes, with me right by their side

Going into battle, as we faced the rising tide

I dreamt of joyous moments, of matches always won

I dreamt of days spent with these men, beneath the blazing sun

Everyone has dreams, of what we want and sometimes need

I had those dreams when I was young, not knowing where they’d lead

Now I’m forty-five, but I still dream that same dream

One day I’ll open the batting for the Australian Cricket Team

“We Love the Well-Worn Cliche?s” by Mike Barr

We love the well-worn cliche?s,

Of the world’s most noble game.

We’re nourished when we hear them,

Again and again and again.

We love the agriculture shot,

A hoick, cow-corner bound.

We hear the batsman’s gardening,

If he’s just been knocked around.

He drives and pulls to the boundary rope,

He blocks with the straightest bat.

He hangs the washing out to dry,

He snicks – he’s gone – “owzat”?

The leggie gives it air they say,

It drifts and spins and turns.

A batsman deceived by the flight,

And another wicket earned.

Chin-music played by a quickie,

A ball that whistles past.

A batsman dances down the pitch,

To a crowd in song at last!

He’s plumb, he’s stumped or caught behind,

The batsman’s face asks why.

The umpire’s finger’s raised again

To the pavilion in the sky.

“Dad’s Team” by Elizabeth Blackmore

Mohammad’s behind the wicket,

trying his new glove,

he’s a member of the dream team

at number 41.

Dad is the umpire

the coach and manager too,

and Jessie is the spinner,

(she’s the best that we can do.)

Max is at square leg,

he lives at 31,

and Khoa is in the gully,

he knows how it is done,

his sister Kim’s beside him

to learn what to do

and from 26 came Speedy, the lad from

Kathmandu,

and there’s Tran Ho and “Bouncer,”

who’s good at catching balls,

so Dad put them near the windows,

and Grandma’s keeping score.

Their mob is out for 49 and we are set to bat

Dad sets the fielders around the yard,

They’re anxious and alert…..

then

“L U N C H”

is called and poor old dad is left

smack

bang

in the lurch.

“It’s Tradition Grannie!” by Vikki Bye

Be it Christmas or Birthday. Do we need an excuse?

There out family will be with bat and ball out on the loose.

Grannies, Gramps, Nan’s, Mum’s and Dad’s and kids galore.

Millie and Mya have got everything and they head for the door.

They hear no excuse that the adults have said.

Like we’re overfed or we feel half dead.

We troop over to the nearby Park.

Spread out our arena, the girls will play until dark.

Our rules are simple baseball and cricket rolled into one.

But there is no discussion…it’s absolutely tippity run.

Family divisions make for rival teams although some try to hide.

But no-one is escaping form the match and losing your pride.

Game begins, there’s a fast bowl and a miss.

There’s a couple on the outer having a kiss.

Husband and wife face off against each other.

She hits the ball that hard she near knocked out her brother.

We laugh, we limp, we stumble and some can still run.

But the best of all is we have such fun.

We straggle home at the end of play.

We may be sore and wrecked but we’ve had the best day.

So when the little ones stand with the bat and ball

And “Cricket in the Park’s” what they call.

We can groan and moan but we will never say no!

It’s tradition Grannie and we’ve just gotta go.

“Heavens First X1” by Sharon M Barnes

English Charles Bannerman

Australia’s first cap

First test century

First test match

Legendary Victor Trumper

Style, skill and grace

Century before lunch

Ruler of the ball.

Gentlemanly Bert Oldfield

Precision at the stump

Concussed by bodyline

Personified the game.

Potent Claire Grimmett

Lethal delivery mix

Clamed eleven wickets

Ashes test match

Captain Bill Woodfull

Confronted bodyline

“Two teams out ther

Only ones playing cricket”.

Grandfather Victor Richardson

Chorus Chappell boys

Donned nineteen test caps

Leader of his state.

Sir Don Bradman

Known as ‘The Don’

Confounded bowlers everywhere

Our best batsman ever.

‘Tiger’ Bill O’Rielly

Spinner of renown

Took twenty-seven wickets

Against England’s bodyline.

‘Nugget’ Keith Miller

Mastered bat and ball

Tallied seven centuries

Rattled one and all.

‘Nervous’ Norm O’Neil

Stumped his opposition

2000+ runs in ‘61

“The New Bradman’.

Memorable David Hookes

Always wanted more

Destroyed imperfect bowlers

Sadly miss by all.

“The Backyard Cricket Test Match” by Francesco Bova

“Chappelli” Pete looks up in the heat

He taps his bat on the backyard concrete

Maxy Frank “Walker” leans on the far fence

He is on the longest possible run up-5 m and tense

The keeper Enzo “Marsh” motions for the off cutter show

In comes “Walker”, its full and it deviates sharply as it clips the toe

Ahhhhh !! How’s That? Out !

No way ! is the other shout.

“Walker” appeals to “Marsh”

He nods and raises the finger, “Chappelli” splutters “that’s bloody harsh”.

The new batsman strides to the crease

The neighboring old lady looks out of her window, her glee and interest on the increase

At the top of the mark its “Tommo” Pete

Frank “Walker” thinks he can’t be beat

But then. “bowled” he’s dead meat!

“Dinners ready” emerges a cry from deep mid on

This is backyard test cricket-tomorrow its back on.

“An Analysis of Cricket” by Ruth Coleman

There are quizzical terms applied in cricket,

Some players may speak of ‘a sticky wicket’,

Then of course there have been many quips,

Concerning fielders, deployed ‘in slips’,

It is rather difficult not to scoff,

At terms like ‘silly mid-on’ and ‘mid off’,

But it would seem it’s quite the ticket,

To slice a ball to ‘deep mid-wicket’,

You may be sure you are doing fine,

If you smash a six to the boundary line.

To deliver a ‘googly’ considered wise,

When hoping to take the batsman by surprise.

But despite all this hype,

I don’t mean to gripe,

I write with the best of endeavour,

For champ or beginner,

This game is a winner,

Which no doubt will go on forever.

“Test Bowler” by Alec Choate

W approve the cricket ball’s image

with its blood-coloured wrapping

enhanced by a fingerprint’s scorching,

a bat’s sharpe bruising

and the dirt’s smear from the pitch, for what is it

but a miniature and dangerous world?

It is this that our hero’s fingers

are more than the master of,

this circle they entendril and twist

no less than they twist

and entendril the hearts of the crowd that seethes

in the big game’s temple, cheering and urging him on.

The bowler is god, the ball his world

and as it bites at the pitch

shrewdly, and hisses the bat aside,

he follows it through

to see the tall stumps slump and the bails splashing.

Punching his proud fist up through the cheering air

he stands for his due.

“Fang Prior Bowls Fast” by Peter Crossing

Fang Prior bowls fast

So fast

So fast the slips seem further away

Than Fang at the top of his mark

So far away

I can’t hear them sledge

I can hear Fang though

In my face, all a-lather

After the first ball whistles past

Back and across to the next

Thunderbolt

The ball ricochets to third man

And the vibrating bat still jars my hand

As I scramble a run

Off strike

I can breathe again

“Don’t grin at me when you play shots like that”

Fang Prior bowls fast

So fast

So fast I never call him Fang

“Wrong Calling” by C. Clive

His awesome mind, a masterpiece

was filled with Rome and ancient Greece.

He was, of course, a Classicist;

a scholar too, if you insist.

When down from college, sometimes would,

play cricket, though he wasn’t good.

In face, he drove the locals mad,

by quoting from The Iliad.

All catches, he would drop, with ease,

when thoughts were turned to Sophocles.

And seeking runs, he wouldn’t bawl,

but gently “veni unum” call.

His mates, not one a learned gent,

would wonder what the hell he meant!

They’d shake their heads, in serious doubt –

and the proceed to run him out.

“Mum’s Eye View” by Danielle Clarke

Alarm shatters the silence

Oh crap! It’s Saturday morning

Come on, wake up!

Shovel down breakfast, brush sets of teeth.

Kit is packed for the spring christening

Rearview mirror lights up

With anticipation twinkling in his eyes.

Steaming coffee, chair, rug, food

Dewy grass sweats my shoes

A mirage of bleached skinny boys

Sisters crying, I’m bored!

Newspaper waits

I browse and chat and watch.

Green knees and grins

Suddenly a cheer

Howzat!

He’s at the crease

Tapping the pitch like punta

Blood pumps through our veins

Cherry red blur whistles

He takes a step and…

Crack!

Eyes high

Flying free

One bounce over the boundary

A glance at mum – thumbs up

Clean bowled next ball

He runs straight over

“Did you see that shot mum?”

“Yeah mate – what a beauty!”

It’s all worth it

The spirit of cricket.

“Back Then” by Jenny Collins

Neighbour’s kids peeking through broken pickets,

Wide-eyed, snotty nosed, watching wickets.

A weary ball, stitches witherey worn,

Rubbing against trousers, blanched and torn

A blue singlet bowler with missing tooth,

Batsman swinging leather onto corrugated roof

Splattery smack into dunny, dog’s bowl and veggie patch

While diving magpies disrupt the great match.

Stretching towards crease, another stump falls

Licketty spit on twitching fingers, bowling balls.

Concentrated sweat, beer bellied bodies

Tight grips, splintered bat, slapping hands on mozzies

Brylcreamed Dad, sun screened nose

Caught!

So close, but tripping on coiled hose.

Red faces, sleeves rolled, it’s on for one and old

Backyard innings such a sight to behold.

Kids smiles swelling, minds filling with a dream

Illusions of fielding in the Aussie team.

Garbage bin wicket clanging in defeat,

Competitive rellies smiling in the heat.

Barking, screeching, the hard earned shout

The picketty, wicketty, cricketty shout

OUT!

“The Over” by Geoff Clough

‘Bowl, bowl, bowl, bowl, bowl, bowl,

That’s all there is to it!’ said the captain.

It was the last over.

The bowler bowled an unplayable ball

and followed it with two others –

no runs were made.

The fourth ball went for a six

followed by a four –

just agonizing inches within the rope.

Now seven were required to win the match!

The next ball was just an inch above the fielder’s outstretched fingers.

He ran to gather it and in one motion tested his strong right arm

and took the bails off.

But both batsman were in their crease –

they had already made three runs,

still running they crossed twice

while the ball crisply divided the fielders and happily crossed the boundary

for four.

They had won!

The over isn’t over till it’s over

(or is you haven’t lost your middle stump you can still bail out!)

“The Boy Who Refused To Fail”

He was a local boy who gave his all, wickets would fall when he had the

Ball

He could make the ball swing, maybe even sing

Some said he was quick & some said he was slow, but which way it would

go they really didn’t know

Then came a time should he stay, should he go, or head up north & put on

a show

So up north he trudged, where he couldn’t be budged

Now it was time to live his dream, finally it arrived his very own Baggy

Green

He was the boy who refused to fail, out old mate Adam Dale

“In a Land of White Picket-Fences” by John Carey

as a kid, I learned the slow-bowler’s craft,

arm-speed jerked into a quick inertia

by the work of the wrist and fingers, like a plane

tripped to a halt on a carrier’s deck,

blisters raised from knuckle to nail

on my scholar’s skin. A win on points

if the batsman lifted a cover-drive,

a knockout if he left his crease

and was flummoxed by loop or spin

or shaped to cut, then paddled the wrong-un

waist-high straight back at you.

Behind it was a dream of Baggy Green,

a trip to the hub of Empire, grand adventure,

a Gallipoli o fmock-battles and camaraderie.

In multicultural Sydney now, the carrot-tops

are sparser, but what can’t be bred out

is the dream. Of your name enshrined

in the immortal lines of a BBC pundit,

student of Homer and Chaucer: “Miller

takes his sweater and strides off”.

“Cricket Lovers” by Rohan Dawson

Tradition! How we trounce your name in the dust

How we slyly respect you when it suits us

We doff our baggy green cap to loyal fans

And sell it in the market-place for thousands

The match of which I speak was highly fraught

The pride of nations could not as yet be bought

by indiscreet gestures of superstars

mingling with deep-pocketed bookies in bars

The teams had sweated, embattled and toiled

And the final redoubt had twin nations embroiled

The last over bowled would decide the champion

Both teams squared off and set their jaws-a-workin’

Trevor Chappell charged like a train at the crease

And he winked at his brother – a traitor’s treatise

And he insulted our nation with a bowl poorly tossed

And the result stays in limbo, between a win and a loss.

“Flaming Cricket (U15’s)” by Tru S. Dowling

Bowler moseys,

limbs like gangly stag-horns,

a pause, paws turf, turns

and bows, begins the charge

rhythm slung wing to wing,

a shuffle-skip carousels

a loose lasso skims midair

poised swung,

crack!

bauble a kitten pounces at

Christmas, mid-tree

lands on all fours on ground’s

brown hide, take a buffalo tumble

rubs seed like talc fizz on baggy

whites a suture squint on sun-flint

cock-eyes his target

‘Jake the Peg’ flashes the trifecta

dream abuzz in his brain

whittling away tunnel vision

sling shot precision a split

decision, which crease

to pinball, which rabbit runner?

Cicadas ti-ti-tizzz ears, the dog shit stinks

pungent-sweet in razor grass, urgent sweet

as their puppy shouts, as sweet as sweat

thirsting a break

Theses trophy-green knees,

knuckle sheets to the breeze, appease

fissure gap Gods like hand-fed pockets,

slipping pretence like a yawn under

a shady brim, under the intensity of

midday heat.

“The Charge of the Left Brigade” by Phillip Donnell

Half a term, half a term,

Half a term onward,

All to a Canberra park

Strode by the hundred.

Forward to the captains sped!

“We choose to bat!” Rudd said:

Certain as taxes and death

Foes would be plunder’d!

M.P.s to right of them,

M.P.s to left of them,

Jenkins in front of them,

Postur’d and thunder’d:

Bowl’d at like shot and shell,

Deftly they drove and well,

Into the jaw of Brown!

Gave Malcolm Turnball hell!

Flow’d to 300!

Flash’d all their willows bare,

Flash’d as they turn’d in air

Stunning spectators there,

Charging for vict’ry, while

Opponents blunder’d:

Blitzreiged each boundary bloke!

Right thro’ the cordons broke!

Nats, Greens and Lib’rals

Reel’d from each master-stroke,

Chatter’d and chunder’d,

Numbed by the flak, until

Surged the 600!

When can their glory fade?

O what a score they made!

All the world wonder’d

Stupendous accolade!

Honour the left Brigade!

Record 900!

“Frontyard Cricket” by Philip Duke

Your call “Hills or Flats”

The old Gray-Nic was spun

The winner would no doubt bat

The bowler mark his run

Facing my brother’s beamers

With my best Chappelli stance

Those taped tennis ball seamers

I hardly stood a chance

What with electric wickets

And one hand one bounce

If Marshy didn’t glove the snicks

The Garage wall would pounce

Sometimes you’d get some runs

And raise the bat to the crowd

Then scratch out your guard again

Requesting “Middle please” loud and proud

Over the Martin’s fence was six and out

That took a pretty good slog

“you hit it, you fetch”

And watch out for Lucky the dog

Dad appeared to call us in

As darkness closed the day

Only the death rattle thud of the bin

Could force the end of play.

“Freedom Run” by Allan Dumbleton

Our modest heath sparkles

This brilliant blue day

Located on the rocky edge

Of Port Phillip Bay

Scratching my mark

Thrips jump as weeds flower

At the top of the run

The wicket looks flat

Though bowling is not merciless

Under today’s temperate sun

Focusing straight ahead

“Keep it up”

“Outside off”

My team mates plead

Its been worth the wait

This magnificent game named cricket

I truly love, appreciate

Watching the batsmen taking guard

Any thoughts of the past weeks pressures

I totally discard

Umpire calls “play”

I start to shuffle, then jog

Sea breezes through my disheveled hair

Breaking out, momentum builds

Through this journey, the freedom run

My rhythm feels good

Flowing as planned

Course of the match

Gripped in my hand

Feeling the grass beneath

Stand by strand

Busily surging towards the crease

A great sensation –

The perfect release

“Cricket – Long May it Reign” by Gwenda M. Elleray

Cricket is catching, but it’s not a disease

men, women and children – play it with ease

In clubs, parks and often the beach

cricket’s the game within everyone’s reach.

A wicket might be a rust old bin

when a game is played, each side wants to win.

Mums, dads and kids galore

watch them play asking, “What’s the score?”

Club cricketers happy when Summer begins

hoping the Season brings many wins

Test players waiting – have they made the Team?

for some it’s ‘old hat’, others a dream.

Playing or watching this wonderful game

enjoy it all – and LONG MAY IT REIGN!

“Can You Change My View of Cricket?” by Jan Facey

Can someone please persuade me, ‘cause I just don’t understand

Why cricket is so popular and loved around this land?

I’m not the vast majority and that is plain to see,

For cricket’s slow and boring when I watch it on TV.

One throws the ball (yes, “pitches”) but must hold his arm just right.

Another with a wooden bag then hits with all his might.

The others all just stand around in swelt’ring, scorching sun.

Their sanity must be adrift, or maybe they have none!

There also is a fetish where they need to rub the ball

On pure white “nether-parts”, now stained – no modesty at all.

It’s fun when every game is shortened briefly on the news –

A day’s game now two minutes – great! … Or can you change my views?

“Randwick Juniors” by Lewis Fitz-Gerald

One tips his face toward the sun,

His narrow squint like Waugh. Just nine.

The other dreams of a maiden ton,

A last ball driven four. They’re mine.

My sons. Each summer’s pencil scratch

Proves them taller than before;

In gleeful leaps, as though to catch,

I chalk their childhoods ‘gainst a door.

Hand-me-downs and cut down bats,

Red-rubbed whites and salt-rimmed hats,

Backyard, beach, or on fresh-mown,

The treasure game, of summers flown.

It’s willow’s crack on burnished leather

That punctuates our time together;

Summer’s rhythmic, sweat-stained heat.

The days they win, the days they’re beat,

I count like gold.

I hoard happiness, un-counted runs,

And bless my luck, and my tow sons.

I bank their joy ‘gainst change of season,

I smile at them for no good reason,

And happily, grow old.

“The Cricketer” by Michael John Foster

First memories under a Hills Hoist

Dodging Mum’s washing, you had no choice

Rusty centre pole, homemade wickets

Cracking concrete path, your brother trying to tweak it

Dad’s tennis racket first, before the plastic bat

Nah not out, didn’t touch it; rubbish howzat!

Christmas holidays, sand between your toes

Caravan Park full of kids, all ready to go

Skippers chosen, you’re the last one picked

Worn tennis ball spraying the sandy pitch

Scores tied, one delivery to go,

Cracked high over the ocean, the waves below

Legs pounding you dive wildly; suddenly the ball grips your hand

Grinning like a lunatic you finally stand

Boxing Day Test, first baggy green.

Newest member of the Australian team

You can smell Mum’s washing; feel your feet in the sand

You once took the catch of the year, an absolute pearler, with only one

hand.

“Coastline Cricket” by Ann Fenton

Two hours before dinner

We’ve had our siesta

It’s about time

For a cricket fiesta!

We can all have a go

Here on the sand

Cousins and friends

will give us a hand…

Get out the kit

Tennis ball, bin and bat

That’s about it

Plus sunscreen and hat

Mark up our pitch

On a field of gold

Six on each side

New talent and old

The toss is won

The fun has begun

First batsman – be bold!

On no, out first ball

A quacker, then a wacker

The seagulls scatter

Every run matters

We’re on a roll

But wickets fall…

Our turn to bowl

Full toss prowess

Demolition in progress

A hat trick – that’s it!

Shadows are strengthening

Sun’s rays lengthening

Time to pack up now

Let’s take a bow

A sporting performance

In a game of substance

Cricket

Yes, CRICKET

Who’d ever get sick of it!

“Now That is Cricket” by Bette Guy

Deep Fine Leg. Now that is cricket.

Slips 1,2,3 guard the wicket.

The Keeper Squats ‘till it is over,

Mid-On squares up to the bowler.

Short Third Man hears mighty whack

Which sends Deep Third man racing back.

When bat smacks ball high in the air,

Long Off and Long On wait out there.

Silly Point, the Batsman’s terror,

Waits calmly for the careless error.

The Bowler bowls with speed of light,

Bewildering the Batsman’s sight.

As he thrusts out at the flashing ball,

Scattering fielders with the call.

But foolish in the stress to win,

The leg performs the fatal sin.

“How’s that!” The players jump and shout.

The Umpire solemnly rules him out.

The Batsman walks. The crowd applauds.

The next man in has played at Lords.

And play resumes. Now that is cricket.

The Bowler dreams of another wicket.

“Christmas Day Cricket” by Daniel Haberfield

Summer sun shines, family surround

Batter stands protected ground.

Bowler glares, ball does shimmer

No room for a cricketing sinner.

“Givvit to ‘im!” his father cries,

A glint in his eye, intensifies.

Glory beckons, one more ball,

On stride, he hears the call.

He turns in fright, without delight

Surely he’d not crossed that line of white!

Tempers flare, fury rages

Family banter from the ages!

Uncle Snagger, arm stretched out

“No ball!” the call he did shout.

“Thong slid over!” he explained

Another run, batters gained.

Family pride on the line,

No time, to defend the crime.

He turned, ran, to give his best!

Fast ball rose toward the chest.

Off-hand, they watched it bounce,

Short-leg gave, a desperate pounce.

“What a catch!” all began,

Then set upon, short-leg Nan!

Taking plaudits in her stride,

She looked around with hard-earned pride.

What bound family, one and all?

Christmas, of course, and a bright red ball!

“The Legacy – Mateship and Cricket” by Helen Harvey

As fledglings in an untamed land

they forged their way with sweat and brand.

As men, they fought – brothers in arms;

those who returned, then tilled the farms.

For they were born a bold young race,

with fiery will upon each face.

In this new land, they learned to love,

their sons picked up the bat and glove.

In small backyards or outback school,

they honed their skills and learnt the rules.

Out of the dust they rose to be

one of the best in World’s history.

In their footprints, we’ve travelled far;

their spirit has made us who we are.

From vast outback to cricket ground

their legacy can still be found.

We do not know what lies ahead,

as in this century now we tread.

Long live a sport that made us great,

for it’s Australian as ‘mate’.

“Backyard Cricket” by Paul Hetherington

When Peter was caught behind, late afternoon

glinted on the fence, and Annie frowned,

picking up the bat with gaffer tape.

Five runs to win. The sun winked on the window

like a conspirator, then Mick let go

a yorker that, he thought, would spread the stumps.

Annie, stepping down the dusty wicket,

swung like Trumper in the famous picture,

striking the ball so sweetly that is soared

three houses away, to Mr Turner’s yard

where Spot, a terrier, gathered the ball and ran.

‘Six and out’ said Annie, and she laughed.

Ever afterwards it was known

that, at seven she scored the runs to tie

that season’s fixtures at 30 matches each;

that Victor Trumper in the photograph,

legs stretched out, bat raised high to drive,

had never been more glorious to see

than Annie’s flourishing and quick advance,

seeing her moment, taking that moment’s chance.

“Unofficial Test Match” by Ian Harrison

Here comes Malcolm Marshall, pushing off the gate

Nervous reed-y taps again, batsman’s only eight

On this green-topped wicked, no hand had dared curate.

Looks down at the bowler’s grip, he’s playing for the swing

Cordon behind him crouched; alert, they never drop a thing

Another batsman’s at the ready, waiting in the wing.

Bruce Reid places a fine on-drive, that runs away for four

Bunny raises fist and bat; bowler Marshalls in uproar

Aims the next into the throat, sloped down, it pitched so short.

Now

Viv Richards huffs down to his mark, result is in no doubt

Has the measure of his foe, this win will be a rout

Two more wickets, then he’ll bat, just Blast these buggers out.

Bad light threatens to end the day

Then Mum leans out the Wind’r

“That’s stumps! Now boys, finish your play,

Come in, wash up for dinner!”

“The Chase to Win” by Joy Hopwood

The crowd’s cheering ferociously

as I’m batting at the crease.

Only four balls remaining

and five runs to win.

Flintoff bowls and the ball tips my bat,

then misses my face.

Onions leap into the air,

it slips through his fingers and escapes.

With one run down,

Ponting’s now at the crease.

Flintoff bowls and it’s a full toss.

The opposing crowd stands to cheer.

Broad dives and catches it.

IT’S OUT!

Our captain’s out!

The game now depends on me.

Two balls remaining and four runs to win.

Johnson’s now at the crease.

Flintoff bowls and Johnson hits.

It bounces to Harmison who aims for the stumps.

He misses…only one ball remaining…3 runs to win.

Flintoff bowls and it edges my bat.

Howzat!

It’s the Pup that hits the 6!

“Backyard Cricket Lives Forever” by Daniel Kempnich

When I think of the game in every Aussies hears

From a ‘leggies’ comeback to a young batsman’s start

I’m standing in the backyard with a baggy green ‘dream

Battling the fastest bowlers in the worlds greatest team,

The moment the toss is called, its either heads or tails

I send my mate in on a ‘green top’ – batting fist he Fails

From a ferocious stare just after, a ball beats the edge

A walk down the track for a friendly backyard sledge!

When it’s time to have your bat you give your best and all

Against a mighty swinging missile – the taped up tennis ball

To be cleaned up by a yorker, short by twenty runs

Knowing you could have scored a hundred, in the backyard at Mum’s

As we battle through our series, in any kind of weather

Age is no limit because, backyard cricket lives forever…

“Gordon 4^th Grade VS Northern Districts” by Mitch Kleem

Kleem departed cheaply

With runs craved so deeply

James Martin fell to a curse

His mum is apparently former Miss Universe

Crawford and Marvell departed quickly

And the scorecard looked rather sickly

Jono Wigham managed 26

Not enough to impress the chicks.

Chad Soper batted brilliantly for 74

What an excellent innings we all saw.

Iqbal Amed got 41

9 short of a half ton.

210 was the total to defend

a miracle was require; uymar was to send

He took 2/38

The others would have to wait.

Chad Soper took 1/43

But that was all there would be

ND’S passed our score

That’s the news in grade four

“Crystal Clear Cricket” by Mike Langford

Mum whispered to her boy, “Are you asleep my dear?”

“Almost”, said Jimmy, taking the piece from his ear.

You have to listen hard with a radio crystal,

Through crackle and hiss from a game near Bristol???

But long nights like this can have an effect

On a ten year old boy with a five day test.

“You look so tired”, said mum with a hug.

“I know”, mumbled Jimmy… “It must be a bug!”

The doctor took samples and tested for pains,

Final diagnosis… Linseed oil in his veins!

“Oh no”, cried his mum, “Will it last many nights?”

“Bad news”, said the Doc… “For the rest of his life!”

Thirty years later, there’s not much change here,

Through McGilvary is missing and the sound’s crystal clear.

Jimmy whispers to his son, “share with your brother,

Keep the noise down … and don’t tell your mother!”

“The Spirit of Cricket” by Linda Livermore

Cricket stands for unity. It speaks for national pride

It bridges gaps around the world, so all can come and ride

The wave of success in mastering ourselves in this games’ play

To test the strength of body, mind, heart, honour _ All the way

Stop the clock, slow it down, so all can see

The game that shows unfurled

What was born in the motherland

But whose Spirit here is _ ‘The Worlds”

Every player, every spectator, is a part of this games whole

It bridges colour, race and creed. For perfecting the art of Unity in Self-mastery

In Cricket _ this is its’ goal

So with no explanation of a golden duck, hat trick, or a little French cut

To appease your appetite I refrain.

Find in you the spirit, which part you play

Join the team, flow like The Don, commit yourself your worth, your way

“Over the Fence and You’re out” by Peter Mace

Garbage bin for a wicket, a dog to fetch the ball.

Dusty pitch in Spadgers Lane beside the dairy’s wall.

After school, bare feet, no pads and Tommy’s old man’s bat.

Crease marked by a scratch, the wicket best described as flat

Bluey’s cacky handed and Bill hasn’t got a clue.

His sister would be better, but she’s down with the flu.

So we each dream of our heros, Tommy, Blue and me,

Playing on a “belter” at the famous SCG

Bluey’s Dennis Lillee with the Ashes on the line

As Tommy mimicks Rodney Marsh, yelling out “its mine!!”

And seeing I’m the Captain, cause it’s me who owns the ball

I got to be Greg Chappell, no arguments at all.

Just remember all the rules so there can be no doubt.

Hit the ball over the fence and sorry mate, you’re out!

“The In’s and Out’s of Cricket” by Suzanne PQ MacKinlay

I walked inside, to walk around,

The outside of the inside ground.

But the inside outside was out of bounds,

So on the outside inside, I sat down.

The inside inside game was news,

So on the outside outside people queued,

To get to the outside inside and choose,

Who on the inside inside would win or lose.

At the outside inside things were tense,

He on the inside outside showed some sense,

Stopping an inside inside hit to the fence!

Inside to outside the joy was immense.

“Just Cricket” by Don Maclennan

such is the spectacle of the game to watch

even progress of a file download

may surpass the thrill of a test match

tradition expects fair play and genial mode

twenty two players and twenty two yards

howzat? Not out but appeals for sure

Sledging’s illegal tut tut no yellow cards

No rules for this sport just governed by law

put an old spin on it or a new yorker

out for a duck. What’s a Duckworth? Lewis knows

maybe out on bail or perhaps a walker

someone calls over but on it goes

this just isn’t cricket join the throng

a hundred thousand viewers can’t be wrong

“Adjusting the Vision” by Kay Manley

What can you say about cricket

that is irrelevant?

Nothing!

Round s the game is square

it leaves nothing to be desired,

no gaps to fill across time,

age or gender as all embrace

its’ noble parameters.

Shakespeare in all his plays

and sonnets could not

convey despair to delight

as found in cricket; and

a pas de deux of much loved

fame or exquisite voice

of opera sung, still

leaves one waiting.

But not cricket, which

always leaves the senses

satiated, with back to back

boundaries, away, on the

outside edge of the bat,

timed beautifully, despite

the bowling of naggingly

accurate line and length.

Whoever said cricket was

boring? Just changing the

field provides constant

tension, attack with the ball,

put the off-spinner in,

change the delivery, work

on consistency, looking for

the victorious out finger.

It’s unique, the way cricket

combines such breathtaking

drama with spilt-second action,

frenzied emotions, passions, agony,

tactical genius, complicity and

fiendishly executed strategies

that makes a golf hole-in-one

seem very tame.

Not to mention the

historic cricket legacy

of coaches and players

commentators, reporters,

families, brothers, sisters, mentors,

all sowing seeds of greatness

in a world needing hope,

inspiration and example

for the young.

For who can replace those who

grew, from ashes of despair

and circumstances, to home their skills,

build character, persistence, courage,

who, through hard years of training

and sacrifice, rose through the ranks

to emerge taking victory

for their country.

Any it doesn’t end there.

It’s not just the winning

but the spirit of cricket,

to play fair, do the right thing,

acquiesce to a higher authority,

be patient, long-suffering, kind

to all, to win the prize; not like

some games I could mention.

It’s not much of a stretch of

imagination to think of cricket

in Afghanistan, teaching the

Taliban these basic riles,

to break down barriers of abuse,

hatred, killings, to replace the

veil of their shame and disdain

with tolerance.

And who says just one person

can’t make a difference, when,

to quote Lao Tzu, ‘The journey

of a thousand miles begins

with one step,’ a bat and a ball,

a friendly smile, an encouraging

word, a good report, all the things

cricket does best.

In short, cricket is the gift that

just keeps on giving.

For those contemplating

a time in the future when

they may miss a season,

I’m sure there’ll be cricket

in heaven, for God loves

a cheerful giver.

“Cricket Poem – A Prelude to the Ashes” by Vicky Manley

The weather is clear; the grass cut fine

Ponting and his men are waiting in line;

HUSH…A whisper of ghosts gone by; is it

Lillee or March, Waugh or Gilly?

“Yes”, they’re saying “Oh England, don’t be SILLY”.

“The ASHES are ours, here to stay; now let

our young blokes get out and play”.

Is that Warnie standing by – with a ‘wicket’ glint in his eye?

Once a spinner now a winner as Compare extraordinaire

And there’s Richie with a few words to say.

Now let’s get on our way!

CRACK go the wickets, SMASH goes the

BAT. Johnson and Lee state: “now that’s, THAT”.

A smile from Clarke a handshake or two and the English

are crying boo hoo. Green baggy caps are flying

Sky-high and the Australian Cricket team bids England

BYE-BYE.

“We Celebrate a National Pastime!” by Ray Martin

It started with backyard cricket

When “over the fence” was out!

There was no ‘keeper for caught behind,

Leg before wicket was not out,

We then played street cricket

With a fierce desire to win

Against the neighbourhood kids

The wicket, a kerosene tin!

In Summer, we played beach cricket

Where sand became the turf

Family and friends called, Howzat!

When our dog caught the ball in the surf,

At school, we loved our sport,

Study came second to cricket

A century against another school

Was considered, highly academic!

Some went on to play club cricket

Aspiring to make the test team

To represent their country

To wear the “baggy green”

Now with 20/20 and one day cricket

Many new stars will be born

We celebrate a national pastime!

Our inspiration, Bradman and Warne!

“Another Australian Legend” by Mary McCall

Tarless, treeless, negligible traffic, a typical 1940’s

suburban street, rowed white-picketed clay-bedded roses

guaranteeing, excluding the occasional sticky wicket,

a perfect Sunday Arvo Cricket Pitch

when nearing dusk one January afternoon

boastful, bare-chested, barefoot adolescents, having

demolished their Mum’s Traditional Sunday Lamb Roast,

display unwavering confidence in their invincibility.

As truculent teenagers begrudgingly tolerate prepubescent players

and a solitary, enthusiastic, past his prime father,

Five runs needed, one over to go and last wicket standing, their highest

wicket taker triumphantly delivers three unstrikingly impressive Yorkers

Aware over the fence for six onto railway property

risks prosecution, children watch in awe as an equally

determined batsman holds ground, digs deep and

drives a full-blooded whack straighter than an arrow,

above clamouring outstretched arms, between the open doors

of a passing train, never again to grace this hallowed pitch as

Our Dad, in true Bradman style

Became another Australian Legend.

“The Beverages Cup” by Graeme McCarthy

“It’s Saturday arvo, the sun is well up

We’re off to Fitzgerald’s, for the “Beverages Cup”

Packs the esky, the stubbies, grab the old bat,

Grab the fruit box for wickets, and grab my straw hat”

“I pick Daniel and Mikey, you have Bretty and Paul

And I’ll take young Trevor; he’s good with the ball

I’ll take Irene and Livvy, and I want the dog too –

He’s a gun at long-on, and he can stop one or two.”

“I’ll toss; Hills or Flats – what is your call?”

“Rules: One hand, one bounce, no outs on first ball

Over the fence or the garage – always six and out

The batsman must fetch, the losers must shout.”

Dan opens the bowling from the barbeque end

Bretty takes strike, his gaze is wizened

The ball rockets in, Bretty drives with great skill

“I’ll just have a beverage, while you chase the pill!”

“The Sri Lankan Beach Eleven” by Brian McLoughlin

We’re the Sri Lankan Beach Eleven.

We’ve come to ask a favour, Kevin,

Our leaky boat just got us here.

We sailed for weeks, despite our fear.

Through thirsty, tired and very thin

We wondered if you’d let us in.

We have no visa, passport, ticket.

But won’t you let us play beach cricket?

We all came dressed in cricket whites

So we can get some human rights.

We hope that in this style of dress

We won’t be picked on by the press.

Kevin, please, spin some magic.

Don’t catch us like a cricket tragic.

Let us play in your land of plenty.

We’ll take you on a twenty / twenty.

Your opponents are in error.

We don’t think you’re soft on terror.

Let us slip through to the keeper.

What’s one more asylum seeker?

Come on, Kev, that’s the ticket.

Otherwise it’s just not cricket.

“On the Cricket Ball” by Mark Miller

Something about it appeals to me:

this most democratic of objects,

the symbol of unity, of completion,

the matter of constant contention

is belted from pitch to pavilion,

hurled and caught,

thrashed and blasphemed,

not in the privacy of private homes

but very publicly, ritually,

in playgrounds and schoolyards,

on clipped yellow strips,

in lit stadiums of electric green,

the crowds in awe

at a rocketing yorker,

a rearing bouncer,

or vicious spin…

Sometimes it gets its own back

with a shattered stump, a split bat,

or the imprint of its stitches

on a bruised hip …

but these are minor by comparison.

Prized so highly,

yet discarded so early –

witness the one-dayers, the day-nighters –

it amuses town-park picnickers,

is even churned up by mowers,

a sad souvenir of summer,

no longer slammed into pitches

or cracked against pickets,

inciting the crowd’s rapture,

the player’s chagrin.

“The Test of ‘88” by Allyson Jean Mills

Aaaah, the sights of McDermott, Dyer and Marsh

Theres’ Taylor and Jones and Velette at last

Look, Border and the Captain with Dodemaide and Waugh

Now Sleep and Boon, could we ask for more

We waited in silence, eyes glued to the box

Mike opted for batting, in his favour it dropped

The game began with Moxon and Broad

A partnership placing 93 on the board

But it wasn’t, Moxon sensed a vendetta

When he challenged the skills of Sleep and Veletta

Robinson made 43, great batting!

But with Dodemaides help, summonded Captain Mike Gatting

Allan declared Waugh! And Mike left on 13

As Athey strode in to “God Save Our Queen”.

Broad seemed confused, the ball of the bale

Went for the bale, is it pay up or gao!

Athey and Capell played well against Australia

But soon became victims to the hands of our Taylor

Emburey and French, a match to desire

Now stumped for words, thanks to “wicky” Grey Dyer

Foster and Hemmings, batting time to the wave

Fosters’ out, caught by Border, and the ball Taylor-made

Dilley came in…………..the crowd came alive!

Waugh has bowled Dilley………England out on four – two – five

Now I’ve left out two innings and I’d love to say more

But then I thought, what the heck, the game is a draw

“Stumped” by Neville Mills

Young Millicent and Norman Glue were hoping for a family

They tried the methods old and new their problem was fertility

The Doctor gave them his view, after his examination

The right thing for you in Invitro fertilization

Nervously pacing up and down, Norm was on his own

On his brown a worried frown, it was time to telephone

All the worry turned to joy when the nurse said don’t you fret

You have a healthy baby boy, but call back, it’s not over yet

Nurse confirmed a boy and a girl and there could be more

Norman’s head was in a whirl, maybe three or four

While taking a short break, many drinks were downed

Norman by mistake rang Sydney Cricket Ground

He was told with sweating brow his family in flux

They’re all out now and the last two were ducks.

“The Noble Game” by Rob Morrison

“The Nobel Game.” Yes, that’s how cricket’s known,

But quick research reveals it’s not alone.

Type “Noble Game” in Google; it will say

A dozen games deserve that sobriquet

There’s rummy, baseball, cribbage, goose and chess,

And billiards, tangrams, poker; pool no less!

Or glassball, in which students for a bet

Play ping-pong using bottles as the net.

But those who understand such games insist

That cricket is the noblest in the list;

A metaphor for life, which all can see

Reflected in its terminology

All-rounders play the ball, and not the man,

Avoiding sticky wickets if they can

And, in their innings, hit a six with luck

To score a century, and not a duck.

But metaphors mislead, as some would claim

Who find their life a most ignoble game

Which they, the metaphoric “flannelled fools,’

Must play without an umpire, team or rules.

“Bush Cricket for ‘Billy Lids’” by Thomas Muir

They start arriving quite early on Saturday morning, of a day that’s promising heat,

To a cleared patch of ground out in the bush, next to a paddock of wheat.

They jump out of cars and ‘cockies’ old ‘utes, dressed in freshly washed whites,

The gear is unpacked and dropped in the dust, following time honoured rites.

The Captain will count up his players, in the hope they can field a full side,

The parents turn into umpires and scores, while others are masking their pride.

Everyone’s assured of a bat and a bowl, a chance to improve on their skills,

No fancy clinic with well known names, it maybe lacking the frills.

But you can’t replace, the smile on the face, of a youngster whose made his first run,

On a dusty old track, with flies on his back, underneath a hot country sun.

“Grammar’s Whammer Slammer, the Claremont Master Blaster” by Garry Munday

Out at Christ Church Grammar, there’s a special cricket master

Who was out to prove to one and all he was the Master Blaster

“We’ve got to get your folks to come and enjoy this faster game.

No boring long white creams where you all just look the same.”

So that teacher crossed the boundary bare as the day he was born,

He streaked across the cricket pitch, Christ Church’s sacred lawn.

No Greg Chappell batting there, to swat him on the bum,

No Terry Alderman to tackle him while he was on his run,

Nearby the head was standing and nearly blew a fuse

The ladies checked out his style, our bare-assed naked nude

And the Chaplain standing near, was heard to utter “Golly”

As the teacher sprinted, by decked out in Dunlop Volleys.

Now through the dorms of Christ Church Grammar,

The boys, recall the legend, that streaking Whammer Slammer.

“Over There and Here” by Nikesh Murali

Here we sit around the green oval drinking lemonade and beer

And the boys in their whites like angels promised unto piety

Dip into kits – forage, examine and discard.

They swing their bats in practiced reflection,

Some bounce the cherry red ball on the grass

And others stride like pilgrims to the sunbaked shrine.

Over there, the boys crowd in narrow lanes,

Under the gaze of buildings the colour of willow.

They spit dust and shout over rickshaws.

Someone tosses a corroded coin

And they scramble for the bat with its missing bits consumed by concrete.

Over here and there the umpire calls ‘begin’,

The ritual of life is played out

And the trials of the hunter and the hunted begin.

“Six and Out” by Sally Murphy

On the telly

when the cricketers

hit a six

the crowd goes wild

the commentators shout

and the batsman

raises his bat in triumph.

At the pool

when you hit a six

everyone looks at the ball

floating in the water

groans out loud

and says

“You’re out!”

“Stanzas for Stan McCabe” by David Musgrave

You made cricket the most essential of inessential things

For a generation: ‘brilliance wearing the dress of culture’

Was Neville Cardus’ praise; “The Pavlova of cricket’,

A Durban newspaper’s: ‘Napper’, your teammates’

After they mistook you for the Emperor’s ghost on a tour of Fontainebleau;

mine is poetry , which you were to the Don’s unstoppable prose.

You’re remembered for what almost all the living have forgot:

the three great inning of Bodyline, Johannesburg

and greatest of them all, Trent Bridge, where like you Emperor

of lost causes, romantic and unstoppable, you charged and charged

as if there were no end, no death, no doom. It’s fitting that you ended up

at Beauty Point, and died there: but what’s the point of beauty

if memories like these are now just words? The point is you’ve become

now what you were, poetry, ,and the imagination still leaps at your name.

“Barker’s Creek Cricket Club” by Jeanne M. Norris

Of cricket it’s the national hub, second to the MCG,

Continuously playing on their home ground, since 1853!.

The Cricket Club of India gave them membership rights,

So Barkers took off to India, played cricket, and saw the sights.

India have toured to Barker’s Creek, and played 3 times before,

Barker’s have been to India once, with new experiences galore,

Escorted out by riot police, to play the cricket they heard the sound,

Of a crowd of seven thousand or so, who gathered at the ground!

The cricket ground at Barker’s Creek, rises gently to the north,

Before they play they clear the ground, of “roos” and snakes of course.

When they win the premiership, bag-pipes play in grand fashion

As the lads of Barker Cricket Club, play their game – with passion.

“Cricket Circa ‘75” by Mike Osborne

Last weekend we went to the cricket,

Australia v Windies on a sticky wicket.

Chappell and Lloyd stride out for the toss

As we sink beer, predicting a Windies loss.

Fredericks and Greenidge come out with pluck

But Greenidge goes for a dismal duck.

Fredericks lashes out but Viv and Lloyd go cheap.

The Windies hole is getting deep.

Lillee and Thommo are breathingn fire,

At the stumps Marsh will never tire.

But their ‘keeper Murray seems set for a ton

As long as the clouds don’t cover the sun.

Then a tropical storm rolls in from the east

And looks set-in, for a week at least.

As the Brisbane rain comes pelting down

Lloyd wears a smile and Chappell a frown.

If you love to watch your sports

And aren’t too keen on courses or courts,

Cricket is a ripper game

As long as it doesn’t bloody rain.

“Village Green Cricket” by Ian Painter

Its cricket,

That green strip, ringed by old oak trees, deck chairs under the shade,

Floral patterned frocks and children running. Then,

Dustcoat clad umpires signal “play”.

Short-pitched ball, pulled to leg for four,

Umpire signals, scorers wave, applause,

Glance to fine leg, good shot.

Tickle a catch to fist slip and walk without looking at the ump.

Counter lunch at the village pub. Pork pies and pints of Best Bitter

should loosen up the bowling arm as well as the line and length.

Post lunch field placements are supple, forgiving and random.

Good shots, bad shots, fours and singles,

Dropped catches, brisk running,

Match finished.

22 thirsty men head off for the first of many pints.

Speeches of congratulation and condolence and

Teams rock off homewards down country lanes

Dozing and thinking of that ball less well bowled,

That was cricket,

Well played.

“The Last Delivery” by Shona Parker

The sun high above the Members’,

A hush fell across the crowd,

As Thommos took a run up

To do Australia proud.

He thundered down the crease,

Determination in his eye.

The batsman swung wildly,

The umpire signaled leg-bye.

Thommo wearily wiped his brow –

The test rested on this ball,

The last one of the over,

The series teetered two-all.

He spat into his palm,

Shone red streaks upon his thigh.

They might be nearly done for,

But he’d bloody well give it a try.

With every muscle bristling,

Thommos torpedoed out the ball

So fast the batsman floundered

And his partner misheard the call.

He was halfway down the crease,

The striker still shouting, “wait”!

Thommos saw his chance,

He lined the ball up straight.

Like hailstones, off the wicket

The bales began to fall.

Bloody oath! Thommo delivered victory

Off the last ball of them all.

“Spirit of the Bat” by Robyn Parnell

The openers reach the crease,

The call is loud – it’s “Run!!”

They dream of being Bradman

Let’s go for it – a ton.

There’s pace, spin and seamers,

Bouncers overhead,

The ball needs shining on a thigh,

Grass stains tinge with red

A partnership of fifty,

Ten overs, strike rate high,

They bring the field in closer,

Cut the singles, stop the bye.

Settling into rhythm,

They edge the ball for four,

Spectators feel the tension rise,

One yells out “what’s the score?”

They’re on the devils number,

Thirteen left to go,

The willow cracks the ball to cover,

In quickly comes the throw.

That third run is too risky,

He shouts an urgent “No!”

Bat slides towards the popping crease,

The wicky is too slow.

The crowd is on its feet now,

To clap the weary pair,

And briefly they acknowledge,

Bats raised in the air.

“A Cricket Match” by Doreen Pascal-Murray

the wicket keeper stumbles into position

claps his bulky gloves

shows off his new white pads

misses every chance

behind him

his little sister stops the ball

throws it to the bowler.

fielders chat with batsmen

admire shirts and shoes

share lollies

cheer when anyone

hits the ball

the bowler

someone’s dad

sends down gentle underarms

for every innings

runs after wild returns

applauds near misses

consoles those who fall over.

still smiling

players shamble off the field

embracing each other

parents pat their backs

ruffle their hair

tell them

they are proud

the scoreboard is bland

no-one cares

beneath it sits mums

amongst the waiting wheelchairs

with soft drinks and chips

for their cricketers

“Cricket in the ‘Burbs” by Michael Paturzo

There is a chap from Burwood

Ralph Peters is his name

To take a cricket hat-trick

Is Ralph Peter’s burning aim

He’s achieved a wicket maiden

Perhaps a wicked maiden too

But bowling a maiden over

Any fool can do

It’s not that he’s a braggart

Though some may thing him vain

But check his crazy run-up

It gives everyone a pain

He waddles to the left

He waddles to the right

But then comes steaming inward

He’s sure a funny sight

One day he got amongst the runs

A full three score and ten

You should have seen the chest expand

Just like a strutting hen

Now we shouldn’t be uncharitable

Or treat the man unfair

For to see his easy manner

He seems never to have a care

“The Summer Game” by James Payne

When summer pulls up stumps on winter’s rougher games

And bakes the earth and fries the grass straw-brown

We come together, our team with gentler aims

Each weekend in our little northern town.

Boydie is our captain, he drives a bus and bats five

Sanjiv drives a blackboard, he’s our leggie, hard to pick

Tommy flies a desk for Rudd, you should see his cover-drive

Our keeper drives a scalpel, and doesn’t miss a nick.

Jake has driven nothing since his wife walked out last year

It’s cricket keeps him going, keeps the black dog from his door

And Carlos drives us crazy with his boasts of girls and beer

But with a new ball and the wind, you’d think Lindwall lived once more.

The rest of us we do our best, we answer summer’s call,

It’s game defines our nation it unifies us all.

“Colourful” Cricket” by Windred Peppinck

Ah cricket – the enigmatic game

For the refined, and the uncouth

The venerable, old, grey-haired man

The spotted, pimply youth

Polite clapping in the Members’ Stand

The ugly Mexican Wave

The measure “Well done old boy”

The spittle-flecking rave.

A bowler charging batsman

Like a horseman at the Boyne

“Oh my goodness, dear old chap”

“He’s struck him in the groin”!

Yet there along the terraces

They jeer as batsman falls

The laughter and the whistling

“Ere, ‘e’s got ‘im in the balls!

“Social Cricket, the Universe, and Everything” by Graeme Philipson

They call is “Social Cricket” – as if it’s just a fling

As if there’s not more to it, no more than other things.

But they also say that “life’s a game”, or that “love is in the mind”

We make light of many things, it seems, it’s the way that we’re inclined.

But if our cricket’s only “social”, then Shakespeare was just a hack

And Bonaparte a soldier boy, Hippocrates a quack

Einstein described mere trifles, Scott strolled out in the snow

There’s more to bat and ball and stumps than we can ever know.

Not everything is called the same as what it really means

Some say that cricket’s nothing but a game between two teams.

And “social”? Sure, but so it birth, death, and all between

I say, if cricket’s just a game, then life is just a dream.

“How Wuzza Seals the Match against Navarre with a Six to Make the Finals” by Rhonda Poholke

Moyston Cricket Ground.

Last over before stumps.

Moyston needs six runs, Navarre wants their tenth wicket.

Wuzza strolls out like a white knight, his box

a big, bold statement.

He digs himself in, adjusts the box

left thigh, then right

centres it with a pat –

the Moyston supporters grip their faith.

The bowler pounds down the crease

Wuzza taps the balls away, no runs.

Next ball – the bowler lunges

the ball strikes Wuzza’s box, soars, over the boundary

hits the football score board

his bat flying along the pitch.

‘Howzat!!’ – he can’t believe it.

Navarre can’t believe it either.

SIX! – cheering at the umpire’s signal.

No one gives a damm that they are box byes.

‘Wuzza’, they chant.

His team mates carry him off, aloft

that heroic mound of manhood

sticking up like Mount William.

“Rounder Bat, 1950” by Judith Pugh

Prickly grass on the dune.

For hours without a chance

I’d fielded: silent, burned,

no remonstrance.

My turn at last.

Geoff with the ball to the other end

Donald “This is your bat”

“No.” Don’t condescend

Bat high as me. But

on equal terms, I’d waited for a go.

(Besides, if you give it back

your sissiness might show).

They played first class before

they were uncles: now their first niece,

same genes but golden hair,

they saw, was serious.

Revisiting I see them glance

athlete to uncle, relief and guilt

competing. The aunts

away, babysitting overlooked.

Luckily, Geoff was tired.

When the ball rolls on the ground

you can sort of run the bat along the flat.

Jack fell over when he tried to field

and it was buried in the sand.

I was Not Out at Tea

and

Carried Off in Triumph.

“Backyard Dreams” by Kevin Pye

The pets are fed, chores are done,

There’s still three hours of summer sun.

He sweeps the backyard pitch well worn,

Stony, dusty, devoid of lawn

The questions that go through is head

Are shared with team mates in the shed.

Will he call heads or tails?

Do the stumps have their bails?

Is the umpire in his place?

Which batsman will now face?

He’ll throw the old golf ball,

Rebound it from the wall.

Direct it at the sticks,

Looking for first slip snicks.

Will he dive for the catch,

Claim a win, this Test match?

Like Richie in the stand,

His comments are fist hand.

The skip spreads the fielders,

For two tail end wielders.

Friendly but cajoling.

He likes short pitched bowling.

Only one but he’s two teams,

Playing out boyhood dreams.

He has plans to be seen

In an Aussie, baggy green.

“Our Cricket Team” by Bob Ramsey

Our muddied oafs of winter

Now flannelled fools of Spring.

Tons or disappointments?

What will the season bring?

The husky front-row forward

Bowls with the speed of light.

His bloodied nose now exchanged

For red stains on his whites.

The flashy five-eights’ captain

Bats at number three.

He scores more than half our runs

The hope of our side is he.

A Pakistani’s joined out team

His arms are matchstick thin.

He’s out of place amongst this lot,

We dismiss him with a grin.

But now the captain’s failed,

Others are out of luck.

Mahommed’s in, will he succeed?

Or score the dreaded duck.

He glides the ball with easy grace

And scores, and scores some more.

He bowls as well, cool tweakers

And gets us off the floor.

I didn’t score, am wicketless,

Dropped catches, such an oaf.

This game’s really stupid,

I think I’ll take up golf.

“An Epic Game” by Stuart Reiss

They number eleven, each opposing force

Odd men amongst gods, show no remorse

Dislodge the white riders with deadly speed

It’s now ours to break and end their deed

Two sets of three they’ll surely break

Tall pillars of ivory they now must take

He comes with fury, an arm of steel

To deliver the fear at poor mans heal

Now man you must not fear this hide

But block with bat ill terror subside

Hence one cometh with strangest strength

That hide now fly-eth over longest length

To smash that hide of tanned beast

Four runs to par take at very least

It only be ended till nine lay down

And the tenth be defeated and lose his crown

Now pendulum swings but the other way

That poor mans courage to now display

They number eleven, yet again I wait

To finish this Foley and decide their fate!

“First Summer” by Clive Rodney

In his fist summer on Australian soil

He looked quizzingly at the long piece

of wood, the three tall sticks and a

hard red ball.

As young boys his age stepped out twenty paces

in his home backyard,

wise old eyes from a distance prayed this new game

would make him friends in a land

far away from the guns, hurt and stolen

playmates in the streets of yesterday.

The bright red ball replaced the stones

he threw, the bat was defence to

a charging aggressor.

His new friends dived and threw,

ran and laughed, cried and swore,

and this was fun, this game of cricket.

There was respect for a new found game

of friendship through bat and ball.

The troubles of the war-torn street games were

soon forgotten in his backyard battleground.

“Kelpies, Chooks and Tennis Balls” by William Rogan

Mum at short fine leg

Brother shining up the egg

Dad behind the stumps

Big sister and kelpie cross, the Umps

Sun dipping low, no need to squint

Step towards leg, just a hint

At the top of this run

Tennis ball in hand, set to stun

Charging into his stride

Short outside off, let it slide

Dad takes cleanly and sends ball back to Brother

But not before flicking backhand to Mother

Sister now a fielder, stands by the chook shed door

Now up to the kelpie to signal runs and raise his paw

In he comes, in or outswinger, will have to wait for it to shape

Either that or try to tell which side has the tape

It’s an inswinger but I pick it too late

I’m done, bowled through the gate

The bin totters about to fall

The kelpie barks twice, you bloody beauty, no ball

“Nature in Cricket” by Richard A. Rowland

Peace……….tree’s, grass, blue skies, sun

Natures surrounds

Rising like a snow leopard

Thudding akin to wallaby takeoff,

Wind and movement, charging,

Twisting and stride to deliver accuracy……

A cracking branchlike sound

Red flashing ball sent rabbiting across grassy outfield

The sounds of majestic, gentle spirit of game…..

Another end rises in physical endeavour.

Emerging shortly to gyrate a turn…

The flight, enticing response,

Decision to strike evaluated,

Deceived by disguise, a fate befalls….

Tumbling wood

Another warrior appears, equipped…

A vice-like grip of a crafter weapon,

Eye of the eagle adjusts,

Stillness and poise

Exact step, balance and posture….

Noise of strike, slight, perfect timing

Over boundary of predators red soars,

Human hands explode….

As skill of achievement acknowledged,

Time….patience…..nature surrounds

Ongoing movement of flannelled players

Till triumph and glory,

A spirit of a civilized culture encaptured,

A play of a dozen in courteous resolve…..

“Cricket a Game for All!” by Philip R. Rush

From Charleville to Geraldton, from mountains to the sea,

From beaches to suburban parks, and on the SCG

Throughout the spring and summer, and into autumn, too,

We hear the game of cricket played, a sound forever new.

Driftwood wickets on the beach: a bumpy, sandy pitch.

Exclusive private ovals for the cricket-loving rich!

The backyard, still, for many, with stumps a tree or post,

And in our towns and cities, the local park for most!

If we have any national game, then cricket is the one;

Played by folk of every age, beneath our southern sun!

Of Australia’s sporting heroes, those still alive, or gone;

Undoubtedly the greatest! – that genius, The Don!

The peak of sporting honours, the pinnacle, the best,

Is to be selected captain of an Ashes’ cricket test!

Our community is strengthened by cricket’s bat and ball,

For this Australian institution is available to all!

“Cricket Rules” by Mike Rushford

In the days before discovering the dashing game of bat and ball,

merely was I a shell of a man – lonely, hurting, small.

But then I saw that little red sphere – spinning like Saturn above,

hitting hard a wooden plank – immediate, blissful love.

But it seems there are no exceptions in life, you take the good with the bad,

forever explaining the rules to my women – honey, you’re driving me mad!

Why oh why, forever she moaned, did my gorgeous girl,

but then she was cured, to think she missed, so any a Gilchrist whirl.

Together now we sit to watch the greatest game of all,

that is when I am not with mate on an infamous Sydney crawl.

There’s the Excelsior at the starting line, the Cricketers Arms the end,

and plenty of time upon reaching the ground, for everyone to mend!

“If the Americans would only Play Cricket” by John R. Sabine

There is much to be said for their national game

though where else does it carry any fame?

The World Series they call it, when nowhere

else in the world does anyone care;

yet from every land they would flock for a ticket –

if the Americans would only play cricket.

Now basketball can be fast and fun

as up and down the court they run,

just for an hour or less; what a craze,

they need a game that lasts five days.

then they could see both wood and thicket –

if the Americans would only play cricket.

Sir Francis Drake remained on the green

playing bowls when the Spaniards were seen;

just so, the Taliban would surely loose heart

with our leaders not on a golfing cart

but with Obama and Kevin07 both at the wicket;

ah! If the Americans would only play cricket.

“Car Horns and Sleeping Dogs – A Haiku Sequence” by Rob Scott

off the long run

the salivating dog

sidles towards me

retrieving the ball

amidst the cheering

galahs

mid-summer-

day moon eclipsed

by a skied hook

fluffed catch

muted by the smell

of burnt sausages

last ball before lunch

the batsman lets it go

with a flouris

cool change

a bat covered in sand

props open the door

rain delay

chalk-drawn stumps

trickle down the curb

fifty up –

he doffs his cap

to car horns and sleeping dogs

loud appeal

a passing cyclist

slows to a halt

Post-lunch

The gully grasses

A lazy pull

out of form

the number three over-keen

in the field

trick or treat

the child asks

for his ball back

“Community Boundaries” by Christine Sell-Brown

Boundaries of ploughed ground

And dirt patch were our stage

With no uniform to stand out

Only those who won at the end of the day…

We had our sledges out at Colac West

And stuck with our given nicknames

Bullocky Westwood … Guner Gaylard …

And area names were kept on a Ladder

By the Colac Herald, a regular read print paper

Which lifted the game like a banner

And spread news of who had gone under …

Many a duck and puns to be had … and

Every lad had a dream to make a century, or more

Seventy-five years ago and before …

Out the back of James Hayes’ personal property

At Lochvile House in Murray street, 1910 (nineteen hundred and ten)

Began … a dreamed team of brothers

Who surfaced out at Balintore…‘by George’

Followed a script when they laid in a paddock

Alongside the beloved Homestead ‘Colenso’…

The first potent concreate … district … cricket pitch.

“Ashen” by Cameron Semmens

On seeing Ricky Ponting

lose the Ashes a second time.

on the fourth day

of the firth test

at five past six

let us zoom in close

to the face of our skipper

his baggy green sagging

long since faded

his lips as dry and scabby

as the four-day-old wicket

after such a long time in the sun

gloom

is stretching out across his cracked-pitch skin

his face is a field of shadow upon shadow

on his jaw

the shadow reaches to four o’clock

and every stump of stubble

is a burnt match

his eyes

are piles of charcoal

burnt-out bonfires

but the fires

never burned bright enough

for the Ashes

the whole series is etched

between the lines

on his face

Ponting

at the end

on the Oval

at five past six

ashen

“Cricket in the Backyard” by Jeanette Severs

Cricket in the backyard

An Australian institution

Over the fence for six and out

is part of the constitution

Thommo’s at the crease

Ready for the ball

Davo takes the catch

and ‘Howzat!’ we call

Then just as the scores

get real tight,

The girls going the game and

complain about the light.

We tell ‘em to shove off

Dad says they gotta play

Underarm bowling with a tennis ball

That’s the order of the day.

We drop a few catches,

They think they’re real grouse

Then mum calls us for tea

and we head for the house

Simmo grabs the ball

Jingles grabs the bat

And tells us guys,

“That’s enough of that.

When we come back, its

proper rules we’ll play,

We’ll make you boys regret

Playing like wimps today.”

“One Day of the Year” by Pamela Sherpa

The cricket set lies dormant

Behind the brooms and mops

We bring it out just once a year

To play on Christmas morning.

The green front lawn is our lush field

Everyone joins in

The mulberry tree with knotted arms

Can choose to hide or yield.

While uncle Bill can’t run at all

He’ll trick us with his spin

And chuckle when he gets us out

With a flick of the tennis ball.

Dad will hit the ball so high

To tease and test us out

He’ll call out “Catch it! catch it”

As we search into the sky.

All the kids will have a bat

As Mum reminds us too

“Don’t trample on the flower beds

Or a window smash.”

When the turkey’s ready

The gear will go away

And sit in darkness with the mops

Until next Christmas day.

“Our M.C.G.” by Dilys Terry Smith

The temperature outside hit 33

We came inside and turned on the TV.

There was a cricket on at the MCG,

t’was England batting against the Aussie.

Inside the house, the air was so cool,

being the weekend, there was no Playschool.

So, when the ads came, we al heard the call:

“Who wants to play cricket, down in the hall?”

Michael was the umpire, he ruled the game,

was also the fieldsman, calling by name:

who was to be bowler; who was to bat:

who played at silly point, just think of that!

There were giggles, with batting and fielding the ball.

There were tumbles and skirmishes, down in the hall.

The place rocked with laughter, as we shouted with glee,

while we played Clark’s Park Cricket, at our MCG.

Our 3 year old umpire lived up to his name –

for Clark’s Park Cricket, was Michael’s Cricket Game!

“The Umpire’s Appeal” by Yvonne Lesly Sorensen

Many years he’d umpired cricket.

Delivered lengthy spiels,

About running on the wicket,

And frivolous appeals.

He recalled when a local team

Was lagging by one run.

Grand Final win, long held dream,

They’d thought it almost done.

The bowling side used ev’ry trick

To slow the rising score,

Until old Umpy heard a ‘snick.’

That’s when the batsman swore.

His language caused a sledging bout

When the last man took his stand.

Both teams insults shouted out.

They surely would be dammed.

Their behaviour wasted precious time,

To Umpy “twas no joke.

He reckoned it a grievous crime.

To all he sternly spoke.

“Even though ‘tis not the Ashes,

That you are playing for,

I believe these local clashes,

To you should mean much more.

To always want to ‘go for gold,’

Can’t be your only aim.

Remember also to uphold,

The Spirit of the Game.

“90 N.O his Cake Said” by Grant Stevens

Cricket mad,

runs in our family.

Taking out bats to bed,

hoping to improve overnight.

I asked my granddad about Archie Jackson,

to hear if he was as good as they say.

My Crick was the neighbour’s name,

back in those days.

Above the usual sixpence for junior chores,

he offered a day at the exhibition ground.

The first of the test.

Permission was needed,

But “I’m not asking mum,

I’m coming.”

Woodfull, Ponsford, McCabe,

they all played that game.

And Kippax,

Lovely shots he had.

Archie?

(Anther name comes up) Webster’s…

It was their pie

that made it a real royal day.

Crispy, juicy,

All that sort of thing.

My first meat pie.

The best thing I’d ever tasted.

What about Bradman?

Did he bat?

Oh, yes.

Two hundred and twenty-three.

And Jackson?

He made none.

“Silly Mid-On” by Ian Swift

Of all positions on the field, to throw a ball back from

There’s none that strike fear or dread, more than silly mid-on

A dropped catch or two, misfiled or blue, can raise a Captain’s ire.

Yet when he scowls and points in close, it’s then your straits are dire.

Ya don the lid, adjust the box, crouch and concentrate.

Though when the batter takes a swipe, it’ll be that millisecond wait.

Long enough to dance a jig, hop and cover your face

And if embarrassment is all that hits, ya know it’s no disgrace.

Your mates may laugh but it’s relief ya feel, until you hear the call

The ump has got his arm stretched out and he’s signaling no ball.

As the bowler strides in again, to let the leather fly

Ya swallow hard and say your prayers cos’ ya far too young ta die.

“Backyard Battle” by Nerelie Teese

When days start getting longer and air gets warmer too

all around Australia kids know just what to do

the red ball’s in a sock and from a hook it now is hung

cricket season’s on its way and practice has begun

Balls are getting polished, bats are oiled and then knocked in

bowling action’s worked on whether medium, fast or spin

and the batsman’s at the crease tapping bat onto the ground

working on the action for that perfect batting sound

The leaping of the bowler as the missile, it is hurled

spectators roar approval, not caring she’s a girl

his eyes light up, he swings too soon to hear that mighty whack

with disbelief he looks behind and hears the yell “Howzatt!”

He sees his little daughter, not McGrath, Warnie or a Chappell

but her triumphant bowling skill’s won this pre-season’s backyard battle.

“The 60 Years War” by Noel Tennison

It all began in our backyard – a rubbish bin without the bails

Mini Sheffield Shield contest – Queensland v New South Wales

As Queensland, I could bat ten times before I was deemed “all out”

Big brother Jack had six years start so one out, all out, don’t pout

No fieldsmen on the boundaries, just the two of us head to head

No LBWs ever allowed, just clean bowled or hit wicket to dread

Over the fence was six and out – our neighbour no cricket lover

I’d swipe their kid’s toys every week then sway for ball recover

I wonder if anybody knows what it’s like to stand in the field

Waiting for over sixty years to win their first Sheffield Shield

And when Queensland did it in ’95, I wonder how many heard

The ghost of my dead brother sigh “well done and well deserved”.

“Off-Breaks : 10 Summer Haiku” by John Watson

Lindwall and Miller

Running in to bowl. Father

Tries to hear the score

Through the constant static

While he is sawing fibro

For our dream beach house

On the far south coast.

Hassett is batting. The sky

Is as blue as ink.

We have painted stumps

On the side of the garage.

Six is on the beach.

Out to sea the sun

Running up the horizon

Bowls a few off-breaks.

Years later Boycott

Is still playing down the line

And leaving everything

Outside the off-stump.

Ken “Slasher” Mackay, as dour,

Is using his pads

To stay at the crease.

Our beach house looks out to sea.

Father was not there

When Warne bowled Gatting

Round his legs, nor when Meckiff,

Run out, tied the match;

Father did not hear

The road as Chappell sent down

The infamous ball.

“Picnic in the Park” by Edel Wignell

A cricketing homonym

‘What’s that noise?’ asked the bat in the cave.

He fluttered outside, feeling quite brave.

‘It’s a picnic group with a ball and a bat.

The ball is caught and they shout, ‘Howzatt?’

“Forty-Four Overs Gone” by Alan Whykes

I’m the gargled appeal on Thursday night at

training. Back throbbing and still sweat to go until stumps; whistling

kites wheel over Darwin fields, curious yet distant.

Will my knees will withstand another year in the

field? We need a coach, more players, fingers unbent by arthritis. Every

second ball scoots under the nets and snarls at cars.

Not out. Ball now forty-four overs old: my age in a battered two piecer.

Pad-up. Pack kit. Remove stumps. Roll pitch. Check scorebooks.

Share a guffaw over match report, joining ducks into Olympian rings.

Next year might bring latest fast-medium sensation from Bangladesh

idling his arm in our ranks, or treadmill days chasing with two men

short. Our baggy black-and-whites will brave the sun

for no glory save fizz and thwack, gottttiiiiiiiimmm!!! I adjust my

boots, wondering if they’ll kiss turf ever

again. Appeal! We wait for the umpire, and he frowns.

Top 4 2009 Poems and special presentation

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Cricket Poetry Award