"badminton" poems
Into a place far away but too familiar,
I push open the rusty purple gates,
Inhale a lungful of the province air,
Kick away blue pebbles on the dusty ground,
And then
Mano my lolo, my tito
Beso my lola, my tita
And give my cousins a nudge on the arm,
A pinch on the cheeks.
I squeeze between four people
In a rickety wooden bench and
Pass around plate after heavy plate.
I fill my banana leaf
With spaghetti too soft too sweet,
Almost like pudding,
With crispy chicken dripping with oil.
I wash it off with a cool glass of gulaman,
Chewy beads and gems in sugary water.
Fathers talk about basketball, boxing, billiards;
Mothers browse through photo albums and magazines;
While we children argue about Superman or Batman.
Our laughter fills the humid air
And goes up, up, up to the ears of the neighbors.
In celebration of the time we have together
And a nice sunny day
We devour our meals
And go ahead and
Climb trees and
Get our faces sticky with sweet fruits,
Lick chocolate ice popsicles,
Chase each other in the weedy playground,
Bike around town,
Pick colorful flowers,
Wrestle with each other,
Play badminton on a windy day,
Scare around chickens and guinea pigs,
And play patintero under the dull orange street lamps.
We nervously creep inside the back door,
All sweaty, bearing bruises and scratches
But still with wide smiles on our faces.
All is futile though.
An angry grandmother awaits,
Scolding us for
Coming home past sunset.
More and more stars glitter the sky
As the night gets deeper and deeper.
The gentle evening breeze whistles a note
As it enters through the window.
The karaoke blasts grating voices
Interrupted by hearty laughter.
Playing cards and corn chips litter the table.
We children exchange jokes and ghost stories.
And then,
We bid our goodbyes,
Sharing hugs and kisses
Stained with discontent and sadness.
Our hearts about to burst
In excitement for the next
Reunion.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
Like an onion, I had layers.
And you peeled me away, one at a time.
One layer off.
You saw my favorites.
The food and drinks I crave for.
The wall paint I wanted for my room.
The perky dresses, nail polish, knee-high boots.
And the spot I always prefer to be- on the front seat.
One layer off.
You saw my hobbies.
The words I stitched together.
The stars that formed our zodiac sign.
The wallclimbing, badminton, volleyball.
And the guitar strings that strum our lullaby.
One layer off.
You saw my dreams.
The plane ticket to Paris.
The thrill of a bungee jump.
The candlelit dinner, fireworks, dancing fountain.
And the license as a medical physician.
One layer off.
You saw my strengths.
The smile behind the false judgements.
The tears I fought back with pride.
The temperance, confidence, adjustments.
And the self-love I have strongly magnified.
One layer off.
You saw my insecurities.
The missing dimple on my left cheek.
The pimples on my forehead.
The bitchface, fierce stare, strict walk.
And this prominently thin-but-tall body figure.
One layer off.
You saw my regrets.
The kisses I could have refused.
The friends I thought were true.
The false assumptions, unmet expectations.
And the trust I gave to the wrong person.
One layer off.
You saw my secrets.
The punches I had to take.
The bruises I covered with my sleeves.
The lies, frustrations, disappointments.
And the brokenness suppressed in my memory.
The last layer, off.
You saw through me.
The anxiousness escalating slowly.
The exposure feeling uneasy.
I felt stripped, explored, unguarded.
And in my nakedness - you had to choose:
To love or to leave me,
For who I really am.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
'yo be my partner'
you extended your partnership
i accepted it gracefully
we slammed the competition
tossed the shuttlecock back-and-forth, back-and-forth
everyone was in shock
oh how that tiny shuttlecock soared
okay, let's be a little realistic...
0-3 was our score
we lost in pride
and in demise
at least i could dream we were kind of good
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Squash uses a racquet,
Tennis implies a racquet,
Badminton applies a racquet.
Together the racquets' racket is too noisy.
But it's funny how we all seem to like it.
Some cannot even live without the din.
But how good or bad is to bet about it.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
Over the last few days
I have constructed a new basic description of myself:
I am the seventeen year old
poet with a white beard and baggy, bruised-looking eyes
who only ever uses his left hand when playing badminton.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Spring comes
as grasses leap forth
and emerald hues are added to the landscape,
with wildflowers peeking up from the
dewy roadside.
The world smells
fresh like worms and earth,
while birds drift down to finish last year’s
seeds.
Yellow rain boots hop
out of shelves and into the puddles,
while mud gathers and plays in the road,
gurgling with mirth at passers by.
The badminton net is resurrected,
regally looming over the lawn,
as the swings squeak joyfully in the breeze.
The fireplace gives a sooty yawn
and falls to sleep.
And in the kitchen, fiddleheads unfurl upon
a hot pan
as the old and sour scent of the earth
settles upon our plates,
spring steps lightly
onto the world.
~Yuka Oiwa
May 6, 2008
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
Thirty three years we go back,
Of course I think of you when I hear it.
Thirty three years of listening, questioning, understanding...
Of course I think of you.
My mind isn't a spigot I can turn off
and forget the water that flowed through.
I think of you when I was proud to be your wife,
proud of your accomplishments.
What does she know of those?
She doesn't know you.
She doesn't know you.
She hasn't loved you through the rages and disappointments,
through the utter giddiness of new fatherhood,
through your father's death,
your mother's pain.
She didn't thrill with each promotion,
plan homes,
plant gardens,
hope for thunder,
dance in the rain,
live on bagels for lunch,
play badminton in the dark.
She hasn't dried your tears over a son's illness.
She didn't play bridge with friends
or know their son who died,
the tow -headed little boy who made us think of becoming parents.
What comfort can she give?
She doesn't know you.
She knows this creation you've become
in Hollywood jeans
and weekend hikes without attachments.
She knows your daughters as bait--what a great dad--
your sons as accomplishments;
your wife as an anchor
who held you down, held you back
when all along I thought I was your support.
She doesn't know you.
And neither do I.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
En smøg på vej til skole en smøg derfra
To i træk i frikvarteret en halv i det andet
Jeg skriver stil med avancerede ord
Og debatterer i dansk og samfund
Jeg ryger en fra gymnastik
Og tæsker pigerne i badminton
Jeg lukker døren og skruer op for varmen
Og læser Yahyah og Strunge til jeg skal tisse
Jeg holder kæft ved middagsbordet
Og gemmer ordene til papiret
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
I don't know your winter hats
I don't go to your school
I don't see you from September
To the end of June
But I know how you row a boat
And how you scrape your knees
And we know the best train tracks
For squishing all our pennies
You're the better swimmer
You're the better dancer too
You always win at badminton
(But I win at Taboo)
Share our favorite movies
On those dank and rainy days
That make us feel like thunder
As the skies are set ablaze
I know your mom, I know your dad
I know the dog you used to have
I know the cottage makes me glad
Cause that's where I know you.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
Fall in Miami is nearly here
It's my favorite season of the year
Cooler the weather soon will be
Crisp air, fresh smells, energetic cats we'll see.
Time to plant my seeds to grow
Vegetables, herbs, all organic we sow
Trees still green, light outside after dinner
Walks, badminton, biking all a winner.
Halloween fun coming soon,
The stores with holiday supplies since June
Door bells ring, children call “trick-or-treat”
Scary costumes and mounds of candy to eat.
Buy a pumpkin and carve evil, smile fake
The seeds toasted, fruit in an aromatic cake
Shriveled pumpkin in my compost bin
Organic matter to start all over again.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
You're a Teacher first and a Parent second
As a father, you're doing great every second
You have always been true
And knew the right thing to do
No matter how much negativity surrounds you
We wonder how do you manage to
Forgive the ones who hurt you
You gave us everything from the bottom of your heart
We inherited our love for badminton, cricket, and art
The love you gave us and the values you taught
Are so priceless and can never be bought
Here's your Birthday song, "My Dad, My Hero"
Because without you, we are nothing but a Zero
>><><><><><<
Prem Kumar Tunuri
Sunil Jaikar Tunuri
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
yes of course
i noticed you yes
you sitting on a park bench watching
the tail-wagging hunting dog you bought to charm
us into loving you
and if you really want one of us why
challenge me to this game of
mixed doubles badminton i can't possibly win
some lose some
how can i trust you if you
have to put my plants out in the rain to
catch a chirping cricket or if you
can’t make me cry with laughter when you
make fun of my religion
you are not
the kind of person who would
tell me the rugs make your body itch so much you have to
take a shower & steal my clothes while i let the
tetrahydrocannabinol go to my
mouth (and you think
god she's beautiful and
god i'm such a handsome ******* you are not
the kind of person who would
wish people took care of you as well as i
(do or die trying) and
i have severed the hand that fed me
with these flesh-sharpened canines
of mine
and i have not had seconds yet i have not
said grace i have not
eaten the porridge from your
outstretched hands cupped
as if to catch the hail that
stings my skin and
ricochets from yours as if it were
leather and the sheath of your knife
concentrated in the firelight and the
scent of burning cedar i am not
the one with a wrung-out neck and a
doll-eyed stare if you could
pluck the feathers one by one from my
frozen flesh i would not
bat an eyelid swing
low closed and animal finish
your story and in the dewy
morning the dead pine
will crawl with the beetles you brought in mason jars
how can you look me in the eyes when
dinner & wine always ends with a
checkmate
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
these Sunday mornings feel like endless seas
I’m slowly floating toward the horizon
immersed in bluish mist through which
the rising sun sends warming rays
sleepy I gaze through frosted window panes
there is a world out there
yet somehow all that I can see
are hazy shapes of luscious breakfast items
set upon the table beckoning
together with the morning papers
for me to settle down and eat and read
without time’s breath upon my neck
no need to hurry jump into my clothes
rush out and try to catch the bus
the news is terrible as usual
but somehow less important than on other days
whether the stocks are high or low
abroad at home the dollar falls or rises
affects me moderately at best
it seems a lazy morning spawns a lazy brain
noises of busy-ness seek access here in vain
headlines are read without concern and soon forgotten
all systems are content with letting go
and feel besotten with the prospect of a pleasurable day
nice picknick on the common green
a game of badminton to have some exercise
delicious dinner at my favorite restaurant
night comes much earlier than you surmise
on your way home you see the half-moon rise
you vaguely wonder where the day has gone
before you rest your head after no work well done
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
she was like a swan
came out to play badminton
jumping and moving
a kind of feather touch on earth
the earth would have enjoyed
her presence
a coincidence of her movement
on the net………..something
happening in my heart..
her eyes listening my gaze
though, am a stranger
she came and sat next to me
a sweet vibration
to both…my eyes revealed
resume to her…..
a sign of appointment….she
left her racquet….
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
An angel flew down to Earth one night,
Falling into the affectionate embrace,
Of someone who she could call her own,
And became Daddy's little girl.
She and her Daddy,
Played on the seesaw, the slide and the swings.
Listened to every single song,
And savoured each and every movie.
She and her Daddy,
Laugh and sneeze together,
Snooze in an identical posture,
For all to acknowledge she is the chip of his block.
She and her Daddy,
Are partners in crime.
When Daddy creeps up to the fridge to have a snack or two,
She promises to keep it secret.
She and her Daddy,
Played Badminton for hours,
But he never let her win like other Daddys'
Because he knew it will it only make her better.
Hmm...
Her Daddy is so busy every day,
In the grueling race of life,
But never forgets to buy,
Her more gifts than he ever bought Mommy.
Her Daddy is her best friend and her guide,
Someone that she can count on,
To always,
Be on her side!
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
Where did we fall in love?
Was it my awkward distance behind you,
up the stairs, to avoid conversation?
Or in our fleeting eye contact, passing each other,
going in different directions?
Was it in the car, when you
wouldn't let me sit out in the rain?
The backseat where you didn't
want to see me cry?
Or in the pool or the ocean water,
where you had helped me stay afloat?
In the field by the tennis court,
looking for constellations,
after wrestling each other to the ground?
Was it in Cape Cod,
in the tent with all our friends?
Or in the White Mountain National Forest,
in the tent with only each other,
on our own camping trip?
Past the smaller site,
down the muddy, slippery, steep hill,
in the clearing next to the raging river?
Between two mountains;
the place where we couldn't start a fire?
Was it in the trunk of my best friend's car?
Or in her living room?
On the platform at the train station,
where I watched you leave town for college?
On all of the bus and taxi and train rides
we took to be certain we would see each other again?
On the beach where the seagull stole my onion rings?
Or the parking spot where you parallel parked for the first time,
right before you bought me the onion rings?
In my backyard, playing badminton?
In the parking lot, playing lotball?
In all of the parking lots that fogged up your windows?
In your dorm room when I was sick
and you had to take care of me?
Or when you were sick,
and I walked across campus to buy chicken noodle soup
and had to take care of you?
In the moshpits at live shows?
Or in the fantasy world of an mmorpg?
I don't even know where this began.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
Leaving class during an internal lockdown
Shooting elastic bands at the target we mounted on the wall
Shooting elastic bands at our teacher's hat
Hiding from our teacher with the hat
Naming the robot we programed in class: Clive
Bananagrams
Ditching gym class
Talking/lying our way out of trouble a lot lol
Making elaborate plans to do very odd things (and playing pink panther
music as well as mission impossible music when we did it)
Putting mistletoe everywhere in the school at Christmas
Texting quotes of the night
Writing fictional stories and sending them over text to each other in
parts at 2AM
Writing poetry
Learning the Greek Alphabet so we could play Greek Hangman
Creating numerous extremely complicated codes where punctuation,
capitalization, "accidental" smudges near words and how you
pronounce certain words is significant.
Always buying the same drink at Starbucks
Eating a ridiculous amount of free samples at the Fro Yo place
Skipping down the hall happily in our gothic spiked clothing. Just to
confuse people. Watching the looks we got.
Writing limericks in math class
Playing Go Fish with our bus passes and when the teacher came over all he said was: Oh! Who's winning?
Playing full tackle basketball...when we were supposed to be playing badminton
Filling a friend's locker with stuffed animals while they were away and texting them to warn them we put a lion and bear in their locker
Inside jokes: Whiteout, Whip-cream, We-are-the-crazy-people, **** that's a fiiiine shoulder! Pass the coke!
Playing Quarto during Science class
Playing boggle during religion
I miss that grade. I wish things could go back to the way they were, but they really can't ever. I miss being so young and innocen- hahahahaha okay, not innocent but young and crazy. I miss when there were not scars on my arms and my soul.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
this is a cry
this is a cry
this is a cry
this is a
parking lot. that is how big this world is. a sad space between the trees, east to a canteen, west to a badminton field. head south, there's a toilet. the way out is in the north.
we are full of cold cars and stranger's sweat. we are full of leaves, branches, fruits that fall anonymously. of raindrops, of muds that stain our clean white shoes. we are full.
come, wind. come and break the trees. come so they can wreck us into scraps.
it is no harm to the living. roots keep them alive. what does that make a human? people are abandoned, fences are mistaken as a protection. the lonely bridge. the raging river. the subject. the unidentified. everything is now an object to the eye
and it wrenches our emotion until we give them all up, of course, until we've got nothing left, of course, until breathing is solved and the lungs unravel
listen
this has been a cry all along
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
***People coming
out of their nest,
Few sundays
marked as fest!
Let's go cycling
or just walk,
Everywhere
people flock!
Kids are playing,
elders relaxing,
Drawing, dance,
or sketching !
Traffic absent,
roads are our own,
Yoga, zumba,
fitness zone!
Football, badminton,
Karaoke,
Sit or lie down
on the road, it's ok!
Move and groove
on favourite song,
Dance on the road,
it's not wrong!
All are happy
it's a good treat,
Come and join
on happy street!***
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
Come Irene!
Get that racquet from the side of the tank.
Your mother brought a shuttlecock from Kitale.
I love this one, its heavy and a bit crooked ... just to my strength,
You see, your late grandmother used the one you are holding and she played off with your grandfather on this compound years ago.
What is this game called?
Badminton.
You just hit this conical shaped ball called a shuttlecock towards me and I hit it back your side
Just make sure this ball doesn't touch the ground,
It's not hard like Table-Tennis.
Here goes...hit it back.
You're getting it... you're doing it right...
I remember it like it was yesterday,
Uncle Michael and I run down the street to play,
We could just run from your aunty,Gillian ...what a fast runner she is!
She wrote to me last week about her cat running around the house,
See, my dear Irene ,even after all these years we still keep in touch,
So keep in touch with Dad wherever you go, remember your brothers and sisters,
I'd love to see you go far, travel the world, Do what you love.
You got a voice in there,
I've heard you sing from the kitchen window,
Write those songs down in your diary,
Sing to me, sing to Mama, sing to everyone, sing to the world.
Hey Walker, I didn't see you there...
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 2:30 AM UTC
If we were childhood friends
I would have taken you to that garden near your house
and we would have played on the see-saw instead of walking round and round
saving us from taking a reverse to beat the slow walkers
How can I miss drawing you with my crayons
that once only served Lord Ganesha
And the hide & seek that we play now
would have been funnier then
you would hide and I would peekabo
and you would find me no matter where I hide
all credit to my height, right?
I would also play badminton every evening,
keeping in mind that points don’t matter,
but you do
Only this way,
you would not fall after every meeting
and not be afraid to be very happy
May be, we already did all of this and that in some life
and that’s why we were not childhood friends
this time.
What were we? (line deleted)
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
i guess black on white, is the subverssive method, teutonic, given that prussians weren't exactly what the germans later incorporated; ah yes, the mistake upon invitation, to allow the baltic crusades; a black cross, upon a white flag.
as someone living in england,
i hear this frequently from
american youtubers...
*i didn't ask for your ******* opinion!
blah blah!*
that's strange...
i don't know why
people have created this subjective-dialectic
monster...
no one is having
objective-dialectics...
they get so ****** emotional...
*i didn't ask for your ******* opinion!
n'ah n'ah me me me.*
comes a time, when, it's really great
to shut up...
evidently if someone tells you:
your opinion is not welcome,
then free-speech per se, is also not welcome;
so much for the "atheistic" community
damning subjectivity,
championing objectivity,
but when a need to reply comes along
and establish a dialogue...
there are only two people,
one shouting into one cave,
and the other,
shouting into another cave;
have these people ever have conversations
with people on park benches?
for all i know, i have...
right now?
i'm not talking: you're talking
what i've written...
effortless... like a falling leaf in autumn;
or as sarcasm goes: thanks for the effort
in exercising your right of free speech;
i'm still looking for an objectivity on this
site...
but it's subjectivity ping-pong,
either how infuriated i can become,
or how volcano-ready i seem to be ready
to suddenly snap.
i don't understand how a calmness of
voice translates as being objective...
it's just one of those clever tricks
of sophistry;
nonetheless...
it's the analogy of two caves...
so much for dialectics,
given the need for third parties
and a complete lack of open dialogue...
and, subsequently...
so much for this so called badminton
of free speech.
oh thank **** i'm not talking
and writing on the colour of a flag
that could resemble "defeat"... since i wouldn't
exactly call it the saudi green of the ethos
surrounding submission.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
You never realize how happy you are
until you can walk through a park,
a smile on your face, not a single worry.
You actually notice how nice the weather is.
The sunlight on the grass.
The child beating his son at badminton.
All the people just enjoying the day.
And you're one of them.
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 11:59 AM UTC