"backhand" poems
Daniela Hantuchova is hot
that backhand, what a shot!
arms and legs too thin
her game still full of win.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 11:00 AM UTC
Don't knock what you've never tried
Lock box with a heart inside
Six shots from a forty five
Punk rock makes you come alive
Black-hawks in the clear blue sky
It's ad hoc but you can just get by
On Poprocks and cyanide
Tick-tock time to decide
What made you think that you could take me down?
The method's flawed, but the strategies sound.
What made you try to hold me back?
I hope you're ready for the counter-attack.
Backhand and you feel the heat
Grandstand 'till you take a seat
Kickstand just to keep your feet
Firsthand watch you admit defeat
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
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.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 7:47 AM UTC
I watched you there, sitting in the small booth. You were sitting in your denim pants, with your arm draped over the top of the bench’s backing, as if someone had been sitting with you, less than moments ago. A thought flashed into your eyes, and your posture became awful, it bent like a string that was meant to resound and hum, but instead twanged and then broke. The way you sat brought the table closer to your chin, and your eyes became watery.
You were gazing into your brown drink. You hadn’t touched the rim yet, hadn’t moistened it with your lips, which hid under a forest of coarse growth.
Did you notice the consistency of the foam in your glass? I bet you the waiter had spat in it. He didn’t like your tone; even as glass with something thrown in the middle.
He couldn’t place it.
Maybe it was melancholy with an aftertaste of maybe. An aftertaste of hope. Or it was an incurable sadness that hadn’t permeated the deepest caves in your lungs. Your heart, I mean.
Did you feel it in your chest? This emotion? Let me tell it to you backhand-style, because I think I understand.
It’s the time when the little boy runs off the cliff - but the mother or father snaps their fingers around the child’s hand. When you open your eyes, the child isn’t what you thought he would be (gone). He isn’t a soul that, with the loss of him has ripped the living, beating heart from your bare chest. He hasn’t. No, no, but the claws have grazed your skin. Still, you live, the child lives. This is because he hasn’t stolen the air from your heart. Your lungs, I mean. When you see him alive, then your lungs swell, swell, swell, then they pop.
Then, and only then, you know you’ve reached your capacity. Ah, but listen now; when joy leaves, it empties a room. The room can get very empty, and cold, like December, and meaningless like July afternoons. The rupture from the pop heals, and where do you go? You know what you’re missing, and you can’t get it back.
There you were, back at the shrinking booth. The foam hadn’t nestled in your mustache - yet-. The waiter turned away. You couldn’t see inside his mind, but your eyes told me the loss in yours.
I sipped my orange juice, all the while wondering how you were, wondering why I like to watch.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:31 AM UTC
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.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
There once was a great player named Tom
who hit every shot like a bomb
the forehand was a Grenade
and needed no aid
The backhand was nuclear
and always particular
The volleys shot like an arrow
and stung like it, hit your bone marrow
But his smash was the stash
and you wouldn't want its lash
So let's hear it for Chadwick
the man who's game is so madwick!
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 9:37 PM UTC
She was a child wild
wearing a white dress,
galloping through fields of unrest,
inspiring anxious warheads,
for a hot second.
Off to the next.
She was
anxious like a feather
caught in a breeze,
far from that child
that minded none
the weeds.
Backhand compliments
more potent than
misogynic critiques.
She was Marilyn Monroe.
Where was Norma Jean?
Living in a man's dream,
pinned up in a
concrete bunker,
a porcelain poster
tearing each time
she wasn't taken seriously,
or spent nights
alone aside a dusty phone,
with no home but
Norma Jean,
Marilyn's martyr
long at peace.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
I watched you there, sitting in the small booth. You were sitting in your denim pants, with your arm draped over the top of the bench’s backing, as if someone had been sitting with you, less than moments ago. A thought flashed into your eyes, and your posture became awful, it bent like a string that was meant to resound and hum, but instead twanged and then broke. The way you sat brought the table closer to your chin, and your eyes became watery.
You were gazing into your brown drink. You hadn’t touched the rim yet, hadn’t moistened it with your lips, which hid under a forest of coarse growth.
Did you notice the consistency of the foam in your glass? I bet you the waiter had spat in it. He didn’t like your tone; even as glass with something thrown in the middle.
He couldn’t place it.
Maybe it was melancholy with an aftertaste of maybe. An aftertaste of hope. Or it was an incurable sadness that hadn’t permeated the deepest caves in your lungs. Your heart, I mean.
Did you feel it in your chest? This emotion? Let me tell it to you backhand-style, because I think I understand.
It’s the time when the little boy runs off the cliff - but the mother or father snaps their fingers around the child’s hand. When you open your eyes, the child isn’t what you thought he would be (gone). He isn’t a soul that, with the loss of him has ripped the living, beating heart from your bare chest. He hasn’t. No, no, but the claws have grazed your skin. Still, you live, the child lives. This is because he hasn’t stolen the air from your heart. Your lungs, I mean. When you see him alive, then your lungs swell, swell, swell, then they pop.
Then, and only then, you know you’ve reached your capacity. Ah, but listen now; when joy leaves, it empties a room. The room can get very empty, and cold, like December, and meaningless like July afternoons. The rupture from the pop heals, and where do you go? You know what you’re missing, and you can’t get it back.
There you were, back at the shrinking booth. The foam hadn’t nestled in your mustache - yet-. The waiter turned away. You couldn’t see inside his mind, but your eyes told me the loss in yours.
I sipped my orange juice, all the while wondering how you were, wondering why I like to watch.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
one
tumbled
out of the womb
convulsing
like a breakdancer
five
posed with
lights & cigarettes,
light
eight
lipstick smeared
giddily on the
backhand
twelve
bought birth control
shared among friends
pills split with a jacknife
sixteen
fascinated by
violet waves
& crystal castles
twenty-one
cancer of the soul
flask in her ribs
she moves
among suitors
like whispers of fame
twenty-two
nosering replaced
polished for the wake
croptop in the casket
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
I thought I was in love with an angry boy
my mother always told me never to allow someone
into your heart who talks about how quickly his fists can move
never love someone who strikes
then listens
I know girls who will take a backhand
if it is followed by a kiss
But the second time you tried to put your hands on me
I moved and let your body slam onto the table
I am worth more than bruises
and your claiming of an endless love
haven't you ever heard
Actions are worth more than words?
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
I used to wake up missing him, as if we didn’t spend almost every waking minute in each other’s presence. As if I didn’t hear his voice more than my own.
“Your shadow doesn’t belong to you. I know where you’ve been.”
“I have no reason to lie,” he would recite to me.
That was our nightly tradition.
I would watch him sit across from me at the dinner table,
telling me that he never did mean to hurt me, with my heart on his plate.
I packed ahead of time, and reorganized my regrets to make room for our relationship.
I crumpled up the letter I wrote and put it in my back pocket.
I couldn’t bring myself to explain why I had to leave him; my absence would be devastating enough.
He would make his fabrications fit into the palm of his hand and smack me with them.
I was born and raised by the backhand of heartbreak so it was home away from home when I ran away to him.
Instead of standing up for myself
I wrote poetry so hot that I would burn his mouth every time I tried to feed him.
He was a better cook anyway.
My grandmother, when I sought her wise council,
told me that I should accept the pain and try to make something out of it.
I remember when I tried to make love out of my pain for the last time.
He clawed my spirit out of me, put it under my head like a pillow.
He laid on top of me, grinding into my pelvic bone, making heat that burned my skin.
The bite marks on my chest stung when his sweat dripped on me.
I closed my eyes and saw the manifestation of my fears.
My body finally gave out after running from my ****** and he came when I did.
As he slept, I cleaned the blood from under his fingernails.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 8:24 PM UTC
When the rainy gloomy day
From the gray clouds weaves the arch,
When the heaven of lead acid in the silence
Floating to us vast object,
When the foliage discolor,
And the cries of birds can be heard barely,
And thousands of hums seas
Denunciations from the heavens stronger,
When the winds are changing rules,
And hit the backhand in the discord,
And the air, woven from the the needles,
Sparks all over the blackness,
Suddenly a flash split the day in two,
And the lightning sparkle the bridge,
Connecting the heavenly home and the ground,
Showing the miracle of burning fire.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
The suit in question
Is grey. Pin-striped white.
Double-breasted. Three piece.
Blue tie, grey hatching.
An absolute nightmare to change into.
I drop my jeans
In the monastery stall,
Shed my shoes.
Old friends.
The trousers, slacks,
Rise morning fog
And sleep in the stratus
Of my waist.
I really wonder how
The men of the then
Could have worn them.
So much taller.
So much grander.
So much straighter.
White shirt with
The butterfly tracks,
Make-up stains
From a billion ancestors.
Dead relatives that don’t
Respond to the call.
I take their places
Without a single
Crumb of guilt,
O feel the guilt.
The vest. Easy enough.
Yeast but grey and it
Rises horizontally.
I’ve just noticed pockets
Sewn into maddening teases.
The barest suggestion
Of an opening.
It holds like the bowl of the moon.
The coat. The great monarch.
Organizer with a clipboard
Ensuring the quality
Of a burlesque of silk.
So strange.
So other.
So queer.
In a minute or two, the
Hyperhydrosis.
It really is my only hope
Of describing my true temperature.
I will ignite in a biological
Soliloquy that can
Pronounce all those tricky
Thoughts I’ve given up
For the stage.
Gentle gravity,
Cruel crushing backhand.
Burst my complexion,
Steal my aqueous words.
Again, this suit.
How many Lomans,
Bankers, adjudicators,
Businessmen and Babbits
Have lived out their deaths
In you?
Brave rain cloud,
Where is your lining?
I feel the quip swelling
And project it to the back wall:
Only the costume knows true reincarnation.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:21 PM UTC
I pull back and backhand
you like an old school
**** checking his ***
I don't condone that
behavior, I'm making
a point... literally
Next comes that vicious
overhead smash in the
name of love as I
desire to keep you
in a confined box
Forehand after Forehand
to complete the point, set
and ultimately match
You may judge me with
your rules, but you
will not break me as
I am the winner.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC
There’s a corner of my basement
I can see it from the couch
It’s a doorway of light
Opening to a stairwell
A light is on near my bed
It’s small
A phone perhaps
I have headphones on
So It’s hard to sleep comfortably
I like to nestle my head into the crook of my arm
I stare at a worn down drop-ceiling
Those two lights are on either side of my vision
I keep waiting
I keep rolling into the cracks
I’ve had to adjust the cushions far too many times
A smile
A warmth
My eyes
I don’t want to swallow
The jar is closed
Pandora’s box of light opened while I streamed blues on Pandora
And I see the lights go static
They bend into each other in the dark
I wave my fingers in front of my face
I’ve probably killed a few brain cells here
Definitely.
Sorry Mom
I was bored and rubber cement is only 3.97
I’m drunk on a cleanse from oxygen
I’m sure my nostrils will thank me later
My brain could use an adhesive
Flexibility would bond loose ends
And repair the divisiveness
I have my hands in everything
And I can’t remember the last time I stepped in dog ****
But a hand in phylogeny is a backhand to Baptists
A hand in salvation is a slap in the face to the Darwinists I love everyday
I have a toast!
To the moment the rapture brings about our extinction my friends!
At least everyone thinks I’m stupid.
Right in the middle of the room is the right place to be
A bullseye for stone chuckers and monkey *******
A hand out for the druggies
And a jab at the churches who aren’t doing anything
A round of applause for cruel irony
And a finger turned up in a creative way to everyone who’s laughing at the episode
Vishnu would have a hay day
And I could use the extra hands.
Jesus’s are tied- I mean nailed up at the moment
But when miracles don’t happen anymore
Go read first Samuel, and you’ll see all this **** went down before
And there’s another cycle
History repeats itself
In through the nose and out through your mouth
Just keep a nostril over the jar
And don’t die
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
I guess I'm a liar.
That I never walked through hell
For a devil with the face of an angel
I never took the blame for her sins
My pain didn't inspire my writings
It was all you.
Though we never spoke or met
I stole your pain, I guess
'Cause you're the only one
Who ever felt the backhand of love
Thank you for creating the feeling,
Of both drowning and falling
Of both burning and freezing
Only YOU know.
What it feels like to be wounded
And to bleed all over the world
I never had a relationship with
A megalomaniacal, evil *****
I guess I just stole it.
Memories of brutality without shame
How did we ever feel before you came?
Along and taught us this new word,
This uncharted concept for which
No one has previously heard.
Get over yourself.
It's just a word
And mine is better than yours.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Ain't nobody notices you-
'till the spot-light's on...
A smokey 'gray sigh- up
since three-in-the morn...
A stiff whisky breakfast-
stench lingers forth
and when, you, open-ya mouth-
the cold, pain'a the world, come rowlin' out.
And when, your, voice-'sprays that sound-
rattlin' round our ears like a chain.
Ya' seem old as dirt, man--
but hurt worse than your infant
*** after ya'daddy branded it--
w/ the knuck's a his backhand.
understandable why-
ya' wanna get higher,
than the fumes of ya' sapphire water.
This is all 'ya got left
'till death, comes an grants ya warmth.
and you're, all, lone till the demons
soar forth from 'ya soul.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
grown too big for my britches,
I run my fat, fat mouth until I
look like a fool--a happy one.
flirting up a storm with his friends,
antagonizing my brother, my friend,
until she yells, and he kicks my ***
I went for a hug, and he kicked my *** (!) physically pinning me, I can't move
I rolled him over once, at least I got that, and he later apologized for be a ****
I mean, he's got three inches
fifty pounds of muscle, and
actual fighting
training on me
How long could I really last?
I am a woman, I am weaker.
Kate told me that in Nepal, the men backhand the women and children, very easily, and she was backhanded for not remembering how to say her name in Nepallian. That must feel awful, to have a feeling of power handed over to big fists because of strength, not money.
I watch the trees, I break a beer bottle on accident
I flash the cars over the bridge, I wasn't even that
drunk, I am just sad--very tired of feeling nothing.
It's just sibling rivalry, and we'll both get over it.
my family makes a tall crowd;
my mother is 5'10", the shortest
we were raised to party, hard, and we entertain, flamboyantly
we were raised to clean it up, efficiently, to take responsibility
I might be a fool, but at least I'm going to be happy later.
That's not guaranteed though, I am sure of that, certainly
He might be too jaded to be as successful as he could be.
That's not guaranteed though, I am sure of that, certainly.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
My ears are stopped with tapers, so I'll hear no more
of this ****** farce you and he have going.
Every time you ask for more
abuse, I realize I'm better off not knowing.
But my playlist is full of sadness,
and the rest is a bore.
So your screams are my melody
and I'll listen as your blood keeps on flowing.
They say fools rush in, and more the fool you.
More the fool me too, to listen to
your pained cries for more pain,
as your skin is red glowing,
The bruise slowly growing,
as you exult in the sick high you get from his backhand;
as I listen to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus ask him
if he feels like a man.
There's no pain more complete tonight
Than the ringing in my tear soaked budded ears
when he says **** my **** *****
with those lips so sweet... "and tight."
And you oblige, because you're too used to it to fear,
and it makes you feel beautiful,
because only angels weep, right?
That's the sad lesson heard here.
I bid my sad playlist goodnight.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
This is a very explicite poem
im gonna hit that *****
shes gonna be gushing blood from her stitches
i can tell her whole bodies got twitches
my nine is gonna make her whine
that ***** better make my dome shine
im gonna backhand that ***
she better not **** with my head
or shes gonna be in the streets
and not in my bed
****** up a million times
wish i could take it back
but she has no right to make my anger snap and crack
my hearts burning like the hot heat of a flame
im gonna ***** this ***** up and wont have any shame
i'll admit im an angel that cant sing
sitting back and letting her do her thing
feeling weak in my soul, body and mind
got more potential then any producer could find
got nowhere in life with her by my side
but in my heart, she has left and died
now the puddle of blood at the foot of my shoes
theres no way that this far into it, i could lose
but being madly in love has its disadvantages
but for now that skanky ***** is in bandages
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 2:26 PM UTC
Tonight the very notion that steals my mental devotion, is that chance play a motion in that commotion concerning whether one receives a demotion or a promotion
To be lucky or unlucky! It must feel a little yucky, perhaps a bit sucky, that your ability to forsee outcomes is a tad mucky
You might play your hand and find your decision be grand, or life may demand that you be reprimand, where things may not go as planned as you receive a backhand
Hell you may just strike gold, where you luck begins to unfold, where your wealth was withhold, it may just so happen you behold your gold increase eightfold!
People like to be upset due to all the others they've met who don't seem to sweat and carry no debt, people who fret thinking they deserve a corvette or a big shiny jet that they'll get when they win the grand luck roulette.
Still I think that it shows that even if life blows, when the sky fills with crows and your luck seems to have froze, luck is just a fact of life that nobody knows
With the good comes the bad, with the happy the sad, with the boring the rad, that luck is quite a fad
Just know that whether you're hung out to dry or live in Versailles, whether you hit the bulls-eye or things go awry, have everything money can buy or just barely scrape by, you just can't deny your life is at the mercy of life's invisible die
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
I can see the truth in the horizon
And it doesn’t look very happy
I know it cause it reeks of doom
And charges to attack me
My virginity is jeopardized
I’ve been a lie all these years
If I was smarter than yesterday
I could’ve avoided these fears
Spring cleaning has suddenly come
And it woke up my nightmares
Everyone feels the disappointed
Now it’s time for my share
It’s the fist of Goliath
The sharp sting of a backhand
The anticipation hurt like the verdict
I've had *** with a man
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:01 PM UTC
Darling, we're insanity.
I come back to listen
To you whisper your sweet nothings,
Then get a backhand to the face.
I know "you have the capacity to change,"
I mutter to myself, the whole way
To and back from your place.
I tell myself "it won't always be this way,"
One of these days,
My blood soaked clothes
A trail upon your floor,
You'll beg me to stay.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
Travis used to pick up pebbles
Held them in his hand looking
For gold... Or crystal, smooth sides
Or even one with a strange color
He wanted to throw them upstream
So he could watch his collection
Bounce before it drowns
Now I've been collecting pebbles
Since he shot one bouncing farther
Than the heat could bend the light
I learned religion that day
I woulda started a church on the shore
Hiring monks to unravel the secrets
Of his backhand throw,
I mean if I could even pick up
The pebbles anymore without
Watching half drip through fingertips
Just to watch them drown, thudding
Into last years promises,
I swear if I had a pebble for every
Promise I made to my future,
I'd be forced to build a wall
Between me and every half-thrown
Analogy ripping your mind
Out of the moment and hello
This isn't a Poem, this is
Uhhhhh....
Just words in a line and so if that
Interruption wasn't enough to
Send you Running
Then you're stronger than the people
Disappointed by my inattention to details
If I really had a pebble for every
Promise I've ever broken I'd do my best
To pile them up in such a way that the right
Light reflects my true intentions
That wall, is a scarf, to keep you warm
All the nights you had to cry yourself
To sleepless tossing when I should've been
There. To wipe away your tears and
I'm sorry.. But I'm gonna have to leave
You in that bed a few more times I still
Haven't learned how to count sheep
who can't jump over that wall we built
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC