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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A Boyhood Sporting Hero
Most boys have their sporting heroes and mine played Gaelic Football
The mighty Mick O Connell the greatest I recall
But Mick O played for Kerry and Cork my favourite team
And to play football good as him was many school boy's dream
The finest Gaelic Footballer that I have ever seen
Not rough or hard in any way but classical and clean
And though that was many years ago and far so far away
Of great player from Valentia the memory with me stay.
When Mick O's playing days were over he faded from the scene
But memories of his playing feats will remain evergreen
His high fielding and kicking and his passing of the ball
The complete Gaelic Footballer the greatest of them all.
He never hogged the limelight he seemed so quiet and shy
But he was sporting hero to many school going boy
And even many who did not support Kerry will still tell you today
That Valentia's Mick O Connell was the best they had seen play.
My hero played for Kerry and Cork my favourite team
And to be good a player as him an early teenage dream
But as a Gaelic Footballer I never made the grade
And I won't be remembered for any game I played.
poem by Francis Duggan
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No Expectations
(mick jagger)
Take me to the station,
And put me on a train
I've got no expectations,
To pass through here again
(lenny kravitz)
Once i was a rich man,
And now i am so poor
But never in my sweet short life
Have i felt so like this before
(mick jagger)
Your heart is like a diamond,
You throw your pearls at swine
And as i watch you leaving me,
You pack my peace of mind
(lenny kravitz)
Our love was like the water
That splashes on a stone
Our love is like our music,
It's here and then it's gone
(mick jagger)
So take me to the airport,
And put me on a plane
I've got no expectations
To pass through here again
(lenny kravitz & mick jagger)
To pass through here again
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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People often get the wrong impression of Mick. The clever businessman is just one side of Mick. The other side is the same as the rest of us, a true rocker!
If it wasn't for Mick, the group would've fallen apart a long time ago.
quote by Mick Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mick says, Would you join the band? I say to him, Mick, you know I'd be there in a New York minute.
Crafting Poems
'Yeah, it's a craft that you learn on the job,
don't you think? Like a carpenter learns
the ins and the outs of his trade.
It's not just puking up your guts,
spewing feelings left and right
like some demented jamoke! '
Mick said, holding the magazine
open so that Celia could read
what he was pointing to.
'Oates says here that writing
is a craft, it's not an experience
like an emotion, ' Celia said.
'You know, Mick, some folks
think that you're the author
of these poems that Malone
has been writing using you and me
as characters in an ongoing epic
poem. They identify you the character
with the same name as the author
as one and the same person -
Have you noticed, Mick? '
'That's my thought too, though we are
the very lifeblood of that narrowback's
epic poem in the making, as it were -
like a fancy cabinet handcrafted by
an expert woodworker in his shop!
Neat simile that, eh? ' Mick quipped.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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You wake up in the morning and you look at your old spoon, and you say to yourself, 'Mick, it's time to get yourself a new spoon.' And you do.
quote by Mick Jagger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brigalow Mick
A dandy old horsernan is Brigalow Mick-
Which his name, sir, is Michael O'Dowd -
Whatever he's riding, when timber is thick,
He is always in front of the crowd.
A few tangled locks that are fast turning white
Crown a physog. the colour of brick,
But as keen as a kestrel's-as bold and as bright -
Is the blue eye of Brigalow Mick.
He is Martin's head-stockman, on Black-Cattle Creek -
All the boys there are rare ones to ride -
But Mick is the 'daddy'; and far you may seek
Ere you find such an artist in hide.
He'll turn out a halter, or stockwhip can make,
As you've seldom cast eyes on before;
And never the 'nugget' was calved that could break
Michael's whips, which he plaits by the score.
All the lads on the station are handy enough,
Nor are frightened of grafting too hard,
But Mick, if the cattle are rowdy and rough,
Is the pick of 'em all in a yard.
A bad colt to tackle - a mad one to steer
Through thick timber - you'll hear Martin boast -
Mick yet is unrivalled, there isn't his peer
Right from Camooweal in to the coast.
Ay! long may it be ere the scrubs are bereft
Of the clearskins that give us the sport,
And long may the station have stock-riders left,
Of the build of old Brigalow's sort.
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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Ahane's Own Mick Mackey
In his Limerick had a name to celebrate
Ahane's own Mick Mackey was a hurling great
Assured of his place in Hurling's Hall of Fame
In death as in life his a legendary name.
So many great hurlers the way of time have gone
But the legend of Mackey destined to live on
He is proclaimed to be the best of his time
And he must have been great when he was in his prime.
Mick Mackey the hurler broad shouldered and strong
The man who was honoured in story and song
He inspired Limerick to many a marvellous victory
And very few hurlers were as great as he.
He was never found wanting when put to the test
Ahane's own Mick Mackey he was Limerick's best
One of the famed Mackeys the legendary Mick
He weaved hurling magic with his caman stick.
Of his prowess of a great scoring forward he left none in doubt
And when hurling people talk of great hurlers his name is never left out
And though from the land of the living he may be long gone
As a hurling legend his name will live on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Soccer Match
there goes soccer fans in deep sunray
we never care for deep sunlight
we are here to see champions beat
there goes start
fans cheer which is part
suddenly there team is goal down
but that is not making them frown
as they are confident our team will take crown
defender comes in pickle
as he does wrong tackle
that is pick
striker scores from freekick
with few minutes to go
fans say make strategy to get victory
and in last minute striker scores from long range
expert say do you get it is big upset
coach thanks fans for support
you are integral part of support
poem by Rohan Bendre
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Armistice: To His Dead Cobber From The Sentimental Bloke
I'm sittin' 'ere, Mick - sittin' 'ere today,
Feelin' 'arf glum, 'arf sorter - reverent,
Thinkin' strange, crooked thorts of 'ow they say:
'The 'eads is bowed thro' all a continent';
An' wond'rin - wond'rin 'in a kind of doubt
If other coves is feelin' like I do,
Tryin' to figure wot it's all about,
An' - if it's meanin' anythin' to you.
Silence... The hour strikes soon thro' all the land
An 'eads bend low. Old mate, give me your 'and.
Silence - for you, Mick, an' for blokes like you
To mark the Day - the Day you never knoo.
The Day you never knoo, nor we forget...
I can't tell why I'm sittin' 'ere this way,
Scrawlin' a message that you'll never get -
Or will you? I dunno. It's 'ard to say.
P'raps you'll know all about it, where you are,
An' think, 'Ah, well, they ain't too bad a lot.'
An' tell them other digs up on your star
That now, or nevermore, they ain't fergot.
Silence... Not ere alone, Mick - everywhere -
In city an' in country 'eads are bare.
An', in this room, it seems as if l knoo
Some friend 'oo came - Ole cobber! Is it you?
Me 'eart is full,
Mick... 'Struth! I ain't the bloke,
As you well know, to go all soft an' wet.
Fair's fair, lad. Times I've known when you 'ave spoke
Like you was tough an' 'ard as 'ell - an' yet
Somethin' be'ind your bluff an' swagger bold
Showed all them narsty sentiments was kid.
It was that thing inside yeh, lad, wot told.
It made you go an' do the thing you did.
Silence... There's mothers, Mick. You never knoo
No mother. But they're prayin' for you too.
In every heart - The Boys! The Boys are there,
The Boys... That very name, lad, is a pray'r.
The Boys! Old cobber, I can see 'em still:
The drums are rollin' an' the sunlight gleams
On bay'nits. Men are marchin' with a will
On to the glory of their boy'ood's dreams.
Glory? You never found it that, too much.
But, lad, you stuck it - stuck it with the rest,
An' if your bearin' 'ad no soulful touch,
'Twas for OUR souls that you went marchin' - West.
Silence... The children too, Mick - little kids,
Are standin'. Not becos their teacher bids:
They've knoo no war; but they 'ave stopped their play
Becos they know, they feel it is The Day.
So may it be thro' all the comin' years.
But sorrow's gone, lad. It's not that we know.
The sobbin's passed, 'ole cobber, an' the tears,
An' well we un'erstand you'd 'ave it so.
But somethin' deeper far than that 'as come,
Somethin' a mind can't get within its bound,
Somethin' l can't explain. A man is dumb
When 'e thinks... Listen! 'Ear the bugles sound!
Silence!
* * * *
Well, Mick, ole cock, I dunno why I've wrote,
It's just to ease a thing inside wot says
'Sit down, you sloppy coot, an' write a note
To that ole cobber of the olden days.
'E'll know - for sure 'e'll know'. 'So, lad, it's done,
Work's waitin', an' a man can't get in wrong:
Our goal is still ahead. But yours is won:
That's the one thing we know, lad, an - So long.
Silence... It's over, Mick; so there you are.
I know you're 'appy up there on yer star.
Believe us, lad; that star shall never fall
While one is left to say, 'Gawd keep 'em all!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mick Cashman
In the Cork County Senior Football Championship Final of 1957 I still recall the day
The last time I see Mick Cashman for his home club Millstreet Play
At the Cork Athletic grounds that day the Duhallow men were beat
The City Club St Finbarrs proved too good for Millstreet.
The Barrs fans celebrated the victory was sweet
But Mick Cashman played a great game he was gallant in defeat
In the biggest day in Cork County for the game of Gaelic Football
And though Millstreet lost to go that far they did well overall.
Mick Cashman was ordained a priest and for New Zealand he was bound
Far from Millstreet in Duhallow and Tullig his home ground
In the green and gold of Millstreet he was never seen again
But what was a loss to Ireland was surely New Zealand's gain.
Mick Cashman was a gentleman and of him 'twould be fair to say
That to help out other people he went out of his way
A Parish Priest in New Zealand where he was known far and wide
And his success in his adopted Country to Millstreet a sense of pride.
He is buried in New Zealand far south and far away
From Tullig above Millstreet Town where he first saw light of day
Last saw him in a Cork County Final for Millstreet playing Gaelic Football
A good memory till my own end that I surely will recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Just Some Names Of Sports Legends
The G A A fans have their own heroes of for to sing
In Gaelic Football Mick O Connell in Hurling Christy Ring
In Boxing Sugar Ray Robinson knew of Worldwide fame
And Babe Ruth's lives on as a great Baseball name
In Soccer Maradona and Pele and George Best
Were never found to be wanting when put to the test
And in Tennis Maureen Connolly the legendary Little Mo
The greatest of her time six decades ago
The A F L fans have Leigh Matthews for to talk about
Their game's greatest player though that not without doubt
And golf has Norman, Nicklaus, Woods, Watson and Gary Player
Of their game's major honours they took the lion's share
And athletics have Nurmi and Zatopek, Owens and Flo Jo
Legends that most sports fans of surely would know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I can't get no satisfaction.
quote by Mick Jagger
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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The Footy Man
He wears his club scarf and beanie this cold saturday evening in the late Fall
As he walks from the train to the football oval for to watch a few hours of football
One might say a one eyed supporter he urges his footy heroes on
But he falls silent before the final siren when all hope of a victory seems gone.
In the work canteen on monday morning his workmates at him will have a go
And tease him of how his team lost on the weekend that they were too clumsy and slow
For much livelier and classier opponents though such banter he does not take to heart
One must take the good with the bad days of living and life it's all part
His passion in life is his Football Club a sports minded fellow is Stan
His favourite song is his Club anthem his nickname is the Footy Man
He always wears his club scarf and beanie and he looks forward to next weekend's game
And when his team loses by a narrow margin the umpires he always will blame.
He is happy when his team is winning the smile of joy is on his face
But on the monday after a loss he must put up with his workmates teasing him in the Workplace
But that is all part of life and living we win and we lose every day
But to next weekend he looks forward to when again he will watch his team play.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Mick takes it seriously!
'Hell, i read in bed, on the train, or walking
down the hall, don't you? ' Mick said.
We were sitting in his kitchen.
Celia was on the barcalounger
in the den watching a soap on TV -
Days of Our Lives sounded like.
'Books of Tennyson and Keats not my cup
of tea exactly, nor do I fancy them circling
overhead either - bleeding dangerous, that!
Sure, I puzzle over rhyme and meter, simile
and metaphor - shit! I went to college, too!
Can't hardly get that stuff out of my head!
I've bayed at the moon when I drink enough -
the curse of the Irish, right? But no dancing,
please! not in this neighborhood!
Celia is my idea of beauty, though a bit long
in the tooth, like the old Lab sitting with her -
they both shine with the patina of age,
know what I mean? They're the poetry
of my life, and I write about them both
in many guises! Say, is this Valentine's Day,
or am I sappier than usual! '
I agree with Mick all the way.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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I'd rather be dead than singing ""Satisfaction"" when I'm forty-five.
quote by Mick Jagger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I certainly want to get back to the U.S. to play. It's such a big country. I've always liked playing there, and enjoyed living there. I lived in New York, LA, and Florida.
quote by Mick Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Anchor to Windward
Lakeboat mariners look forward to winter lay-up all summer long. The last voyage north from the steel mills in South Chicago begins before dawn with autumn winds and a cup of hot black coffee from the galley to ward off the chill. Guys congregate on the wind-swept decks, stomping feet and talking of this and that - wives and kids and days spent lounging before the new TV and drinking Budweiser.
'See you next spring, Mick? '
'Not on the Mighty Fitz, you won't! '
His shipmates laugh. They all know Mick's final paycheck is all but spent as soon as he signs off the boat. His wife and three kids live in a four room flat in Canaryville on Chicago's south side. Mick's not ready to swallow the anchor yet. He'll be back with the rest of us eager to sail another season on the Lakes. We keep an anchor to windward.
first day of November
raw winds astern-
lake is dark and deep
life ashore-
rent due
first of the month
morning till night
chores to do-
house in disarray
bar tab
eats up the bonus-
wife in a snit
first day of April
seabag packed-
Mighty Fitz welcomes us
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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