Ancient forces blew on the shofar
Ancient forces blew on the shofar,
before the battle begins
and I heard trumpets sing
Aida’s march,
but at the soccer
there’s Vuvezela’s
that makes a shrill noise
and I wonder
if our team
will win at all?
[Reference: Vuvezela=> a Trumpet like blowing instrument.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Soccer
Soccer is the game
My life
Soccer gives my fame
it gives my life
Soccer is what make me live
soccer is what makes me give
soccer is the start of it all
soccer is way better then the mall
poem by Courtney Sycowski
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Bible in Poetry: Revelation 8
1He opened then the seventh seal,
And heav’n turned silent for half hour.
2The seven angels before God,
Were given seven trumpets then.
3An angel, with a gold censer,
Came and stood before the altar.
He had incense to offer much,
With prayers of all the saints,
On the golden altar of God.
4The incense-smoke and saints’ prayers
Went up to God from angel's hand.
5The angel took the censer then,
And filled it with altar’s fire,
And hurled it onto the earth’s face;
There came thunder, rumblings, flashes
Of lightning and an earthquake great.
The Trumpets:
6The seven angels then prepared
To blow their trumpets, one by one.
7 When first angel blew his trumpet,
Hail came with fire, mixed with blood,
And it was hurled down on the earth.
A third of earth was burned up soon,
A third of trees were burned up too,
And all the green grass was burned up.
8The second angel blew trumpet,
And something like a huge mountain
Ablaze, was thrown into the sea.
A third of sea then turned to blood,
9A third of creatures of sea died,
A third of ships were all destroyed.
10The third angel blew his trumpet,
A great star, blazing like a torch,
Fell from sky on third of rivers
And on the earth’s springs of water—
11The name of the star was Wormwood.
A third of waters turned bitter,
And many people died from it.
12The fourth angel sounded trumpet,
A third of sun was darkened then,
A third of moon, and third of stars,
Was turned dark soon afterwards.
A third of day was without light,
A third of night also alike.
13And as I watched, an eagle flew
In midair, calling out aloud:
'Woe! Woe! To earth’s inhabitants,
Because of trumpet blasts about
To come from three other angels! '
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-16-2007
poem by John Celes
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The Deaf Trumpeter
How long are you going to trumpets
Your sad melody for the Trumpet flower in the Trumpet woods?
Brother! You get trampled one day by the trumpet weeds
And we never hear of you again.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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L'envoy
Now in a thought, now in a shadowed word,
Now in a voice that thrills eternity,
Ever there comes an onward phrase to me
Of some transcendent music I have heard;
No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered,
No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory,
But a glad strain of some vast harmony
That no brief mortal touch has ever stirred.
There is no music in the world like this,
No character wherewith to set it down,
No kind of instrument to make it sing.
No kind of instrument? Ah, yes, there is;
And after time and place are overthrown,
God’s touch will keep its one chord quivering.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Joie De Vivre
We must know where our kids are at all the time
And protect them from danger
We must teach them not to talk to strangers
Joie de vivre
The kids are part of our family
We raise them from babies to adult
Sometimes we wish they would grow up fast
Sometimes we wish they never grew up
They do things that drive their parent crazy at times
Joie de vivre
It is important that they socialize with kids of their own age group
On the weekends it is time to get the family together
Dad’s drive there kids to soccer games
They cheer for there soccer team
When there soccer team wins it is a celebration
All the dad’s scream of joy
Dad’s are proud of there kids achievement
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Everybody Wins
Afterwards is when the game begins.
When games are being played they hardly are a game,
but once they’re over winners, losers both can blame
the other side, and everybody wins.
Johann Cruyff, the captain of the Dutch soccer team, said: “The game always begins afterwards” according to a review of “Brilliant Orange: The Neurotic Genius of Dutch Football, ” by David Winner (Bloomsbury) in The Economist, June 24,2000) .
6/25/00
poem by Gershon Hepner
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The Beautiful Game (soccer)
I love you more than my old soccer cleats,
The ones I’ll never give up.
I love you more than the perfect field,
The one I use to warm up.
I love you more than my soccer ball,
The one that’s perfect for amazing passes.
I love you more than me running along those different types of grasses.
I love you more than the cheering crowds,
The stands made out of plaster.
I love you more than that perfect kick,
That I have yet to master.
I love you more than my soccer cleats the ones that hold all reason.
I love you more than my coach, my soccer team and my season.
I love you more than winning that world cup,
That we have yet to reclaim.
I can’t believe I love you more than the beautiful game.
With Trumpet and Drum
With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!
Come on, little people, from cot and from hall---
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above---
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!
So come; though I see not his dear little face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play---
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely---so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!
poem by Eugene Field
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Soccer!
GOAL! SCORE! HORNS BLARING!
soccer fans blowing there horns, eating their food, jumping up and down, painted faces, soccer jerseys, foam fingers, hot blistering sun, fun.
soccer balls roll and fly across the field soaring though the air like a bird with no wings, black and white moving so fast.
soccer bleachers, sweating fans, crumbs of food left in the stands, bird and bees and hornets to fly all around looking for food.
GOAL! SCORE! HORNS BLARING! SOCCER!
poem by Katrina Stewart
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Where Will I Be
(daniel lanois)
The streets are cracked
And theres glass everywhere
And a baby stares out
With motherless eyes
Under long gone beauty
On fields of war
Trapped in lament
To the poets core
Oh where oh where will I be
Oh where oh when that trumpets sounds
Met an indian boy in ottawa
He laid me down on a bed of straw
Said dont waste your breath
Dont waste your heart
Dont blister your heels
Running in the dark
Oh where oh where will I be
Oh where oh when that trumpets sounds
Yeah I like the heat
Of your body laying under me
May your wild lip get you where your going
With your inventions your intentions, your laughter
Your forever yearning
Oh where oh where will I be
Oh where oh when that trumpets sounds
I walked to the river
And I walked to the rim
I walked through the teeth of the reapers grin
I walked to you rolled up in wire
To the other side of desire
Oh where oh where will I be
Oh where oh when that trumpets sounds
Oh where oh where oh where when that trumpet sounds
Oh where oh where oh when that trumpet sounds
Well the heart opens wide like its never seen love
And addiction stays on tight like a glove
Oh where oh where will I be
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Collectivity
A force exerted, some forces push it
And some oppose it. Pro-forces overcome
Or succumb to the opposing forces.
Thus successes or failures emerge.
In a team either you float or you sink.
21.05.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Captive Knight
The prisoned thrush may brook the cage,
The captive eagle dies for rage.
Lady of the Lake.
'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound!
And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's tower,
And a Christian host, in its pride and power,
Thro' the pass beneath him wound.
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'I knew 'twas a trumpet's note!
And I see my brethren's lances gleam,
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream,
And their plumes to the glad wind float!
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'I am here, with my heavy chain!
And I look on a torrent sweeping by,
And an eagle rushing to the sky,
And a host, to its battle-plain!
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'Must I pine in my fetters here?
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight,
And the tall spears glancing on my sight,
And the trumpet in mine ear?
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'They are gone! they have all pass'd by!
They in whose wars I had borne my part,
They that I lov'd with a brother's heart,
They have left me here to die!
Sound again, clarion! Clarion, pour thy blast!
Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past.'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Soccer
i look at the kids,
they are playing soccer.
i join them,
my team won.
i get muddy,
and it is fun.
I love soccer
7073
poem by Monkey 7073
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Mick
Mick loves sports deep in his heart
Of his whole life; footy and soccer play a major part
Playing and watching gives him a high
Especially when his team kicks a goal or scores a try
In AFL the Sydney Swans or the Red and White
Are forever the favourites in his sight
Mick has loved Middlesbrough English soccer team or Boro as they are known
Since from a child; he has grown
In NRL Mick is happy to see West Tigers roar
As this is the side that he barracks for
Total satisfaction Mick always finds
Through Sports of all kinds
poem by Rose Angel H
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Verdi Cries
[ natalie merchant ]
[ piano: don grolnick/cello: dennis karmazyn/viola: novi/bass: bob magnusson/string arrangement: david campbell ]
The man in 119 takes his tea alone.
Mornings we all rise to wireless verdi cries.
Im hearing opera through the door.
The souls of men and women, impassioned all.
Their voices climb and fall; battle trumpets call.
I fill the bath and climb inside, singing.
He will not touch their pastry
But every day they bring him more.
Gold from the breakfast tray, I steal them all away
And then go and eat them on the shore.
I draw a jackal-headed woman in the sand,
Sing of a lovers fate sealed by jealous hate
Then wash my hand in the sea.
With just three days more Id have just about learned the entire score to aida.
Holidays must end as you know.
All is memory taken home with me:
The opera, the stolen tea, the sand drawing, the verging sea, all years ago.
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Princess: A Medley: Thy Voice is Heard
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Trumpets Blown
The trumpet blew a wand for the real river,
A caliph will show his knowledge afterwards;
On the level of time one sign has been shown,
Demonstrated by the leaders of the world.
This time a trumpet has blown to mock,
To munch away the life of stones and money.
I have ordeals that stretch a lifetime of worry,
Feeding a frenzy is my cup of knowledge.
Understand a fault of mine to understand,
This mighty feat condemns the snow that is a river.
Falling away fast, a snowy monument is a relative
To the mind that thinks along family matters.
One trumpet connects to be me,
One sound has obliterated the only reminder,
It reduces its speed and calls on more sayings
From the fame that brought you near.
A sound from a bugle is cheap and full of it,
Bells are better at chiming forming me as well,
The bells cling to bells and trumpets ask.
poem by Naveed Akram
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By analogy, if we were to develop a soccer team, then we would not invite basketball and volleyball players to the try outs. We would invite soccer players to apply.
quote by Jean-Marie Le Pen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fighting The Odds
It was a wet fall day.
Leaves falling off the trees as if they were helicopters landing on the ground.
I was on my way to me final soccer game of the season.
I was not sure if I would be playing or not because my temperature was 100 degrees.
My head felt like a 100 pound weight pushing me to the ground.
But I had to play because I had started every game in goal and I was just not able to let my team down on the undefeated season and the division title.
I was dizzy and felt like I was just been pushed around on a spinner at the local park. It was a feeling that I will never forget, it has been 5 years and I still remember this feeling.
The referee blew the whistle to show that the game was over after the 70 minutes of harsh play.
My team was as happy as winning a lottery!
After the game we took a team photo by the goal with everyone one holding up one finger to show that we are number one.
Everyone was as excited as can be because our team was not expected to do this well this season.
In the ending I had to have brain surgery because I had a rare sickness called encephalitis.
But it was worth playing in the rain playing a game I will never forget.
poem by Nick Jumic
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In the piano, one has the instrument complete before he begins; but in the case of the voice, the instrument has to be developed by study.
quote by Alma Gluck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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