"gymnasium" poems
Sit in a crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday.
Basketball is not the point.
Stare at the orange speck anyway.
Silence your phone and his voice from before,
Still inside your head,
words the color of the burnt orange ball.
Find music in the squeak of the rubber soles,
Notice the referee's slanting stripes, and how they blur
when you stare, until even pictures inside your head blur.
Nod to the man wearing the red cap beside you,
whose words dribble across your mind,
They imprinting a message:
travel
next year
last year
time
killing
foul
out
losses
hope.
Maybe you miss that last word,
Or maybe you see the message graffitied on the score board.
Maybe you close your eyes and open them again,
And notice the white jerseys gleaming in song with light,
The same light that slants up toward you,
Your shirt should also be white,
With the same light shining on those who travel
and on those who foul out.
Sit in the crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday,
and forget about what he told you last night.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
A
D
C
B
B
B
Be correct please...
I cant stand these tests
Desighned to determine the worth of our mind.
Dont mind me im just suisidal because i got a C, plus these desks lined infront of me, im my three hour exam that took me two and a half hours of writting i took the rest of my time to count the isles, 35 then i took some time to count how many were lined in front of me 31, and with me thats 1120 desks filled with students so stressed you could cut their hope with a single breath. Now this horror scene has no bars but the crippiling debt deffinitly imprisons us. Its funny that a gymnasium can be turned to a slaughter house, maybe even a gas chamber killing hope by the masses leaving thoasands behind because they allready got their check.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
The Alexandrians were gathered
to see Cleopatra's children,
Caesarion, and his little brothers,
Alexander and Ptolemy, whom for the first
time they lead out to the Gymnasium,
there to proclaim kings,
in front of the grand assembly of the soldiers.
Alexander -- they named him king
of Armenia, Media, and the Parthians.
Ptolemy -- they named him king
of Cilicia, Syria, and Phoenicia.
Caesarion stood more to the front,
dressed in rose-colored silk,
on his breast a bouquet of hyacinths,
his belt a double row of sapphires and amethysts,
his shoes fastened with white
ribbons embroidered with rose pearls.
Him they named more than the younger ones,
him they named King of Kings.
The Alexandrians of course understood
that those were theatrical words.
But the day was warm and poetic,
the sky was a light azure,
the Alexandrian Gymnasium was
a triumphant achievement of art,
the opulence of the courtiers was extraordinary,
Caesarion was full of grace and beauty
(son of Cleopatra, blood of the Lagidae);
and the Alexandrians rushed to the ceremony,
and got enthusiastic, and cheered
in greek, and egyptian, and some in hebrew,
enchanted by the beautiful spectacle --
although they full well knew what all these were worth,
what hollow words these kingships were.
6.4k
sometimes when i am trapped inside my own mind
and feel like i’m drowning in the taste of air,
suddenly i am eight years old years,
bobbing up and down in my wimpy life jacket
my legs unsupported
and there is still a chip on my shoulder
a mile wide.
sometimes i am still the five year old who balled her eyes out
when her parents accidentally forgot and were late
picking her up from preschool,
sometimes i am still sixteen years old and in love with you
sometimes i am a person i never thought i’d manage to grow into,
sometimes i am a person i’ve yet to become.
i am juxtaposition of a thousand different versions of myself.
i am equally the eight year old girl still afraid of the water
as i am the almost-adult you so naively believed to be fearless,
my self-assurance a really good halloween costume.
i am a newborn at the same time
as i am frail ninety year old grandmother.
i am brave and i am terrified
and i am naive and i am jaded
and i am clean and i am ruined;
i am a blank slate and i have been scribbled all over,
my skin is smooth and untouched
my skin has laughter lines and stretch marks.
i am the creator and i am the destroyer,
i am everything and
nothing at all.
i am the ocean
and i am the desert.
my lungs are failing as i’m breathing fine,
and i can see the end and the beginning in equal clarity.
sometimes i’m too old for my skin,
weary like i’ve lived a thousand lives already
and sometimes i am four years old with
my knees hugged to my chest.
sometimes we are two and sometimes we are twenty,
sometimes we were nine and sometimes we are ninety.
we are young and dumb and reckless at the same time
as we are old and wise and careful.
sometimes my father is still a gap-toothed five year old
and my mother is still a tired old woman
with shaking hands,
and my brother is still an angry teenager with a bad hair cut.
we are existing simultaneously
and growing up is just getting really good at pretending
that you’ve got your **** all figured out
when you still feel like a lonely middle-schooler
without a date to the mixer,
alone in the middle to gymnasium floor.
but that’s the thing, isn’t it?
when you are cut open, when you are bleeding,
when you have gaping holes in your nervous system
your flesh heals over
it scars, brand new.
we are bleeding and we we are healed,
we are ******* up
and we are doing just fine.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
The library is a quiet, empty cave where voices echo like ghosts in a gymnasium.
Laughter.
You can feel the history here, both in the dusty tomes and the architectural nod to the Roman coliseum.
Strange visitors of which I am numbered as I stand here spouting poor poetry on my phone.
Enough.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Hope is the morning sun
Peering in through my kitchen window
As I sip fresh steaming coffee alone.
Hope is the last workday before
My next day off, when I’m happy
For once, to wish away the hours.
Hope is awkward like a high school dance,
Like two virgins kissing
Beneath the gymnasium bleachers.
Hope is a grocery list fastened
To my refrigerator with a free magnet
Advertising a divorce lawyer.
Hope is a cracked wine glass, packed away
In a moving box that traveled from Kentucky to Illinois –
Just another casualty of the long journey.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Pompeii stood proud near Naples.
Close to Herculaneum.
When in August of AD 79.
Volcano magnificent erupted.
Without nonchalance.
A buried city born.
Complete with frescoes of erotica.
Were subject to ancient censorship.
City modern with flowing water.
Trendy port.
Gymnasium.
Modernist by all accounts.
Population 20 000.
Mostly perished in brimstone's evacuation.
From the deepest depths of hell.
Suffocated nearly all.
Asphyxiated on vile fumes.
Eruption cataclysmic.
City buried far underground.
By written description.
'Tis believed that hell on earth unleashed.
The day following magical celebrations.
Worshiping Vulcanalia the Roman God of Fire.
Ironic tragedy procured.
Few survived the tragedy.
Those that did ran free
Anarchy, starvation.
Mainly petty larceny.
Landscape near destroyed.
Pliny the Younger wrote in a letter.
Vivid description of images seen as Pliny the Elder tried to rescue a few.
Felt perhaps had a duty to do.
Was admiral proud of the Roman fleet.
His life taken in forfeit as citizens from the ash world perished.
Pax Romana followed tragedy.
Dealt such a wicked card.
Embalmed in ash citizens lay.
Locked forever on the spot as they ran away!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:35 AM UTC
It's flower crowns
And shimmering gowns
Its dancing with a broken heart
Looking together
But feeling so apart
It's a mustang's engine coughing into the night
And stepping through the gymnasium's doors
Into the light
I thought Homecoming was about coming home
To everyone else
Not realizing Homecoming meant
Coming Home To myself
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
1167
Alone and in a Circumstance
Reluctant to be told
A spider on my reticence
Assiduously crawled
And so much more at Home than I
Immediately grew
I felt myself a visitor
And hurriedly withdrew
Revisiting my late abode
With articles of claim
I found it quietly assumed
As a Gymnasium
Where Tax asleep and Title off
The inmates of the Air
Perpetual presumption took
As each were special Heir—
If any strike me on the street
I can return the Blow—
If any take my property
According to the Law
The Statute is my Learned friend
But what redress can be
For an offense nor here nor there
So not in Equity—
That Larceny of time and mind
The marrow of the Day
By spider, or forbid it Lord
That I should specify.
2.5k
We were just lifting weights.
Then she went off to yoga class.
I was doing my reps.
She came back tired and worn out.
I told her to call it a day.
She said she wanted to do more reps with me.
How could I resist her big brown eyes begging me?
It happened while we were doing suicides.
She began to slow down.
I turned to look back at her.
She was on the floor.
I ran to her and turned her on her back.
She was coughing.
She was barely breathing.
I asked her where her inhaler was.
She shook her head and whispered she has lost it.
She began to shake.
Then she fell silent.
I yelled for help.
Forgetting we were in a soundproof gymnasium.
I gave her mouth-to-mouth.
After six tries she woke up.
She steadied her breathing.
She sat up and held onto me.
She said thanks and hugged me.
I picked her up and put her in the car.
Now we are home.
She is laying down.
I am watching over her.
She could have died.
It would have been my fault.
She almost died today.
I couldn't live without her.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
A student of mine sat on the steps
Clenched, clammy, and bulging with strained strength
Periodically overcome by shadows of pathology
This night he begged for help through gaps of cyclical consciousness
A funeral trail for clarity ambled solemnly to the gymnasium
He was surrounded, and they plotted, and advanced, and he was engulfed
They were upon him like a ****** seeking seed or vulture carrion
He seized on an arched back and suffered under octodemons
On that hard wood floor under dead bulbs that swung like momentous pendulums
My student transformed into a tiger leaking rage from rusty cage
Explained in eloquent detail and prophetic tone his will to ****
Blacking out to full extent
He was amygdala, he was instinct
Battling grown poachers until they stole his fearsome fangs
Clipped his claws, and painted over his stripes with calm
When contained, vicious umbra cat turned tranquil
We sat circular and played lobster ball pass with our toes
And talked about buses to New York
His mother taught him to be a songbird
While the streets moved his feet
Goodnight Archery, we hugged
I wonder how he's
Breathing
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 8:24 PM UTC
We were in middle school.
After the pre-algebra
exam we learned how
the body worked.
You took me into the
gymnasium and took that
left turn into the bathroom,
blew me
till your mother came
and picked you up
in her red sedan.
Then we were in high school,
and you ****** to fit in.
The drugs were
part of that too,
I suppose.
We weren't too close,
but I saw you
night after night,
making friends
in all the wrong ways.
Look how popular
you became.
Never went to college.
I don't know where
you ended up,
to be honest,
but you were a beautiful girl
with a beautiful spirit,
not like the shallow girls you
disguised yourself with.
There aren't many of you left
I'm afraid
I still think about you
and that day
after pre algebra.
--you got an A on that exam
I don't know if you remember--
Sad to think about.
I hope you're doing alright.
I hope life has you somewhere
the weather's warm,
and the sky is blue,
and the men are less
cruel than we were.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:22 AM UTC
Most moments in our lives pass unnoticed, without remark or consciousness.
Then, there are those that mean something, or that we choose to mean something,
that become a placeholder for our lives, to add meaning, understanding, passage
a demarcation that bestows significance
My daughter graduated, under rainy skies and cool breezes.
The white tents in the grass flapped empty and lonely like a cancelled wedding
We sat in a loud gymnasium rather than in the grass quad surrounded by trees
I was there with a thousand other proud parents;
I circled her name in the program. I waited for the moment when it was to be called; being
slightly afraid I'd miss it
And I whistled and yelled, but I don't think quite enough. I didn't seem to mark the moment.
It was a moment, and I knew it, expected it, wanted it to be.
so badly.
Bittersweet. I like that word, it explains life so well.
I like the idea of bittersweet and I wanted to have it envelope me that day.
I tried to hold on to it. Like a good dream that comes too late in the morning and wont be prolonged quite far enough
I wanted to hold on, to understand what it meant. I knew it meant so much,
or, at least, I wanted it too.
I held on to understand what this meant to her.
I held on to remember my own graduation and the dream I then only fainty realized I had just experienced in my four years of college
I held on because I know her next steps take her further away.
I held on to feel what she felt in the mixture of joy, relief, sadness, confusion;
all that goes with parting from friends who alone know the exerience you shared.
I held on to make sense of my life. Making sense of moments makes them meaningful.
I want life to be meaningful
I wish I would have written something that evening. In the full emotion of the day.
I thought about it.
And now, like that dream, it is fading into morning light. I can't remember all that was, or seemed to be, profound and important as I watched my daughter those two days.
I want it to mean something enduring, symbolic and permanent.
I want my life to be important, to reflect a famous quote from someone, to be in granite.
Not so everyone will know it mattered, just so that I will.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
We are all but dancers
In the rhythm of life
While some seem to dance it perfectly
Some can't get the steps down right
Don't let that stop you from dancing
We each have our own heartbeat
Whether or not you are sure footed
Or if you were born with two left feet
Though we often feel that life can be
A large gymnasium at times
Waiting for someone to dance with us
As we sit on the side
Instead of waiting to be asked to dance
Like so many often do
Where ever it is you are right now
You can dance just for you
Perhaps a ballerina floating gracefully
Across life's massive stage
Giving your own rendition
To the beauty of swan lake
Or dancing to the river
Perhaps something in modern style
Whatever dance it is you deliver
How ever far it is the mile
Dance like there's no tomorrow
To your very own rhythm
For no one else can dance like you
The dance that you've been given
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
It was a feeling of euphoric sensibility.
There was a gymnasium full of shrimps,
all squirming around,
trying to gain insight on their miserable minds.
As a sat their watching them squirm,
I accepted the feeling of wonderful greatness.
Just happy to be alive and among these other cool things in the gymnasium.
All the same beings,
but minutly similar personalities.
And as I blew my smoke,
and cleared the pass to me greatness,
I realized,
its these shrimps who make me who I am.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Old school, gymnasium, Christmas fair, Thursday night.
Hoops at either end. Tables. People. A woman carries a baby,
could be the PE teacher’s. A Ugandan flag. Jars of dark purple
jam next to jars of chutney, perhaps. The youth, us once,
flit between here and the hall. A choir, maybe thirty strong,
sing Santa Baby. Parents watch, as do we. Half a minute.
The head. Still a towering, suited figure. Handshakes all round.
What are we doing now? Voices like knots of consonants.
Geography man. Flecks of grey stubble. Procedure repeated.
Finger pointed. Scrabble for a surname. Exclamation.
Years rattling back to the front. He remembers, as do we.
Head of sixth seven years ago. Instant recognition. Repeat.
Half an hour. The place, no longer ours. Never was.
Friends the same. Memories. Dust between dark and light.
Car. Back seat. Barely two miles. Little traffic. Turn
into street. Step out. Chill drizzles the face. Handshake
again? Again. Time and place discussed before home.
See you tomorrow then. Yeah. Yeah. Front door key.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
Rain on tin
the pang and elasticity of
time and the time it
takes nature to sway
from right to left
from outer to inner
to notice the girl
on the edge of the room
with a drink in her hand
and then there's that
old lightning, self-proclaiming
its importance to the
gymnasium with grumbling
thunder then we're all
tossing dice and teaching
each other dance moves,
saying the girl on the edge
needs a pair of new shoes
and someone responds:
Isn't that the woman who kills?
And I go home with her
rain on tin and a summer
wade through Cottonwood Creek
we're in a shed
and it's musty, dangerous,
and possible
a killer takes certain care
of your body with her
cautious hands.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
There really isn't anything new
On this year's Christmas Giver Menu.
First we have the 'Accidental Insulter '
Who needs to hire, a clever gift consultor.
While handing you a gymnasium voucher,
Turning your emotions from 'sweet' to 'sour'!
Insults dressed up as compliments are nothing new,
But still, Cuz, it's a bit hard to chew!
Next in line is the 'Relentless Re-gifter'
With telltale signs on my "new" game of Twister,
Footprint stains and greasy hand marks,
My goodness, my fury is starting to spark!
"Do you love it? " She asks. "I knew you would! "
She was feeling heroic like Robin Hood,
Passing me that tired looking parcel,
I wanted to fling that **** gift right back to the castle!
I thought to myself, "Hey there Squire!
Your ****** gifts just aren't my desire!! "
Will I fret about this gift? Not one bit,
I'll just re-wrap it, re-gift it and,
Give it back to them next year!
The message, I bet, will be loud and clear.
"The Cheapskate"! Oh, what can I say here?
It's the same lame excuse year after year!
Buying gifts, eluded his 'plan',
He was far too busy, getting his tan.
Gifts to him just didn't matter,
As long as there was a lobster on a platter!
"The Handmade Lover" has a
Life affirming talent making,
But that 'Floral cushion cover collection,
I fear, by now, is OVERTAKING!!!
The "Gift Certificate Easy Roller",
Forgot you were plus five and a stroller,
Smiles smugly, as they hand it over,
I'd need more luck, than a four leaf clover,
Taking them all in to get my nails done,
Doesn't feel like a barrel of fun.
So, in future to avoid this mad, crazy dash,
I'd love to receive some COLD HARD CASH!!
Now, nothing makes me feel more nauseated,
Than "High Perceived Value packaging". "It's totally overrated! "
But I take courage in the "One Who Knows Me Best"
Their presents always outshine the rest!
"Merry Christmas to one and all! "
I hope that Santa heard your call,
"H-E-L-P!!! "
1 Nov 2018
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
Shoot the moon;
cuz all I have are hearts
And a *****
to dig graves.
Let's gather round
the smokey music
pyre and dance
a gymnasium
prom jig.
There's unwanted
Walmart bread
left behind for riots
on Said street.
Don't forget to shoot
because tomorrow
I won't have you
left to protect.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
my dream house
you see my dream house is just by lake burley griffin
and as you walk in there is a coke machine at the top of
a big escalator, and at the bottom of that escalator there
are two doors, 1 door is the offices where people work and
on the other side there is my front door and i know it sounds like every
young persons fantasy, but as you enter, it was like, well the first thing you
see is the hat rack in front of the first door to the gymnasium which had a treadmill and a rower and a bike
and as you walk further you enter the lounge room where there is
a nice comfy corner lounge and a LED TV and a big stereo where you can
listen to your favourite music and as you walk further, there is an internet station
where the computer is an apple with iPads and iPhones and the internet server was
iinet wireless broadband, and as you walk further on, you see the kitchen where they had a built in
dishwasher and stove and fridge, and it had all the latest kitchen gadgets that money can buy, yeah
that sounds so cool and it has built in hot and cold water jets as well as normal tap water, and as you
walk further you see the bathroom with a shower sink and toilet with a clean air contraption, to get rid of
oopsy smells, and the bedroom was right near the other side window looking over the wonderful startrack oval
but i can’t see in because of the grandstands around it, and there was a walk in wardrobe which rarely got
messy, and i had round the clock help with cleaning and cooking, yeah this is absolute paradise, but it will
always remain just a dream house
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
He's King Louis.
I went to school with the regency.
He's superfluous, and
he taught me grammatical consistency.
Since the first day of education,
he showed me cultural emancipation
behind the bleachers in the gymnasium,
between three and six on Wednesday afternoons.
He wore a crown of indignation
to guide him in his transmigration
of lines no boy should cross.
He takes the bait from all the teachers
and all the handshakes from the preachers
until it's not just the heat that makes King Louis swoon.
The priests, they tell him in their French,
**** de Monarque se viendra repentir!"
Much, much too late, the little wretch.
King Louis knows arithmetic, and
he listens to The Smiths with it
and thinks the rumors just aren't fair.
He knows the kids are uncouth gits
and all their sweaters are too loosely knit
and they don't spend nearly enough time on their hair.
Because he was King Louis,
time spend wading through the past is not a fling,
but a testament to getting up and staying there.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
Words form in your expression
of fluid emotion and air castings
so essential it's beyond the special
the mere figures of square or circle
your handicraft disturbing the randomness
an existence that calms yet stings
at the channel between the really spectacular
and my most beautiful imaginings
motion mixed with feeling to give breath vibrating meaning
sending my heart dancing to the tune of your waves
before the voice is even there to be heard beating
on the little drums inside my head where love's
stirring my feet into step with your presence
as you transform sentences into spirited rhythm
catchy and sharp so that inside I wince
with the vigorous release from realisation's thorn
that I never want to escape listening to your words
to what your thoughts don't say but start
in a gorgeously threadbare chapter coloured
through the artful lens you focus in and out
carrying and pulling me into amazing places
where the world unravels and dodges me
using the whole dilemma of clinging and races
to keep me gathering your loosely packed energy
I wish to grab you so tightly time ceases to flow
yes!.. over there's a gazelle leaving a gymnasium
as perfect as warm sunshine on crisp fresh snow
and winter's lion seems too slow to prey on autumn
you show me how to spring
straight out into a season
bright with mown meadow's green
so I pounce on you with a passion
which sent us flying and rolling to summer
into the fun of a hidden rabbit burrow
echoing with sudden peals of laughter
so loud that sorrow took fright and flew
while we hopped out to a brighter tomorrow
falling head over heels deep in a warren later
a one way maze built by paws for only two
your kiss the beginning and the end even better
a bobbing tail signals danger.. I follow
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
He's a rat in a cage
Strolling down his lonesome trails
around the grounds.
His knees are shaky and he's working minimum wage.
He tries to unlock the door to the gymnasium,
but his fragile hands can't still the keys.
Every day he rode his bike to work
And his grey appearance would turn sour in the cold morning wind.
Every day at 9 am, he would take a deep breath, and upon exhaling, he would raise the flag on the grounds square.
It was a ragged, pale old flag stained with the tears of time and his years at the gates.
He would sit in the afternoon sun, after the sound of the bells and all the kids were gone. In his dark blue jumpsuit, unable to remember how he felt before. When he was the one on the grounds, climbing the pine trees.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
Think about it and you'll realize
that there is no better color than wine-stained teeth
on high school students' prom nights
and muffled giggles from the girls
bathroom in the banquet hall of some
community center or middle school
gymnasium or overgrown grange hall
tell the secrets of the universe
under rushing water and dripping mascara
and notes scrawled in the grout with hearts
and other embellishment
Damp palms on shoulders and waists
with batting lashes and shy smiles and
stomachs growling from a skipped dinner
toes turned outward, awkward
when the slow song moves to charging beat
and hands flex like an accidental graze on the hot stove
a hip shake to assuage and seem like they meant it all along
that moment guides the other movements
and other movements
Driving up the hills and back down into the canyon
up the fire trail and to the right, no, the second right
crap, you passed it, turn around
watch the glitter lights of neighborhoods and boats
know there really are no better photographs
than those from disposable cameras that are blurred and laughing
developed weeks later and comingled with images of her dog
and your mom
and the backyard with candles blown out
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
it is not just pink for girls
and blue for boys
or laundry for moms
and desk jobs for dads.
it is self confidence plummeting
because your nine year old legs
look different than the others
girls aren’t supposed to be hairy.
it is watching the cheerleading team
through the windows of the gymnasium
hoping the other kids don’t see you
boys are supposed to play basketball.
it is being called bossy
for voicing your ideas
to say what you believe in
girls are supposed to be quiet.
it is a lack of empathy
from years of quieting
your emotions
boys aren’t supposed to cry.
it is being placed in a box
that is too small and
being told to cut off your legs
so you can fit inside it
we are not contortionists.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 8:21 AM UTC