The "Audacity of Hope" Poetry Contest

Ladies and Gentlemen... it's time. In years past we've had Shakespeare, Haiku, Sonnets. This year we've a theme... the audacity of hope (with apologies to Rev. Jeremiah Wright :slight_smile: )

Here's my entry to start it off. If a cynical and defeated old man like me can dare to hope... then perhaps you too may rise to the occasion.

A revision (with apologies to the descendents of Mrs. Dorothea Hemans - authoress) of

   [i] [b][u]CASABIANCA[/u][/b]
         better known as
 [b]'The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck'[/b][/i]

[i]The man stood on the empty field
Whence all but he had fled;
The silence had a deadly feel
He stood amidst the dead.

Once beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, athletic form.

The game was o’er–he would not go
Without dread Obie’s word;
That GM faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud–'say, Obie, say
If yet the season’s done?'
He knew not that the GM lay
Unconscious of anyone.

'Speak, Bob, then- this he boldly cried,
Sweet Mitchell, let me go!'
But the Tiger –Vision board was dark
He felt no more a pro.

He looked up on the wall of fame
Saw Zuger, then saw Henley
And knew HE played on team of shame-
wept in despair, and then he…

Felt their breath, their call, their pride
And in his wav’ring heart
He could not stem the welling tide
Despair, defeat, depart.

And shouted but once more aloud,
'My fans! Now must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, the ghosts they sang,
That he would find his way.

They wrapt the field in splendour wild,
They caught the flags on high,
They could not let him be defiled
Then hark- a tiger’s cry..

From bowels of rooms beneath the stands
Crept seeming dying men
The lonely player raised his hands
And lightning struck there, then

New life, it seemed, filled up their hearts
Resolve to do their best
To each his role, to each their parts
The watching ghosts could rest.

That lonely player looked up and smiled
Despair had been his sin
Once lost, he now knew he was wild
A tiger’s heart within.[/i]

Mark, now you've done it again.

You initiate a contest by submitting your own first entry. That entry invariably sets the bar so high that we mere mortals can only gaze in awe.

To many of us, poetry means something that starts with...

"Mary had a little lamb...

Come on, buddy. Descend back into the world of ordinary people with ordinary skills.

Having said that, and excusing myself from the competition, I shall now leave the field to aspiring poets who just may accept your challenge.
Good luck, challengers!

Ladies and Gentlemen...

Are there none hopeful?
Are there none audacious enough to try their hand at a bit of poetry? No form is specified...
even blank verse accepted.

Don't drive me back to despair.

There once was a QB named Printers
Who couldn't come through with a winner
Try as he might
This is team TiCat-lite
It'll take more than Casey to fix 'er.

There once was an LB named Zeke
Who turned out to be quite meek
Try as he might
He's given up the fight
And now he's starting to reek

An Argo-Cat fan


The quality of poetry is quite strain'd,
It droppeth as the block of concrete from a wall upon a head beneath....

Willie Shakespeare (amended)

Where are all our poets of past years?

This is my first attempt and I think it should be my last :wink:

There was a poet named Mark
Who wrote poetry, it seems, for a lark
Too many lines his rue
Too many verses - its true
Sorry Mark,
I fell asleep half way through

Ahem... ahem... here' goes:

There once was a team called the 'Cats.
They had no receivers in the flats!

They never ran crosses,
It amounted to losses...

And yet another season went "Ker-Splatz"!

Clearly hope does not spring eternal within the Ti-Cat fan's breast. However, we are getting some contributions. Keep 'em coming. Who's next?

Remember, you can find an existing poem and switch it around. Works for me! e.g.

Tackle-tackle little 'Cat
Get 'em low, now that's the tack
Up above in stands so high
The fans will cheer instead of cry.