Why Cricket Lords Over Football

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(Excerpts from ‘Sporting Chance’ in ‘Everyone hates the English’)

Indians will always prefer cricket to football.

Vijay understands the Indian’s passion for cricket, he really couldn’t imagine a more fitting sport for the mainly frail creamy intelligent tigers. But the English’s craze for that weaklings’ sport alongside a maddened hunger for football and rugby is to say the least, quite baffling.
The artistry in the dexterous requirements in the football craft are very English, just as their heavy beer drinking and brawling nature is captured in rugby, which is tastefully quite English.
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Vijay struggles to place the lazy pretentious athletic guise of cricket in the rugged Isles of the Brits. With their woodlands for Archery, their vast greenery across the broad island screams for racing horses, their neatly cut lawns fitting for tennis and golf, their long coast line and rivers demand to be rowed and raced in. But it baffles Vijay where the idle desire to spend an entire afternoon watching able bodied men, fully dressed in surgical whites and safari hats, just to repetitively throw, whack and catch a wooden fist size ball, over and over again, comes from. It beats the imagination and is simply juvenile to have grown ups endlessly count the number of times a ball is thrown, hit or caught repeatedly. It feels like teaching erring adolescences to count while punishing them for doing their sums badly.

Vijay’s conclusive theory is the English lords had simply wanted a ball game of their own that can rival football. The rich lords of old England hated the advent of original football and the trampling of their vast green lands by their peasant tenants it encouraged. The lords hated that it curbed their fox hunting and pony jumping. It also disturbed their arrow shooting. They also hated the fact that football evolved into quite a popular pastime amongst their rebellious subjects who chose to still revere their lordships, even as they pretend not to by openly governing themselves democratically. So the English lords sought for a way to be seen as taking to the field on their feet, running and throwing, hitting and catching too, like in football.
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It had to be on their terms, completely non-contact sport, one befitting royalty and allowing them to be well dressed, with sitting ladies watching out of harms way, like in polo. The thought of it being otherwise is appalling, to say the least. Cricket is paced leisurely, in usual unrushed aristocratic manner and its lingo also comes from established elitist pastimes. Visiting teams are tourists and half-time is tea time etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Enter Cricket for English royals and landlords.

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EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH

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MUSICAL NATURE

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The beats of sounds speaks out
To be heard outside thought.
Taught mind holds out its arms
Which melodies caress and disarms.

Balance placed all around is
Fondly rolled out like this.
With august carpets welcomed
To change moods succumbed.

Beauty revealed in rhythm
That alone fills the chasm,
Teach that nature is a song
Sang in the world it belong.

Listening to living all about,
Natural in whisper or shout.
Speaking like a language
For all alive, of every age.

This one common dialect
That nature would select,
To talk to all its wards
Over whom it does lords.

Into the rhymes of beats
Even the soul also eats.
For the monastery of man
Isn’t too lonely to jam.

Drummed beats within ribs
Carry breath beyond its cribs.
Heard inside ears’ own confine
Till sound buries its own coffin.

This atmospheric gaol of man
He has only, all he does plan.
In its whirl spin of mystery,
It entertains man’s misery.

Trunk sounds nosy trumpets
Like fluty birds in high nests.
Peckers tap wooden gongs
As leggy harps chirp songs.

drummer

The hiss lull of breezy air
And crescendo a storm blare;
Conducts brown, green and blue
Into a harmony hardly new.

As sound speaks and entertain,
Nature so musically maintain
The oneness of all it breeds;
Sanely soothing all it feeds.

The metaphor portrays the act
That cannot dispute the fact;
That the fruit of this only life
Metamorphose with all alive.

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PSALM SONG

WORD OF GOD

PSALM SONG

God is our refuge and strength,
An ever present help in trouble,
Therefore we will not fear breath;
Though earth gives way and rumble
And the mountains fall and bolt
Into the heart of the sea and tumble.

Though water roam and so foam,
Mountains quake with great surge;
There is a river whose streams hum
To make glad God’s city and age.
Holy a place and the most high home;
God is within and she wouldn’t plunge.

He lifts His voice, earth melts away.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall.
God will help her at break of day,
The Lord Almighty is with us all;
God of Jacob is our fortress and way,
Come and see His works stand tall.

The desolations He has brought to earth;
He makes wars cease to the ends of it.
He breaks the bow and spears He melts;
The shields He burns with His heat.

“Be still, and know that I AM THE GOD,
I will be exalted among the nations;
I will be exalted in the earth as GOD.”
The Lord Almighty is with us, all nations,
Our fortress is Jacob’s own GOD.

PSALM 46

GOD IS GOOD

DIFFERENT

Definitely Different

DIFFERENT

Backwards please do go to pry,
From view points of each do try
To source each as they did emerge
From crude history true to its age.

What is the oldest origin of these Scriptures

Found will be too separate two,
From one clan each is so true.
With different names they came
And linage as privy not same.

Each lifted above earthly peers;
One leaning on another it clears
The difference that voids a union
In humans’ quest for dominion.

The Face of Faith

The likeness so falsely sought
In the faiths’ mingled thought;
To knit a very cloth-able peace,
Stresses the difference not at ease.

These differences peace they sort;
For Ishmael’s gift isn’t Abram’s lot.
The famous old birth of aged Sarah’s
Hadn’t the convenience of lowly Hagar’s.

The trail of a footprint will form
Always a route headed and from.
A lion will never eat any grass
Or sheep eat meat so as to pass.

Questioning The Sameness Of Faiths

POEM: The Dove on the Distant Oak

The symbolic tree

The Dove on the Distant Oak

Further than man would reach
Perch the Dove high on wood.
That old acorn time’s search
Created to fit man’s own hood.

In the air up and so distant;
Safe from man’s own filth,
The Oak hosts for an instant
That hatchling of man’s guilt.

Seen and called with a but,
Calm as it coos with love.
If faith and love shows not,
Then above remains the Dove.

The Message Came as a man

POEMS: Faith, Pressure, Sheep to Goat & Lord

FAITH

With what comes where
And how follows when.
For the lost will ever fear
And the found never learn.

Faith lives and all own.
What’s seen is received
And again left all alone;
Like all believed, conceived.

The mind roams no course,
Thoughts feel their own way.
For many, their remorse
To others beacons a bay.

In the quest for source,
The search is the force.
Its hunger is blinding
And its timing, binding.

Many has sight failed,
More will lust then wish.
The senses’ boxes mailed;
Multitudes fed on their dish.

If mind had one more sense,
It will be its chosen thought;
Which is just another lens.
For faith, it has always sought.

PRESSURE

Not this push’s cure to be read,
Bought or however with all science.

Sought o’er but never had,
Thought never bore its conscience.

Brought ever near and sad,
Doubt never the lurking consequence.

Fought only to severe till mad,
Naught all to sever its laid sequence.

Caught ever, history has said.
Though ever pinches, it is all nonsense.

SHEEP TO GOAT

Sheepish dumb, eating schooled.
Shaggy wool worn; looks the fooled.
Simply gentle and calm for sure.
Story of yours is for the pure.
Sovereign lord wished no more.

Goatee presence, ever the sharp.
Greedy, parentless, adorable chap.
Goody oh, all lively and bold.
Gullible sexist, rearing coined gold.
God must’ve let off your hold.

LORD

Sower that plants me, shower that wets me,
Power that grows me, mower that cuts me.