"racquet" poems
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
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!
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
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
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
This is not you that lies before us,
beloved Aunt, for you live on
in our hearts, our souls, our minds
as the with racquet and a ready smile,
as the doting older sister
with eyes shining like a proud spotlight
on two little girls on a crowded stage,
singled out and made special by your love.
You do not lie here cold and lifeless,
beloved Aunt, for you live on
in the warmth of your laughter
and your bright shining lively dancing eyes
and your girlish peaches-and-cream complexion
and in the memories
of two small nephews
in the endless summer of childhood
conquering the diving tower at Jellicoe Baths
or frolicking at Mission Bay
and you capturing all our shared and happy memories
with your trusty Box Brownie.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 4:00 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
universe, displace from me
this trauma in the breaking
of my father’s favorite scotch glass
for it is simpler to clear glass shards
from the dishwasher and laminate tile
than ventricular shrapnel from my chest
eyebrows
straight as a net
keep me serving lets
racquet, arm, the ball
is all i don't know
40-love
scoreboard soothsayer
divining the true value
of affectionate devotion
game, set, deuce off the bat
[wrong sport]
my serve is in returning
paper bags brimming
with your belongings
(our volleys never lasted)
game, set, match
[applause]
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
There was, every spring, a new batch of pups,
Yipping, nipping, clumsy ***** of ***** fur,
Looking for all the world like speckled tennis *****
Before they’d learned any hard lessons
At the hands of a racquet.
They chased their tails and each other,
Not to mention various other denizens of the barnyard:
Frantic chicks, cranky piglets,
The occasional bemused draft horse,
And sometimes they chased us as well,
Yelping childishly, rolling with us on the ground,
Nipping bare fingers and toes,
Afterwards lying on the ground asleep,
Looking , save for the rhythmic twitching of their paws,
Positively angelic.
Come late August,
The time would come to set them on the *****
We’d long since stopped thinking about it,
Much less questioning it
(I had, one year, asked my father if the puppies had to go
One time too many until,
With a look that brooked no further conversation,
He said flatly It’s what they’re born to.)
So we went on with the business
Of the soft, slow late summer
Until one evening just after sunset
We would hear the baying of the hounds
Out toward the back fields,
Mechanical and workmanlike at first,
But soon strained and syncopated with excitement,
And at some point there would be
A cacophony of cries and snarls
Until such time there was only silence.
The next morning we would visit the dogs,
And we’d pet them and rough-house a bit,
And there might be an oddly rouged spot
On their coats here and there,
Or one of them might sneeze out a tuft of fur
That didn’t rightly belong to them,
And every year our Uncle Bryce would slyly opine
*You boys may want to be a bit more careful
Around their mouths now, hear*?
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red
service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into the crooked lane
plat of medieval Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
The whole world was gray
November’s first snowy day
Not a single winter racquet
And in the midst of the white
And the foggiest sight
I saw a man in a dark blue jacket.
I’d seen him before
And that I swore
As he was a classmate of mine
In past Fall’s red hue
I remember seeing the blue
Of the man’s dark jacket’s shine
i always saw him in the hall
he wasn’t particularly tall
but wherever i was, he was too
and when i saw him at lunch
my friend told me his hunch:
“i think that blue jacket man might like you”
i admired the admiration
but felt no butterfly-in-stomach sensation
so maybe i had to go and pack it
then the following saturday
when from my classes i was away
i saw the man in the dark blue jacket
he had tried to sit next to me in class
and i told my friends to ask
if i could sit further away from the bloke
in the corners of my eye he was there
How much longer could I bear?
the bare blue of his deep colored coat
so when i was walking home one afternoon
i hadn’t tried to get home too soon
The days only becoming hazier
The winds were speeding fast
A man behind me tried to walk past
I saw the dark blue of his blazer.
he turned to look at me
stopped, starred to see
and began to walk slowly behind
i started sprinting to my abode
snow now down rode
the blue jacket man on my mind
his pace sped up too
and if only i knew
how no one would believe me
was he stalking?
should i start talking?
the blue jacket man’s spree
So I didn’t tell them the truth
I knew their words wouldn’t soothe
His eyes always on me
In the park he was there
Lurking like a ******* nightmare
His aura seemed aquamarine-y
I see him in my room
I know I shouldn’t assume
That that blue jacket is his
How is he everywhere?
You gave me a scare
Now go back to your biz !
He is in my screams.
He is in my dreams.
Blue jacket man, get out!
He is in my eyes
He is in my lies
Flow out with the water spout
He is in my lungs
I’m speaking in tongues
And as my eyes begin to fade
I see a smearing blue
Across my vacant view
That jacket of his facade
That dark blue.
Blue.
blue.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 12:53 AM UTC
Estates within the woods, serene with sun.
Warm air, and white prim rose dresses.
Secrets dropped between blades of grass.
Hidden, lost in summer.
But, if asked just right,
Politely and precise,
They will bloom for you.
Quaint little used to be's.
Who used to beat
My heart.
Memories.
Back yard lawn chair, of crisp yellow and white.
Which once upon an unknowingly historic time,
Embraced the body heat
Of that King.
And his miniature kingdom,
Within me.
Lovingly.
It was Summer at the Racquet Club Estates.
His last Summer,
A chance to breathe alive.
Our Last debate,
A heart's final try.
Quaint little used to be.
Who used to beat
My heart.
Goodbye.
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
The shuttlecock, served,
Goes over the net.
I'll probably lose
The dollar I bet.
Over the net
It goes back and forth:
It goes north to south,
And it goes south to north.
The birdie in flight
Flits like a sparrow.
She hits it so hard
It darts like an arrow.
I smack it as hard
As I can possibly smack it,
And, wouldn't you know it:
It's stuck in my racquet.
Apr 5, 2025
Apr 5, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
the carbon looks as good as new.
a change of tape was all i had to do.
should have done it ages ago.
like a boy who should have worn out of his past year clothes.
now this change - you look new.
the end of the world is only coming if you want it to.
the stars won't collide as long as you hold them in place.
they'll still shine as bright.
i need to make it real. as real as possible.
i will be the last one to know and the first to go.
good.
bye.
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 8:24 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
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
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
My memory seems faulty now
Like water slipping through clasped fingers
Not able to capture who you really are
But who I wanted
You
To be.
The smallest things make me
Remember.
A name that you wrote in a resume
Or the tennis racquet hidden in my closet
Or the pillow on my bed
Or some boy’s eyes, dark like yours
I never really had
You
So maybe I can’t voice this claim
But I find myself remembering
Which cupboard the glasses are in
Or the tattoo you’ll get after graduation
Things that don’t seem that intimate
But are.
I can’t complain
In earnest since
I knew
That this would happen, and i
[hoping against hope]
did it anyway
and my punishment is to be haunted by
you
day after day
after
day.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:54 PM UTC
need a new racquet
tennis elbow blues
ice pack chill 20 minutes off and on
thinking out loud,
she pronounces maybe, I need a new racquet,
and the diddy man
looks up in terror
shouting way louder
"I am the only racket here,
and I so do not need replacing"
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
I hated to pass the talking tree,
It made me feel all undone,
Raveling on in its revery
Like a racquet, coming unstrung,
What made it worse was the silken voice
Not matching a stringybark’s,
If I’d been offered a simple choice
I’d rather the voice was harsh.
It tried to attract my attention there
Each time I ventured to pass,
‘What are you going to do, just stare?’
It said, ‘Well, kiss my ***
It always tried to embarrass me
By being uncouth, and loose,
I said, ‘You’re surely the rudest tree,
We haven’t been introduced.’
It quoted Coleridge by the ream
Whenever I wore my hat,
‘A painted ship on a painted sea,
Now what do you think of that?’
‘I don’t know where you borrowed that line
I said, I have no notion, it’s
“As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean!”’
It used to sulk when it got it wrong
To wave its trunk with a clatter,
‘Who’d believe,’ it would say to me,
‘That getting it right would matter?’
‘I think He would, old S.T.C.
Would listen, hear, and note it,
Nor be impressed that a talking tree
Would get it wrong, and quote it.’
I turned up there with a saw one day
And the talking tree had cried,
‘I say, I’m not going to cut you down,’
I said, but it knew I lied.
For ‘April is the cruellest month,’
I said, and I wasn’t kidding,
I saw through its Eliot, silence its Pound
And cut off its Little Gidding.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red
service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into a crooked lane
plat of a miniature medieval
Bruges. Racquetball,
a game of angles gone
sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams
and my playing days when you
were my true opponent. Never one
for racquet sports, you ran me
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
my chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors, square
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a white cube to toe the red
service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by a jumble of tables,
five drawer files and armoires,
packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
is the MacGuffin in my dream
as it was in my playing days
when you were always the real opponent,
King of Center Court
running me, stroking passing shots
while I dove heedless, headlong into walls,
losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red
service line once again
only to find my forehand
serve impeded by jumbled
tables, five drawer files, armoires, roll top desks and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
A rather seamy side of life
Set to repeat day in and day out
Part of this racquet for money
They say it's a need for living about
Once you take from them, your being is bound
Till one day your insides scream but it won't make a sound
Are you still paying loans on that affordable home?
Are your toddlers pestering you for a smartphone?
Have you upped your dose for that ache in your bones?
Do you still deny that the man you once knew was gone?
A rather dark twisted mind
Dreams to exist outside of time
You're bleeding about your face
Age has caught up to you in this rat race
Taking a little from them has taken a lot out of you
You chose to live a beautiful lie, truths you chose to eschew
So you still show up with an inch of makeup?
Oh, so the crowd still loves the face you put up?
Every time you chose not to speak your being forward
You avoided an admission into the crowd's mental ward.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC