I wrote this poem to express my appreciation for the so-called “lost and forgotten” generation of West Indian cricketers.
These cricketers were our heroes growing up, and they inspired us to play this wonderful game we call cricket. Some of these legends have retired; others, sadly, are no longer among us, like Sir Garfield Sobers.
I wrote this poem as a tribute to their achievements and contributions to this sport.
I salute them, and hope they are remembered and celebrated for as long as the game of cricket is played all over the world.
Caribbean Calypso
As we age, gentle readers, we slowly but
Surely turn the pages of history and recall
Those interesting times, which made a
Difference in our finite lives: Thus, I remember
Sir Garfield Sobers, who towered above the
Rest, Gus Logie, for his quicksilver fielding,
The acrobatic heroics of Jeffrey Dujon
Behind the stumps, the lanky Lance Gibbs,
Who put a lump in my throat, Wes Hall, with
His fiery pace, and Sir Vivian Richards, the
Master blaster, who embarrassed his rivals.
How can I forget Andy Roberts, a father
Figure, with his wily, late out swingers,
And the remarkable opening pair, namely,
Greenidge and Haynes. Ah, it is a
Pleasant trip down this memory lane.
My friends: the game of cricket is played
By all shapes and sizes:
Cricket is like a painting,
Consisting of colors, shades
And hues, and although I sing
The blues, there is also a wan
Smile on my face, for the mighty
West Indies played this game with
Charm and grace, once upon a time,
When they were in their prime.
After all, cricket is a gentleman’s game,
And sledging and cheating reduce this
Sport to shame. These champion islanders
Were a cut above the rest, in that era,
Oh, the West Indians were the best.
I tell you, even though I am from a
Different shore, cricketers will come
And cricketers will go, but that rhythm and
Beat still moves my soul like nothing else does anymore.
