His labourers name was Dodger who would work now and then, most of the time was spent at The Bookies placing bets for other men. If you can lend a hand, when hand is needed,And with your clubmates, you can take your turn,So, marking, clocking, checking can be speeded,And each and every job you thus will learn.If you can join the throng at payout dinner,And laugh and joke and join in all the fun,And really mean it when you clap each winner,Yet know fulwell that you have nowt to come. Dementia came and took you away,From your family and your friends.It left your mind in turmoil,Until the very end. My mums playing Bingo in heavenWith a happy smile on her faceIf shed known there was a Bingo hall in heavenShed have looked more forward to the place!Past 78 and heavens gateIts 83 and time for teaWith 61 and a bakers bunAnd no queue for the lavatory!After 41 and time for fun,Shes won with 54 and wiped the floorI really do thank my lucky starsMy mum landed in heaven instead of on Mars! Granddad,We know you can no longer stay with us,you fought long and hard to be with us.We know you now watch over and protect us.Although we cannot hear your voice or see your smiling face,We know deep down in our hearts that you have not left us.Instead every day you surround us with the singing of the birds,the rising of the sun and the falling of night.So many broken hearts are left behind,But in our deepest despair our greatest comfort lies knowingthat you are now at peace with the angels and God.So as times passes our tears will dry,our hearts will mend,but our love for you will never end. Ive been a daughter, mum, nan and wifeI had a ball and enjoyed my lifeIts just that when I heard the callThe call had my number on the ball.Live on now, make me proud of what youll become. Poems for those who enjoyed the art of bell ringing, or who simply enjoyed the sound of church bells. A golden heart stopped beatingHard-working hands put to restGod broke our hearts to prove to usHe only takes the best. We have a lot to be thankful for,The memories through the years.The many times together,Full of laughter, full of tears. Though I see the branches swaying.And watch their dancing leavesThe echoes carried on the windDont sound the same to meAs I listen to the morning birdsSing softly from afar It seems to be a mournful tuneThat echoes in my heart. Damn, what a show, we cry:The boys stamp, and the girlsShriek, and the drum boomsAnd all come down, and he bows and says good-bye. Bury Me In LycraWith a bike-shaped brooch above my heartTake me not by motor-hearseBut pulled by trike, upon a cart. All the times when your heart shined throughare the greatest memories I have of you. The Print+ membership where Singletrack magazine drops through your door, plus full digital access, is normally 45, now only 22.50 with the code. But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home! This third rose represents your memory.For the times we laughed,The times we cried,The times we were angry with each other,The silly things you did,The caring and joy you gave us. The love of field and coppice, of green and shaded lanes,Of ordered woods and gardens is running in your veins.Strong love of grey-blue distance, brown streams and soft, dim skies-I know but cannot share it, my love is otherwise. Words have that kind of poweryou remind the clothes that remain in the drawer, arms stubbornlyfolded across the chest, or slung across the backs of chairs. I imagined you lifting your head, your arms,Loosening them, shedding skin and cells and boneTill you became all spirit, releasedInto the cairns, hills, the braes, barley,The sea lochs and the sea and at last,At least it seemed to me, you were free. They are not the same. Three cheers for firefighters!HIP HIP HOORAY!HIP HIP HOORAY!HIP HIP HOORAY! I read of a man who stood to speakAt the funeral of a friendHe referred to the dates on the tombstoneFrom the beginning to the end. Great souls die andour reality, bound tothem, takes leave of us.Our souls,dependent upon theirnurture,now shrink, wizened.Our minds, formedand informed by theirradiance, fall away.We are not so much maddenedas reduced to the unutterable ignorance ofdark, cold caves. The feet of dancersShine with mirth,Their hearts are vibrant as bells: The air flows by themDivided like waterCut by a gleaming ship. That man taught me to ride a bike,And even how to fly a kite.He taught me to know wrong from right,When to run and when to fight. I thought I saw her face todayIn the sparkle of the morning sun.And then I heard the angel say,Her work on earth is done., I thought I heard her voice todayThen laugh her hearty laugh.And then I heard the angel say,Theres peace, little one, at last., I thought I felt her touch todayIn the breeze that rustled by.And then I heard the angel say,The spirit never dies., I thought that she had left meFor the stars so far above.And then I heard the angel say,She left you with her love., I thought that I would miss herAnd never find my way.And then I heard the angel say,Shes with you every day.. Tiny Angel can you tell me,Why you have gone away?You werent here for very longWhy is it, you couldnt stay? Cricket, Lovely Cricket By Kwame Dawes Sometimes living in America is like living in a bubble. And when its time that they sadly must leave usWe grieve, but also we smile.We give thanks that our lives were connectedAnd were tucked in their heart for a while. Our LeatherWhich we hit with willowBoundaries be thy aimThy googly comesThy may be out as it isAccording to the Umpires fingerGive us this day our daily inningsAnd forgive us our LBWsAs we forgive them that stump usLead us not back to the pavilionBut deliver us from a duckFor thine is a silly mid offWith a deep backward short legAnd cover pointFor over and overOwzat! That is all.She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.Her diminished size is in me, not in her.And just at the moment when someone at my side says, There, she is gone! there are other eyes watching her coming, and there are other voices ready to take up the glad shout, Here she comes!And that is dying. Little rattle of dry seeds in pods, So heres to you, from all your fans,A legend of the game;We thank you for the memories Football will never be the same. Our fishermanWho art on riverbanksAngler be thy nameThy fishing season comesThy casting will be doneThe weather will be heavenly.Give us this day lots of bitesAnd forgive us our laughterAs we forgive you, yourLies about the one that got away.Lead us to a shoal of fishAnd deliver us a big catchFor thine is the carpThe Pike and the TroutForever and ever,Amen. All The Worlds A Stage William Shakespeare A verse which summarises the whole span of human life in a few lines.The Last Call Michael Ashby A short verse originally dedicated to Richard Briers.Our Revels Now Are Ended William Shakespeare An extract from The Tempest by one of the greats. I guess he wrote a lot more in a similar vein. Oh! BINGO, I shout, its my timeI finally got to complete that line! Now both of us have been to school though many years ago we both have passed our English gradesbut still we do not know! I have always been a readera devourer of printI have loved the musty smell of librariesthe heft of a book in my handthe sound of pages turningthe sight of words under a flashlightin the dark. We both are made by one in the same.We grew to be different, Im not to blame. I Juggle As I Go Mark Gregory A poem that mimics the rhythmic repetition of juggling, and, indeed, of life.The Juggler Richard Wilbur A poem that uses a juggler as ametaphorfor the kind of change one needs in life. I have been on the razzle-dazzleFull many a time since then;But I never could get the chemistTo brew that drink again.He says hes forgotten the notion Twas only by chance it came Hes tried me with various liquidsBut oh! Bilbos Last Song J.R.R. My pencil is ready; The boxes are bare. It serves as a mark of respect to all who played in 2010 and as a memorial to the unknown village side, especially to those who may knowingly or unknowingly . The four-inch beam has filled the best with fear.They leap and land, then totter and some fall.The lines around the floor seem oft so near,That tiny step outside can lose it all. The clock of life is wound but once,And no man has the powerTo tell just when the hands will stopAt late or early hour. It wove its way within our hearts, in all our hopes and dreams,Until the very purest love became my tiny wings.Although I could not stay with you, I knew right from the start,That once you felt your angels love, youd keep me in your hearts. Sometimes your steps are very fast,Sometimes theyre hard to see,So walk a little slower Daddy,For you are leading me. I farmed the land,I tramped the wood,These are the thingsI understood. Bury Me In Lycra! play up! Heaven by Rupert Brooke. Three weeks after her death,a stranger entered the salonand settled in the chair.She had the colour and shapeof his mothers hair,and when he sunk his hands in it,the texture, even cowlicks,individual as frecklessame.Twice he had to leave the room,and twice, he returnedstill,when he touched her hair, it blurred.Hold still, he said, hold still. Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Kazmierczak A light-hearted poem about trying (and often failing) to get a strike.The End Of The Alley Mark Gregory A poem filled with bowling terminology about what we hope for when we die.A Ten-Pin Bowlers Prayer anon An adaptation of the Lords Prayer, but for ten-pin-bowlers. The only reason these days,that I ever get down on one knee,Is to view the World the way,that only a Bowler gets to see,Upon that velvet turf,looking down along the level green,Studying the Kittys spread,and where the Jack is on the scene.Will my final bowl be cunning,or just drive to win the end?I know Ill find theres Bowls in Heaven,so worry not my friend. - Navjot Sidhu 8 0 Add a comment The willowy sway of the hands awayAnd the water boiling aft,The elastic spring, the steely flingThat drives the flying craft. all is alive,all dances on through time and space,so find the highest tastein all thingson your journeyinto love. If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kingsnor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything thats in it,Andwhich is moreyoull be a Man, my son! Yet how he laughed and won our love,though some showed a stunned surprise.Turning away, afraid to lookor even meet eyes. city of san diego street classification map; blackrock russell 2000 index fund g1; 3610 atlantic ave, long beach, ca 90807; eternal water heater lawsuit; A series of fortunate events July 20, 2020. But now that you are sleeping,And your mind is finally free:I pray one day, now youre at rest,That youll finally remember me. When my sailing days are over,And I sail the seas no more,I shall build myself a refugeBy the oceans murmuring shore.As I watch the foaming breakersWhen the tide comes rushing in,I will contemplate my lifetimeWith its virtues and its sins. So take this Cat eye, let it shineIn the dark, whereer tis foundAnd fettle not my bottom bracketAfore ye lay me in the ground. The boxer stands with his gloves at the readyHis gait sure and steadyHis eyes aware and to the foreHis mind on the bout and nothing more, But deep within, and on his face writtenAre the many scars of a life hard-bittenAnd while neer shy of a hard-fought fightThere is no longer within the feeling of delight, His face has too oft been made to payBy an opponent better on the dayAnd though within beats the heart of a lionHis poor pummelled body has given up tryin, And while a fighter to his very coreJust the smell of gloves now he does abhorYet, still he stands, eyes puffed and blood galoreStill ready to wage a pugilists war.
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