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Ileana Payamps Aug 2017
Have you heard about our tennis player?
She is our first singles slayer,
She can serve and she will probably hit you with an ace,
She is impossible to replace.

She can be the sweetest girl you have ever met,
Before the game starts, we shake hands by the net,
But do not try to mess with her when she is playing the tennis game,
She could hit you with her racquet’s frame.

But let me tell you about this girl:
She can easily win the game,
Not only with her smart brain,
But also with her skills that will surely get her to the hall of fame.

If you ever see her around,
She never has a frown,
She will gladly give you a smile,
But do not forget to slowdown and take a look at her style.

You might recognize the girl,
It’s the one with the awesome curls,
You will see her around these halls,
And her pictures will be hanging on the walls.

She is our proud valedictorian,
She will forever be victorious,
One of our most outstanding students,
Oh what a big inspiration but she is clueless!

This journey has been tremendous,
So let me give a shout out to tennis,
Is the sport that brought us together,
I could not ask for anything better.

Now looking back at the place we were,
Only makes me cherish every moment I spent with her,
I will always be thankful for every advice,
That has helped us reach our own paradise.

The best I wish for her career aims,
I hope to see her in the Olympic games
And be the player she wishes to become,
I am a proud friend to see how far she has come.

I never thought I could be this close to her,
Nobody else I would prefer,
To say a “see you later”, at the end,
What a big blessing to call her one of my best friends!
Kim.
Stanley Wilkin Jul 2017
15 to love, still able to win,
gotta tough it out,
winning is everything. Losing's a sin.
I'll keep trying. I'm still in with a shout.

My backhand slices
the ball to my foe
(Joe's my friend but in a crisis,
I shift where the winds blow)

He parries, sends the ball to the line,
his touch is immaculate,
cleaner than mine.
I leap like a cat

return it with ease
he flicks it back over the net
intending to tease.
I grimace. We made a bet

and now I engage
into higher gear,
my brain fills with rage,
my heart fills with fear.

Advantage to me,
the crowd stands to cheer,
Joe falls to one knee,
buckled, losing a tear.

I volley. It whizzers
past his frozen form
he tries, but misses,
defeated, forelorn.

At last I have won,
the gold cup is mine,
another dream spun,
back to the factory line.
A gob of squash
in a saucer with a hub
let a carrefour marque
with an apple ding
in swirls of romance heading there
a crowd of superfluousness as a hip is king
and a patch through the field
that roll lushly on green for this round mesh
while exquisitness hit so sweet
in a shade of sky  
where ablaze in silky attire
with her brazen desire again.
Wimmbleton Championships
Äŧül 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
you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say

on the court he'd remonstrate
about the call
he objected to the linesman's
placement of the ball

you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say

in tennis circles he had
a no good reputation
for engaging in
all manner of disputation

you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that was what the brat
was heard to say

unsporting behaviour
he'd frequently show
other competitors didn't much
like the tenor of his bow

you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say

another of his ilk presently
applies the same guttersnipe stuff
he's a right royal smarty-pants
with his racquet's guff

you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say
John McEnroe and Nick Kyrigos.
Paul Butters Jul 2016
Here’s a new form of Clerihew,
For Andy Murray who
Won twice at Wimbledon:
The fun has only just begun.

Paul Butters
Celebrating Andy's 3rd Grand Slam Victory out of 11 Finals!
gray rain Jun 2016
6 hours until school
4am and I'll be there
But Wimbledon sounds cool
So I don't really care.

6 hours in a vehicle
4 probably sleeping
It should be feasible
As long as my friends aren't beefing.

Again.
I'm going to Wimbledon tomorrow with school. I don't know anything about tennis and it's a long journey.
Sarah Jaynes May 2016
The yellow ball soars through the air
From whence it came I do not care
And with a great, tremendous whack
I send it soaring, soaring back
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.
Andrew T Apr 2016
X
She is the last cigarette in a crumpled pack
that you have lost,
and now you have found.
I pull out my lighter
and put the cigarette to my lips.
My hand trembles, the lighter slipping through my grasp.
There’s smoke spreading across the fresh air,
billowing from another smoker’s cigarette.
I smell it.
The smoke engulfs my lungs.
I refuse to cough and I breathe in deep.
My knees begin to bend and I sit down,
on the curb.
But,
I lose my balance,
stumbling,
as though I had the laces on my tennis shoes
tangled,
warped,
an imperfect figure eight,
a dog flap for a rabbit’s ear.
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