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Andrew T Apr 2016
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.

In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.

I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.

But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.

Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.

He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”

He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.

Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.

He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.

Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i love women, don't get me wrong, i finally succumbed
to watching the female world cup,
since the lionesses reached the semi-finals
against u.s.a., but the man in me just kept thinking:
yeah yeah, great footie, but those beauties...
where's martin keown, i need to look at
a mugshot of a brute, i can't concentrate
on the skill without a girl that looks like
martin keown... oh god... alex morgan...
              julie ertz... steph houghton...
   don't get me started on the swedish team...
    wimbledon has also started...
                    i do enjoy female tennis more than
the male variation of serve-**** tactic...
or the terminator that's serena williams...
     cori "coco" gauff... wow...
                i wish she would win the championship
and replicate martina hingis wimblendon 1996...
problem... she's under 16...
so she's only allowed to play 5 matches
in the tournament... and what if she wins
the 5th? that's the quarter-finals...
7 to win the tournament... the rules should be bent,
she should be able to continue...
end of an era... the dinosaurs are being chased
by the younglings...
prof. green (roger federer) still has it in him...
but... well he is a professor of tennis...
his style? his backhand? immaculate "conception"...
who played as well as he does?
roger sampras... the list is very short...
but i don't have a problem watching woman's
tennis, it's so much better than the brute strength
of the serve akin to the game played
by: ivanišević, rusedski, roddick, čilić (chy-lea-'c -
piquant, that acute c)...
   n'ah... in terms of tennis?
i think the males are over-rated,
                except for the prof. of grass court...
i do love women... apart from the nostalgia
for primary school playground banter with
the girls: when we still had an asexual
sense of it... before all the **** jokes,
before the greatest schism in ether of existence:
beyond the religious and in the biological realm...
o.k.: i tease... which is something a prepubescent
girl would understand:
   if i was also a prepubescent boy...
times, have, changed...
i'm with ms. amber and ginger ale,
cigarettes and a decent soundtrack...
               i still don't want to understand incels...
i listen to them, but then i reach a limit...
thank god i didn't lose my virginity to a *******...
but... if you have to?
         isabella of grenoble...
               a fine fine catch...
          mind you... have you ever been
to an 18 year old's birthday party,
   and it was not what you were used to,
i.e.: bal samców / cockfest?
   this 18 year old's birthday party?
  my friend ian tagged along for about an hour
or two... then he suddenly bailed on me...
i was the only male... among... um....
20 or so girls...
              why, the, ****, are, muslims,
blowing themselves, up,
for a reward of 72, virgins?! eh?! can anyone
please please tell me?!

no brainer question(s)
   (as dictated by h'american girls in venise):
the beatles or the rolling stones -
to be honest? neither.

   top three songs with the bass guitar
setting the rhytm:
   1. tool - forty six & two
  2. the offspring - bad habit
3. róże europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

roy orbison or elvis? m'hahaha... royo...

  a lot has happened since i attended that
18 year old's birthday party...
why are muslim men so eager to entertain
eternity with 72 virgins?
      will they be keeping them virgins
or what? that would be the best way
to not move past kissing and oral ***...
once 3rd base is entered: the third eye
of transgender shiva opens up...
    
              why did solomon give up his harem
for the monotheistic monogamy associated
with the queen of Sheba?
   beyond one, what good is a harem?
if you've never been around 25 or so virgins...
you really don't know what you're talking...
or getting yourself into...
                    herrdildomaschinekopf...
look, i just changed the background to show
you i'm not lying:
  that evening i came home: ex-haus-ted...
did i spend the past few hours in
the company of teenage girls or was i being
ripped apart by a pack of wolves / hyennas...
and you know how drunk teenage girls
behave... you're shreds... they're competing
like it's both the 100m sprint and the marathon
cooked up into one!

i really could have chosen a different path:
***** ***** all year round...
   well, why didn't i, why did i become
voluntarily "celibate"?
            as much as might want the company
of the opposite ***: picking up a thai surprise
bisexual in the park one day...
******* her in the garden...
   walking her home while she drowned
in my jacket... she telling me i should stop
drinking... now... drinking...
i was taught to listen to rules under the arch
of pedagogy... now? i'll be as stubborn as
i am expected to be...
i don't like being told what to do,
thank you for telling me to do for the first
21 years of my life...
  now? welcome to the plateau!
even the best advice is the worst advice
after a certain period of time...
do i look like a ******* puppett that will
listen to such things: oh, but if you don't
do x, you'll become homeless...
   i've met some happy homeless people...
one even told me why he became homeless:
'my mother told me to never lie'...

i don't even think these jihadis know what
they're getting into,
wishing up 72 celestial virgins...
i'll take to the count of "72" valkyrie serving
me drinks than expecting me to **** them,
and the eternal library of text and music...
don't get me wrong...
receiving attention from women:
esp. those younger than you,
while they're intoxicated: it is fun...
but when it comes to the sort of
intimacy of a relationship with a women,
when she starts to read you the cosmopolitan
magazine's questionnaire as to whether
she's the perfect girlfriend /
you're the perfect boyfriend /
   you're a perfect couple?
i love women outside the realm of a molten
heart... i don't like finding myself
vulnerable...

              am i missing out on something?
oh i know i am...
but it's like owning a car:
great! you own a car!
             "mobility"...
  but you also own car insurance...
the m.o.t. payments and spare parts...
and washing the car on the weekend...
oh i'm so jealous!

  what's that famous saying?
women... can't live with them,
  can't live without them...
       well... more like: can live without them,
but much harder to live without them
and stop wanting them...
whatever glimpses i've had of past
relationships: i sober up even if i'm drunk...
she didn't want to split the restaurant bill...
this "modern thing": feminism,
my "toxic masculinity"...
  whatever, whatever...
                   i guess i'll have to end
on a note superstitious of a teenage girl's whim...
i'm bored, the end.

_______

.now i have a fox, without a leash, that i tend to feed everyday... keep feeding him, or her, lamb fat, cat food synthetics, and once in a while a frankfurter... and the Polacks you minded so much? only attacked ****** night0club owners... made plums and figs out of their faces... bulging and caress worthy... same ****, different cover, with the easy girls of Liverpool and Newcastle... back down in London? the story goes: she's an exchange student from New Hampshire... riddled by the madonna-***** complex... and i'm not really adamant adamant on stealing the cherry... if you've ever ****** aa ******? one, is enough...  i'd sooner become ****** up by a ******* tornado... and giggle... dying with a half breath... before plummeting face down onto the hearth; watching daisies, growing, roots up!

i've had one irish migrant educate me:
you know...
there are plenty of neo-nazis
in Poland...  
       and? am i one of them?
   liked him, a high school friend...
i'm sorry the friendship ended...
so i am?
   **** me... better i brush up on
reading some Heidegger!
         oh look 'ere i go...
        can't stop me now...
unless befriending Pakistanis
who have kept a null of Urdu...
              because you know...
   if there's a culture that's integrating,
and doesn't,
   have the honor, capacity,
to keep in line its origins?
no problem...  not worth it...
           people who do not retain their
skeleton -
their basics -
  their language -
   they, "magically" lose it...
half-castes... half-people...
   no pride in an origin,
   not upkeep with a language?
might as well call your mother a,
*******, *****!
      ****** by an antiques dealer!
******.
      no pride in origin,
  no subsequent pride in a "return"
on foreign soil...
   plethora of antagonizing Islam...
good look...
    i have mine,
but i hide it...
      ex-girlfriend -
almost took a ride on one of those
buses in the 7/7 bombings...
     what?!
               guess what...
i'm an ex-pat...
  i know that you wouldn't call
your similar genetics of
a "family" an ex-pat
and neither a migrant or an immigrant...
   (economics comes later,
doesn't it?) -
  but i'm sure the english
are loved up with Hindu grannies
and their grandchildren
taking them to the doctors to
translate symptoms...
   fine by me... you do the math...
   apparently i'm not speaking
English, but? ******* Urdu!
         no problem...
thank god i never allowed myself
a pledge of allegiance to the people,
rather, the language they spoke...
the language is all i pledge my
allegiance to... and for...
the queen... and her people?
        **** it... shooting albatrosses
off the shoreline of Cornwall...
attempting to spot
  porky Siamese twins...
        one does the eating,
the other does the oral ***...
             what?!
             i have not pledged any allegiance
to the english people...
  they love their **** curry
and their Afghan foot-soldiers...
   i'm doing the Pontius Pilate
washing of hands...
   which is a secondary theater of
a baptism...
                      no...
no allegiance to the people....
but the language?
   i'd give my life for it...
           the people are not exactly
the main ingredient in terms
of existential coordinates -
but the language is...
    on a per se basis mingling with
the appropriate focus.
Amaya Bhavya Oct 2014
I remember how he walked through the door;
How sunnily it begun.
I remember the white color of his shirt on which DPS GANDHINAGAR was written.
I remember his crooked smile and also his sweet words.
I remember how he said 'Hey,Amaya'; While I blushed and flushed!
He simply became my crush.
I remember thinking that for life he was mine,when suddenly my dreams were crushed.
There was lot of pain and ache and sorrow,And I remembered how sunnily it had begun.
After crying over him for months I found someone whom I loved.
Then came another storm,it took him away from me for forever and I didn't care;
For I had learned what infatuation was!

Then I got to know that Roger Federer is the one.
Sk Abdul Aziz Jun 2016
There is none that can match his class
He can play well on all surfaces but is undoubtedly the emperor of grass
On this surface where many slip and fall
He moves with immaculate grace and stands tall
The centre court belongs to him
He has conquered it seven times
Can he make it an eighth
That's the question on everyone's mind
At 34 he is still going strong
Winning an eight Wimbledon crown would be for him as sweet as a love song
He is the son of the courts of SW 19
Can he make it beyond slam number 17? (i definitely believe he can)
Go Roger!!!
Àŧùl  Jan 2017
Roger That
Àŧùl Jan 2017
He is just like a Fatherer for Tennis!

Roger at 35 works out with dedication,
He also is a great human being in life,
Roger is just awesomely as a human.
He has a large & kind golden heart,
Roger Federer is an angel of Earth.
I congratulate Roger Federer for winning against a younger opponent and bless him with good health.

My HP Poem #1402
©Atul Kaushal
Simon Soane  Jul 2018
Tennis Gal
Simon Soane Jul 2018
You?
You make me fabulous,
all wow and starry;
feel I can usurp King at Kong
and then move on to beat Federer
at ping pong
on the Atari!
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
A Roman Catholic concept rooted in a Jewish tradition where, if you cannot attend Sunday mass, you can go to the Saturday mass, the evening prior...

http://t.answers.com/answers/#!/entry/anticipated-mass-definition-in-the-roman-catholic-church,4ffcc10b­7af68a84dcfcad8b

not a religious man,
another "ain't behaving Jew,"
been long time passing,
since I went to a synagogue
of my own free will

(that,
free will,
a subject,
I won't discuss,
a free will choice,
unlike this poem
which writes itself,
me, just the telephone company
common carrier transmitting)


the holy days and
the holidays
come cycling through,
recycled sung sing tunes from
genes that once trained,
once disturbed and reawakened,
pass it on down
willingly or unwanted,
the calendar and
human marker thereupon,
in your face, undeniable,
you are, or start,
being what
they want you to be

been to midnight mass
on a Christmas past,
with a friend who happened
to be a Jesuit priest,
yeah, I'm an electric eclectic
ecclesiastical poetic natty vibe,
with many a
neutral nomenclature,
happens to live with an atheist,
so, tonight, we watch together
at her suggestion,
Fiddler On The Roof

boy oh boy
there I am,
Tevye the Poet,
writing poems on the roof
up on the wide screen,
talking to god
every where I go,
whatever I am doing,
even cursing the
Cossack ***** of the traffic hell on the
Long Island Expressway,
*******, you see

{but you grow weary
waiting for a writ called
Anticipated Mass,
and not a sermon
of a nonreligious miscreant,
who just happened to be
created, born on
the Jewish Festival of Booths,
in an R.C. hospital
on Fifth Avenue,
right next to his coreligionists edifice,
Mt. Sinai
(go figger, all part of the plan,
says my fellow new yorker, Allah}


if you are busy Sunday,
NFL football perhaps,
or a summer FIFA World Cup match,
Wimbledon working,
while on your deck surfing,
(Go Federer)
or a working stiff,
serving man for tips,
waitressing, taxi driving,
in order
not to starve,
for a living
must be made on
the day of rest,
so you go to
Anticipated Mass,
the eve of the day before
the prom dance

now that is something I like,
a flexibility that
inflexible dictums and regs
don't often offer,
like birth control being ok,
every other day

but anticipating my prayers,
just a bit too
OCD compulsive organized,
no matter
9:00am or midnight,
or even 6:00pm
the night before,
I can't anticipate
when the need to
go verse
with The Lord above,
arises

so I like to inform you,
when anticipating
the wine and the wafer,
the sabbath candle lighting,
the prayer rug time,
don't have to wait,
for a mass, a mullah's call,
or a minyan,
do a Tevye!

speak to him
with this Rx prescription,
"as needed"

let your own mass
be lightened, lighted, leviathaned,
relieved, celebrated,
the freedom from
anticipation and feel free
to listen to what god has to say,
cause he loves those
individual requests,
custom crafted,
even noises simple
grunted with good intent,
for those who posses not
the gift of
god gab

an informal sort,
a busy deity,
who appreciates brevity,
which is why
he gives my
long poems short shrift,
but sometimes attends
to my low whispered
observations for the needy,
for the masses,
whose body,
in his image,
I human share
and so often,
pray for...
Sk Abdul Aziz Jun 2017
Deep within all of us lies an impeccable source of strength...a strength of which we are unaware and sometimes it takes an adverse and hopeless circumstance to draw it out....and once we discover it...we will realize that no goal is too big and no path is impossible...if we have the stomach for a fight and the will to learn and improve then virtually nothing is unachievable....Roger Federer winning his 18th slam at the age of 35 and Rafael Nadal winning his tenth French Open at age 31 is an inspiration to me...the fact that these legends did not give up and were ready to keep working and fight it out..has taught me one valuable lesson...even when you're going through a prolonged phase of failures never ever feel demotivated...keep your hopes up and believe in yourself...you will taste success again.
Paul Butters  May 2020
Class
Paul Butters May 2020
Open your legs and show your class.
Haha.
Sing like Elvis,
Freddie, Pavarotti
Or Shirley Bassey.
Belt out Lennon-McCartney tunes
With Beach Boys Harmonies
And Eric’s Slow Hand Guitar.

Be as Magical as Messi,
Supremely Shakespeare with your plays and poems,
Better still. Hopkins and Keats.
Show the genius of Brian Wilson
And Oscar Wilde.
Not forgetting the Table Tennis Kings
Waldner and Ma Long.  

Oh Yes
Be Champion
Be Real Madrid
Or Barca if you prefer.
1970 Brazil
Federer, Navratilova
Or Lewis Hamilton.

Be simply the best,
Like Ali,
Or better still,
Be better than yourself
Day after day.
Just keep improving,
That’s the way.

Let this poem be tagged
“Motivational”
To get you off your backside.
There’s nothing like Achieving
To fill us full of Pride.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\5\2020. Hopkins, Keats and Ali added 14\5.
Sorry to whomever I left out!
the Australian men's tennis final
will be played tonight
two veterans of the game
being the main highlight

their fantastic serving
and all court mastery on display
which has thrilled sport's lovers
for many a long day

both these men won't fail
in showing their racquet skill
over the years they've developed
a fine professional drill

Federer with his delicate
string touches down the line
and Nadal's backhand speed
hitting the ball so divine

what a great match we'll see
as they meet across the net
every point will be a fabulous
battle on that you can bet

the hours are counting down
to the contest's big game
where a conqueror shall raise
the trophy of winning name
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.Daniel Farke is not the older brother of Roger Federer?!

come on! come on ref.! that was a blatant off-side...
a blatant fowl -

apparently when the famous
grouse comes out -
liter bottle being towed and...
no one wants to drink it...

you brewing chocolate with
that attempt to sneak in a tamed
laphroaig? tamed -
an exaggeration... truly is...

even o' Knausgård loves a bit
of footie...
as did ol' Marley...
and what's not to like?
it's the alternative to compensate
without watching ballet -
and of the latter i too am prone...

22 ballerinas and in between
some: stop being so sensitive
as a fwench footballer...
the whole story... in a nutshell...

the next draw of the f.a. cup is
happening in england...
oh... me? mezmerised?
mesmerized... **** it:
moi... meßmerißed?

i have been playing... wir sind des
geyers schwarzer haufen...
in the background...
imagine my immediate shock...
och! no apostrophe to be associated
with a possessive article...
geyers: oh those pedantic germans
i will round up and tell them:
sie sind so falsch!

who was norwich city playing tonight?
Burnley...
but that doesn't matter...
i sometimes watch movies to remember faces...
i like to remember faces...
esp. in movies...
photographic memory which also
implies that i'd rather read a paper
map than follow g.p.s. directions:
esp. in the vicinity of Antwerp...

and most esp. when the german roullade
of traffic comes up...
the Rhine... three cities... Duisburg,
Essen, Dotrmund... and you're not a local...
and you're navigating armed with only
a paper map...

but that's not the point -
there's a reason why i wrote these last words
first - to have to also write them last...

no one is going to come up and tell me
that, "somehow" the manager of Norwich F.C.:
Daniel Farke...
is not the older brother of Roger Federer -
a genetic choking delay...
Daniel Farke is not the older brother of
Roger Federer??
ref.! oi! come on!
blatantly a few genes skipped or were lagging
when this doppelgänger phenomenon
took off!

but... more like an older brother than
really trying to match a doppelgänger to a victim
like some trivial pursuit with stalkers...

navigating a car past Antwerp and then
through Duisburg, Essen, Dotrmund
is a major *****... but then the joy of sneaking
past Berlin at its toes via
Ludwigsfelde and bang on straight
toward Frankfurt an der Oder...

i still remember the border police and checkpoints
and the long queues on the bridge and
prior to it...

are assigned doppelgängers because
we do not have twins?
yet... we need to have a, twin?
an older brother...
i somtimes thought about my doppelgänger...
like this cosmic oopsie that it already
is...

my "twin" elsewhere...
am i having the "better" life of the two of us?
come to think of it...
there's no "better"...
only that... which of the lives is more
plain in sight: just odd, just weird?!

— The End —