"volleys" poems
It’s a beautiful game of back and forth,
showing me life is merely a game too,
winning or losing may have me trying,
so long as you have fun on the court, playing!
On occasions, I couldn’t get through you,
could you lower yourself for me,
Or are you asking
to raise the game within me?
Serving me a volley of ups and downs,
making me come to the net,
playing it on the rise,
taking risk down the line,
but, alas, life doesn’t give you an HawkEye.
Opponents may be many,
courts may be different,
conditions may be new,
keep that passion within you,
for you never know when the match point is on you.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 1:35 PM UTC
All summer we play tennis with friends
On sunny days that we hope have no ends
At the LTC in the heart of the park
Where many players like you have left their mark
Its not the score nor the one who swore
That encourages us to play more , until our muscles are sore
So Lets play tennis
As we won’t cause a menace
We'll play all day
Starting in May
We will focus on returns
So we don’t get the burns
As for the serve
It will take some nerve
Remember most swing in a hurry
So it’s the volleys that should worry
And lets have no lobs unless we're old
Or too young to be told
As for the seniors, we won’t play at night
As we can’t see to fight
We'll play at noon
And create a big boon
Throughout the season where we love it all
Just for the chance to whack that wily yellow ball
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 4:03 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
The distant surf
crashes against the old
Spanish wall.
Sounding like slow
volleys of gunfire
ricocheting off
the jagged cliffs
above.
The sea side stillness
of the night is
disturbed by
my footsteps.
They crunch a
million grains
of sand with
every step
I take along
this jaded
asphalt.
At this hour
all of this is
closed,they put
hours and gates
around
whats free.
Wet feral cats
chase giant
wharf rats all
through the
cavernous
crevasses
between the
break walls
giant stones.
Across the Harbor
on the calm side.
Lights shine bright
from the
giant cranes
and the
deep green
Span dressed in
strands of
Blue.
The lights
reflected off
the still water
and danced
along small wakes
left by
passing boats.
The fumes
of sweet
scented fuel
hides just
beneath the
smell of
salt water and
the rotting
bait fish left
behind by
hopeful
fisherman in
chunks along
the rocks.
A quarter mile
out on the breakwalls end
the Gateway to
the Angels sits
as still and proud
as an ancient Oak.
Its dependable
Lighthouse
vigilance and wisdom
washes over me
as I pass this
night counting
the seconds
between
the shine.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
How can it be that
a melody can make you feel like you belong
and not, all at once?
I find myself in a composed dissolution
The world can stop, and the ground below me will give way to
the sudden awareness of a sensation
that is similar to being lost in your own room.
Suddenly, this "place" seems very raw
Things inside you open up and makes distinguishable
where you are
where you've been
and where you've yet to be.
And
Sometimes people are like that.
Your eyes are where I am
Our fights are where I have been, time and time again
and finding peace with those two rifts is where I have yet to be.
Glaciers could snap and crash with volleys of icy hell fire
Soberly frozen earth could nick my cheeks and arms
and my cold skin could remain as tout as a tuned string instrument
ready to produce sound
But,
turning inside myself, searching for a bridge to this rift produces a silence so deafening
I can hear the humming of stars
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 3:32 AM 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
in fires of its breath
gardens with misty wings
be left upon the stars
which ashen mornings bring
a sight of heavens rich
the golden rain of old
from corner of the eye
through sieve of drowning souls
as wet of earthen stories
she drinks away the hours
broken but gentle still
volleys the passing showers
and wistfulness of past
the summer's broken dream
as pressed love in pages
may haunt a roses' sleep
to lip a life's desire
destined to bleed the night
which husky secrets share
do spying ears of time
i lean upon the frame
of tender springs unseen
behope the oozing light
through rosy tinted screen
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
thunder rolled in
from the south east
it roared as a wild
untamed beast
creatures took to
havens secure
as the ensuing tempest
did bring its demure
volleys of thunder resound
in our undulating terrain
within the next few minutes
there will be a torrent of rain
drops fall from the dark clouds
onto the landscape's arid cloak
their endowments of wetness
received as a goodly soak
the countryside infused
with a quenching drink
quelling the thirst of its
dry unfilled sink
soils bereft of dampness
for such a long time
jubilantly hearing the sounds
of a saturating rhyme
thunder heralded
this afternoon across the sky
bringing a downpour
as it passed by
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
I no longer think that this is me getting lonely.
I think what I want is for people to perceive me
as not a simple human, but a magnificent pine tree.
the leading pine giant held by the side of a mountain,
I want, more than anything ever possible, again and again.
Though we are linked by my roots and the soil from which I am fed,
we are the idea of a connection, a mere merging instead.
He is my companion and my support,
building at my feet little snow forts.
He is the paragon of advantage, a splendor the energy of the sun.
By volleys of ice, the head off his body is where his power is undone.
He is invincible and I am immortal
that is what makes us feel so beautiful.
I know I'm not lonely, even though I cry.
I long for this symbiosis, I understand why:
I dream of my mountain, rupturing the sky.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
Don’t walk out on love
When it comes knocking
Leaving the door ajar
Arms akimbo
Elbowing out the vibes
Every chamber of the heart
Filled with spurn
Verbal volleys
Destroying the core of love
Fueled with disgust
Love burns
In agony is the heart
The messenger of love
Knocked at the wrong door
With the right message
To the incorrect address
Destiny plays foul
Before it’s late
Desolate becomes the house
Only regret!
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
There is no surrender.
Only death.
He stands in front of the soldier's eyes.
Brave men and women dignified.
Stand strong as mighty force.
With support of world.
No dishonour in death.
Death is a callous foe.
Rips the hearts from all he knows.
Encounters many.
Far too many.
Screaming wind blasts.
Swearing in altered tongues.
Guns fire rampant volleys.
Caught another soul.
The final curtain call.
Parting heavens gate.
A pure soul enters.
Removed from life in one fleeting moment.
A tragedy of honest youth.
As his comrades play the last salute.
A volley in his honour.
This young mans.
Last Post!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
the rain falls down in small volleys
they call it daily showers
the temperature rises to near sixties
uncharacteristically ominous
rising to a foul stagnation
and the fog rolls in to obscure sight
it's hard to see but so far ahead of you
when you're out there wandering
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
The distant surf
crashes against the old
Spanish wall.
Sounding like slow
volleys of gunfire
ricocheting off
the jagged cliffs
above.
The sea side stillness
of the night is
disturbed by
my footsteps.
They crunch a
million grains
of sand with
every step
I take along
this jaded
asphalt.
At this hour
all of this is
closed,they put
hours and gates
around
whats free.
Wet feral cats
chase giant
wharf rats all
through the
cavernous
crevasses
between the
break walls
giant stones.
Across the Harbor
on the calm side.
Lights shine bright
from the
giant cranes
and the
deep green
Span dressed in
strands of
Blue.
The lights
reflected off
the still water
and danced
along small wakes
left behind by
passing boats.
The fumes
of sweet
scented fuel
hides just
beneath the
smell of
salt water and
the rotting
bait fish left
behind by
hopeful
fisherman in
chunks along
the rocks.
A quarter mile
out on the breakwalls end
the Gateway to
the Angels sits
as still and proud
as an ancient Oak.
Its dependable
Lighthouse
vigilance and wisdom
washes over me
as I pass this
night counting
the seconds
between
the shine.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:50 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
An American Legion Meeting
O let us sit, our coffee cups to hand
And discharge half-remembered boot camp yarns
As ragged volleys of camaraderie
Blasted through well-defended hearing aids
O let us not raise funds for this or that
Through weekend fish-fries in a parking lot
Or catalogue good deeds inflicted on
Those
For whom our kindness is a border breached
O let us sit, our coffee cups to hand
And remember again the Vam Co Tay
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
Yet again the rain.
Once again
washing the colour from the day.
Wet and liquid grey
clouds obliterating the sun,
preventing full daylight from
reaching this streaming place.
Until, an early dreary evening
when, with curtains closed
drum-rolls against the window
as passing flurries of wind
throw volleys at the glass
here where the rain lives.
By Phil Roberts
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
thunder volleys
roll across the evening's sky
thunder volleys
drumming like the wheels of trolleys
a crescendo so loud in ply
as the grumbling noise trundles by
thunder volleys
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
If I may, let me give you the nexus
Of five biker gangs in Waco Texas
Clearly with super fast reflexes
Who became deadly as well as reckless
They shot up Twin Peaks, their recruitment place
Nine of ‘em were killed in any case
And just as you might have assumed it
Many more were seriously wounded
But unarmed demonstrator’s chants
Of no justice no peace
Calls for volleys of tear gas at the very least
And tanks to move in along with the police
But not in Waco where the violence increased
I don’t get it, but am I suppose to
Why the system does the things that it do
But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I knew
If you’re looking for
Any semblance of sameness
Pursuing that end would only be aimless
Until recently all five were nameless
Despite identifiers on the back of their vests
Now on the other hand, if they were black
They’d be called nothing short of a mad wolf pack
And the National Guard would have had to react
The Cossacks and Banditos
Are two names that emerged
Now there are fewer of ‘em
Since they’ve been purged
It became very clear that they were on the verge
Of reeking all out havoc and mayhem
Forcing the cop to arrest and slay ‘em
As they ferociously tried to somehow delay ‘em
Copyright © 2015 Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
Eyes watch carefully , Ears hear fearfully , Hands tremble greatly , Noses smell that gunpowder that fills All places up ,and Scared mouths talk about that war ... At war and at anything like wars , No laws or regulations go on ,but The volleys of bullets and the loud shelling are heard over there ...
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
Our hands in a million-handshake of love
Battalion voices shooting volleys of
of greetings to the eerie sky of joy as skies rolling mortars of victory in explosive victory in bloom and boom.
Powers in supernatural combustion rolling out changes in harvest of gold in festivities of joy, splashing waves into ocean of undulating glory.
It is a new moon
Dawning a new song
Dawning a new love
Dawning a new beauty
In power and glory.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 6:11 AM UTC
you never could get along with those nocturnal visitations
which try to lull your reason and make soft
reality
inside trappings of my broken sleep, the gallops of your petulance
gets traction in the volleys of your tirades
and I wear your influence like a triple metaphor on ******
highly magnetic and so giving
(so, do I have to duck each time I wish to speak?)
the sun sets slowly, in defiance of the sky
and slyly seeps its blazing colour trail
evening birds come to roost inside my closing eyelids
and there, they wrestle throughout the night
jostling for a space they believe is theirs
they bite and peck in restless dispute
till they find rest in the niche above your dreams
on the vine, grows dusty pods -- cache of independence
and such cracks in the ceiling may prove useful
in the end
it's in your veins where your fractious genius lives --
the whispers of my wishes race along the highway of your blood
chase through your arteries
dart into the mind and back to the heart, where they hope to reside
but it gets a decorated invite card to kindly leave
but you don't see me feel it
(the tiniest embossed part upon the reverse is a modest
ilu)
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
volleys of thunder
rolled across eve's dark sky
announcing rain's call
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 3:35 AM UTC
A windswept chill cuts to the bone
Wave and whirlwind play upon each other
With determined gait, I walk to Author’s Ridge
Syncopated volleys of half frozen drops
Released from the heavens
For are we not in the company of the enlightened
Resting peacefully; Alcott, Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau
I take breaths of frigid Concord air
And fill my lungs with hopes of inspiration
But fallow is my spirit
And then,
Trickling drops of frozen rain, finds a path down my naked neck
And there is planted a seed
And a poem
At Author’s Ridge
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC