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I was the classic midfield organiser who could also score goals.

quote by Michel Patini
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Soccer Under 20

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Soccer Rollback

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Do Lack Nothing

Asian classic,
African classic,
American classic,
Canadian classic,
European classic,
Austratian classic,
Like life at the 'four blocks of hell' to share my mind with you.
Vancouver,
The State of Glass;
Of a three-hundred-year-old tree to share my mind with you.

By faith, Abel offered more excellent sacrifice than Cain;
But i will renew my covenant with you my love.
Vancouver! !
Don't throw stones if you are living in a glass house;
Like the voice of the malak gadol,
Walk honestly to all and do lack nothing.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire

'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare

'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.

Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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The Restoration Of The Works Of Art In Italy

LAND of departed fame! whose classic plains
Have proudly echo'd to immortal strains;
Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and brave
Daystars of life, a birth-place and a grave;
Home of the Arts! where glory's faded smile
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile;
Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendour fled,
Majestic temple of the mighty dead!
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay,
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day;
Though dimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain,
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again!
Lost, lovely realm! once more 'tis thine to gaze
On the rich relics of sublimer days.

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades,
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades;
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave,
Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave,
Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high,
Those magic strains of love and chivalry:
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove;
Oh ! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered
Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd.

And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might
Each danger stemm'd, prevail'd in every fight;
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured,
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured.
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind:
Whose banners track'd the vanquish'd Eagle's flight
O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height;
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day;
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow,
An Alpine huntsman chased the fear-struck foe;
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales,
Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales,
And 'midst those scenes renew'd the achievements high,
Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry.

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict past,
One strife remain'd–the mightiest and the last!
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour

[...] Read more

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Sobre Horizontes

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Molded Goals

Give me my right to have a life of variety.
With a choice I decide in my mind,
Who and what I will be as I define.

People live to breathe in sequels.
And leeching to squeeze,
From an opportunistic vision.
But too afraid to plant their own footsteps,
If others are not pleased.

People are not free,
Or encouraged to be themselves.
And directed from their births,
To seek acceptance...
From others who have molded goals,
And know what is perfectness.

Give me my right to have a life of variety.
With a choice I decide in my mind,
Who and what I will be as I define.

People are not free,
Or encouraged to be themselves.
And directed from their births,
To seek acceptance...
From others who have molded goals,
And know what is perfectness.

Molded goals grow old to corrode.
And find a staleness solid...
Rusted with rot and dropped forgotten.

People live and breathe in sequels.
Too afraid to make fresh steps.

People live to please other people,
And get upset when nothing is correct!

Molded goals.
Molded goals.
Rusted with rot,
And soon dropped forgotten.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Those with Goals Know

If one's only ambition,
Is to go to college...
Just to say one goes to a school,
May not be for one as advantageous...
As that goal focused upon,
By one who is determined...
With a sticking to it as is pursued?

Perhaps!
If this direction...
Has been thoughtfully mapped,
One undecided...
Can escape from extracurricular traps.

Perhaps!
If one has an agenda,
To a dream that has been attached.
One can party throughout college life,
Without worrying how or to whom...
To pay this expense back.

Those people,
With a 'Cry Me a River' approach to life...
And believe that a catching up on time,
Will extend their daylight...
May have waited a few minutes too late,
To open the gate.
With a belayed working towards that high paying job,
That has as of today...
Been erased from the landscapes from wherever,
These visions and dreams have been portrayed.

Since those with goals know,
A sacrificing is what it takes.
Since those with goals know,
A prerequisite to obtain an image...
A lecturing done,
Will not produce those lucky breaks.

Those with goals know,
Staying devoted requires discipline.
Since those with goals know,
A motivation isn't teachable.
Nor will a feeding of an unending feast,
Degreed by an education...
Guarantees anyone,
They can choose and select...
Exactly what to eat.

Those with goals know,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Even The Score

I stayed up all night long
Drinkin and thinkin bout you
Is there anything left at all
Is there anything that I can do
cause I dont know what to say anymore
I dont know how to even the score with you, with you
Starin hard at that big front door
Is it time now to find my shoes
It aint the loss of love no more
Im just tryin hard to live with you
cause I dont know what to say anymore
And I dont know how to even the score with you, with you
With you, with you
cause I dont know what to say anymore
And I dont know how to even the score with you, oh, with you
Is love a question, whos weak, whos strong
I cant see it, wheres a compromise
Its so confusin where this thing has gone
Its gotta stop, youve gotta realize
cause I dont know what to say anymore
And I dont know how to even the score with you, oh, with you
Yes, with you, oh, with you
cause I dont know what to say anymore
And I dont know how to even the score with you, oh, with you
Yes, with you, oh, with you
I dont know what to say anymore
And I dont know how to even the score with you, oh, with you
Yes, with you, oh, with you

song performed by America
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London River

Half a score o' sailormen that want to sail once more,
Cruising round the waterside with the Peter at the fore!
Half a score o' sailormen the sea will never drown -
Seven days in open boats a-drifting up and down! -
Out to find another ship and sail from London Town!

Half a score o' sailormen broke and on the rocks,
Linking down Commercial Road, tramping round the Docks,
Half a score o' sailormen, torpedoed twice before,
Once was in the Channel chops, once was off the Nore,
Last was in the open sea five hundred mile from shore!

Half a score o' sailormen that want to sail again -
And her cargo's all aboard her, and it's blowing up for rain!
Half a score o' sailormen that won't come home to tea -
For she's dropping down the river with the Duster flying free -
Down the London River on the road to the open sea!

poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Tired

No not to-night, dear child; I cannot go;
I'm busy, tired; they knew I should not come;
you do not need me there. Dear, be content,
and take your pleasure; you shall tell me of it.
There, go to don your miracles of gauze,
and come and show yourself a great pink cloud.

So, she has gone with half a discontent;
but it will die before her curls are shaped,
and she'll go forth intent on being pleased,
and take her ponderous pastime like the rest--
patient delightedly, prepared to talk
in the right voice for the right length of time
on any thing that anybody names,
prepared to listen with the proper calm
to any song that anybody sings;
wedged in their chairs, all soberness and smiles,
one steady sunshine like an August day:
a band of very placid revellers,
glad to be there but gladder still to go.
She like the rest: it seems so strange to me,
my simple peasant girl, my nature's grace,
one with the others; my wood violet
stuck in a formal rose box at a show.

Well, since it makes her happier. True I thought
the artless girl, come from her cottage home
knowing no world beyond her village streets,
come stranger into our elaborate life
with such a blithe and wondering ignorance
as a young child's who sees new things all day,
would learn it my way and would turn to me
out of the solemn follies "What are these?
why must we live by drill and laugh by drill;
may we not be ourselves then, you and I?"
I thought she would have nestled here by me
"I cannot feign, and let me stay with you."
I thought she would have shed about my life
the unalloyed sweet freshness of the fields
pure from your cloying fashionable musks:
but she "will do what other ladies do"--
my sunburnt Madge I saw, with skirts pinned up,
carrying her father's dinner where he sat
to take his noon-day rest beneath the hedge,
and followed slowly for her clear loud song.

And she did then, she says, as others did
who were her like. 'Tis logical enough:
as every woman lives, (tush! as we all,
following such granted patterns for our souls

[...] Read more

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Memory of Me: Poetry Revived

Light the night... ah a line that speak of refulgence
like a star shining brightly with effulgence
one caitiff look to end it all
one more time I inveigh and fall
how fey, next to the blood stained hall
has a murder occurred or suicide?
suppression
classic case of depression
fatality and
frailty
so fragile
the pseuedocidephile: the iconoclast
this life how long will it last
classic poem classic rhyme
classic death time
back to old way
how fey

(Wow This is something i am really saved from sometimes what i write scares me because i was do dumb before Christ saved me i am glad this is no longer true)

poem by David Knox
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Poetry: A Metrical Essay, Read Before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, Harvard

To Charles Wentworth Upham, the Following Metrical Essay is Affectionately Inscribed.

Scenes of my youth! awake its slumbering fire!
Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!
Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,
Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year;
Chase from her breast the thin autumnal snow,
If leaf or blossom still is fresh below!

Long have I wandered; the returning tide
Brought back an exile to his cradle’s side;
And as my bark her time-worn flag unrolled,
To greet the land-breeze with its faded fold,
So, in remembrance of my boyhood’s time,
I lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme;
Oh, more than blest, that, all my wanderings through,
My anchor falls where first my pennons flew!
-----------------
The morning light, which rains its quivering beams
Wide o’er the plains, the summits, and the streams,
In one broad blaze expands its golden glow
On all that answers to its glance below;
Yet, changed on earth, each far reflected ray
Braids with fresh hues the shining brow of day;
Now, clothed in blushes by the painted flowers,
Tracks on their cheeks the rosy-fingered hours;
Now, lost in shades, whose dark entangled leaves
Drip at the noontide from their pendent eaves,
Fades into gloom, or gleams in light again
From every dew-drop on the jewelled plain.

We, like the leaf, the summit, or the wave,
Reflect the light our common nature gave,
But every sunbeam, falling from her throne,
Wears on our hearts some coloring of our own
Chilled in the slave, and burning in the free,
Like the sealed cavern by the sparkling sea;
Lost, like the lightning in the sullen clod,
Or shedding radiance, like the smiles of God;
Pure, pale in Virtue, as the star above,
Or quivering roseate on the leaves of Love;
Glaring like noontide, where it glows upon
Ambition’s sands,—­the desert in the sun,—­
Or soft suffusing o’er the varied scene
Life’s common coloring,—­intellectual green.

Thus Heaven, repeating its material plan,
Arched over all the rainbow mind of man;
But he who, blind to universal laws,

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A Day At Tivoli - Prologue

Fair blows the breeze—depart—depart—
And tread with me th' Italian shore;
And feed thy soul with glorious art;
And drink again of classic lore.
Nor sometime shalt thou deem it wrong,
When not in mood too gravely wise,
At idle length to lie along,
And quaff a bliss from bluest skies.

Or, pleased more pensive joy to woo,
At twilight eve, by ruin grey,
Muse o'er the generations, who
Have passed, as we must pass, away.
Or mark o'er olive tree and vine
Steep towns uphung; to win from them
Some thought of Southern Palestine;
Some dream of old Jerusalem.

Come, Pilgrim-Friend! At last our sun outbreaks,
And chases, one by one, dawn's lingering flakes.
Come, Pilgrim-Friend! and downward let us rove
(Thy long-vow'd vow) this old Tiburtian grove.
See where, beneath, the jocund runnels play,
All cheerly brighten'd in the brightening day.
E'en in the far-off years when Flaccus wrote,
('Tis here, I ween, no pedantry to quote,)
Thus led, they gurgled thro' those orchard-bowers
To feed the herb—the fruitage—and the flowers.

Come, then, and snatch Occasion; transient boon!
And sliding into Future all too soon.
That Future's self possession just as brief,
And stolen, soon as given, by Time—the Thief.
Well! if such filching knave we needs must meet,
Let us, as best we may, the Cheater cheat;
And, since the Then, the Now, will flit so fast,
Look back, and lengthen life into the Past.

That Past is here; where old Tiburtus found
Mere mountain-brow, and fenc'd with walls around;
And for his wearied Argives reared a home
Long ere yon seven proud hills had dream'd of Rome.
'Tis here, amid these patriarch olive trees,
Which Flaccus saw, or ancestry of these;
Oft musing, as he slowly strayed him past,
How here his quiet age should close at last.

And here behold them, still! Like ancient seers
They stand; the dwellers of a thousand years.
Deep-furrow'd, strangely crook'd, and ashy-grey,

[...] Read more

poem by John Kenyon
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Written With Love

I’d write you poems with my tongue
An epic or a classic
That flowed as seamlessly as your curves
From head to toe
From first line to fin
I’d trace delicate lines
Hold delicate words on the tip of my being
If only it helped you see
My feelings

On tanned molecules
Your flesh
I’d scribble about skyscrapers
I’d show you fireworks
With my mouth
I’d spin a tale better than Aladdin
And his magic genie
You’d be my Princess
The world would never know what came next
We’d be that intricate

Through the muscles in your chest
Beneath your breath
Deep under the generous mounds
Of your breasts
With my mouth
I’d reach your heart
Through cartilage and bone
It’s a chance I’d take without a second thought
I wouldn’t trade the pain
From what I’ve learned
For anything in the world

Loving you was never as difficult as it seemed
Only communicating the need
For truth
But I have a million dollars in pennies
To throw in all the wells
On my way to you
And with my mouth
I’d whisper each wish to your heart
Instead of trusting the wind
Just keep tight and I’ll let my eyes guide
In the dark
Just keep tight

I’ve let my mouth mutter the words
Three monosyllable little things
That change history
With my hands I’ve held pen to paper

[...] Read more

poem by Alejandro Torres
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Custer

BOOK FIRST.

I.

ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy.
Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy
To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave
As e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave.
Sing of that noble soldier, nobler man,
Dear to the heart of each American.
Sound forth his praise from sea to listening sea-
Greece her Achilles claimed, immortal Custer, we.

II.

Intrepid are earth's heroes now as when
The gods came down to measure strength with men.
Let danger threaten or let duty call,
And self surrenders to the needs of all;
Incurs vast perils, or, to save those dear,
Embraces death without one sigh or tear.
Life's martyrs still the endless drama play
Though no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day.

III.

And if he chanted, who would list his songs,
So hurried now the world's gold-seeking throngs?
And yet shall silence mantle mighty deeds?
Awake, dear Muse, and sing though no ear heeds!
Extol the triumphs, and bemoan the end
Of that true hero, lover, son and friend
Whose faithful heart in his last choice was shown-
Death with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone.

IV.

He who was born for battle and for strife
Like some caged eagle frets in peaceful life;
So Custer fretted when detained afar
From scenes of stirring action and of war.
And as the captive eagle in delight,
When freedom offers, plumes himself for flight
And soars away to thunder clouds on high,
With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry,

V.

So lion-hearted Custer sprang to arms,
And gloried in the conflict's loud alarms.

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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I'm Not Feelin It Anymore

Have to get back, have to get back the base
I need to talk to somebody, I can trust
Too many cooks, are tryin' to spoil the broth
I can't feel it in my throat, that's all she wrote
I'm not feeling it no more, I'm not feeling it anymore
Not feelin' it no more, not feelin' it anymore
When I was high at the party, everything looked good
I was seein' through rose coloured glasses
Not seein' the wood for the trees
I started out in normal operation
But I just ended up in doubt
All my drinking buddies, they locked me out
I'm not feelin' it no more, I'm not feelin' it anymore
No feelin' it no more, I'm tryin' to give you the score
You see me up there baby, I'm on the screen
But I know better now, it's so unreal
If this is success, then something's awful wrong
'Cause I bought the dream and I had to play along
I'm not feelin' it no more, I'm not feelin' it anymore
I'm tryin' to give you the score, I'm not feelin' it no more
We all know that money, don't buy you love
You just get a job and somewhere to live
You have to look for happiness, within yourself
And don't go chasin' thinkin' that it is somewhere else
I'm not feelin' it no more, I'm not feelin' it anymore
Baby I'm tryin' to give you the score,
I'm not feelin' it no more
I was pretending all the time
I was givin' everybody what they wanted
And I lost my peace of mind
And all I ever wanted was simply just to be me
All you ever need is the truth
And the truth will set you free
I'm not feelin' it no more, I'm not feelin' it anymore
I'm tryin' to give you the score, just like I did before
I'm not feelin' it no more, I'm not feelin' it anymore
I'm not feelin' it no more, baby I'm just trying to give you the score
I'm not feelin' it no more, not feelin' it anymore
Not feelin' it no more
Not feelin' it no more baby

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Im Not Feeling It Anymore

Have to get back, have to get back the base
I need to talk to somebody, I can trust
Too many cooks, are tryin to spoil the broth
I cant feel it in my throat, thats all she wrote
Im not feeling it no more, Im not feeling it anymore
Not feelin it no more, not feelin it anymore
When I was high at the party, everything looked good
I was seein through rose coloured glasses
Not seein the wood for the trees
I started out in normal operation
But I just ended up in doubt
All my drinking buddies, they locked me out
Im not feelin it no more, Im not feelin it anymore
No feelin it no more, Im tryin to give you the score
You see me up there baby, Im on the screen
But I know better now, its so unreal
If this is success, then somethings awful wrong
'cause I bought the dream and I had to play along
Im not feelin it no more, Im not feelin it anymore
Im tryin to give you the score, Im not feelin it no more
We all know that money, dont buy you love
You just get a job and somewhere to live
You have to look for happiness, within yourself
And dont go chasin thinkin that it is somewhere else
Im not feelin it no more, Im not feelin it anymore
Baby Im tryin to give you the score,
Im not feelin it no more
I was pretending all the time
I was givin everybody what they wanted
And I lost my peace of mind
And all I ever wanted was simply just to be me
All you ever need is the truth
And the truth will set you free
Im not feelin it no more, Im not feelin it anymore
Im tryin to give you the score, just like I did before
Im not feelin it no more, Im not feelin it anymore
Im not feelin it no more, baby Im just trying to give you the score
Im not feelin it no more, not feelin it anymore
Not feelin it no more
Not feelin it no more baby.

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Futbol

There he is standing on the field, looking around and laughing
he wants to see what you see from the stands, himself basking, charming.
The ball slips from the fingers of a dazzled referee and he kicks out,
deftly he is gliding in and out between his opponents, he is glorious.

Then where has the goal gone that it is no longer before him?
So that he spins around and is aghast and desperate with anxiety?
His opponent grins and lives the sport, he breathes the dance,
and he chants in his heart the reality of his passion, as he flies!

You do not doubt that he is dancing, because his eyes are singing.
He floats above the grass, he lifts his knees high and tumbles low.
He watches from afar as his body works his will like an oiled puppet,
and he is certainly a masterful puppeteer, he grins and slides.

Where did our laughing hero go who was so handsome with the crowd?
He is behind, running to catch up and wondering in shock what happened.
His opponent tips the ball into the air with a gentle kick of the toe.
He positions himself and pirouettes slowly, the ball goes flying.

The goalie's heart pumps like a psychotic ocean, he is freaking out now.
The ball parts the breath's of his team mates and loopty loops into the net.
Four tenths of a second after the ball flits into the net, the goalie blocks
and slaps air and is laid out at the post, feeling bested by a better man.

Again and again the dancer, the puppeteer, rides the ball down the field.
Score. Score. Score. Score. Score. There is the clock and the game is over.
Our hero grimaces in angst and seethes at glory lost and wonders...
where was he when he was most needed, where was all his glory and fame?

How was he bested by an up-and-coming punk, he wondered with shock.
When did the cinematographer of this movie decide that his part was over?
He overheard the answer at a news conference after the game
'He knows the rules better than he knows the sport, ' said his opponent
with a grin.

poem by Poet Dragon
Added by Poetry Lover
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