Best Racquet Poems
I play my life like my kind of sport
I face opponents in badminton court
Racquet and shuttlecock on hand
Just flick the birdie to the other end
In high clear the quilled rubber flew
A sure defensive stance I often threw
Preventing a smash, parrying a score
Thus, the shuttle lands on the floor
The green court is wide and long
Knees must be fast and strong
Calculated serves oddly placed
Unreturned, I can score an ace
I seldom position myself at the back
Mostly in front to deflect all attacks
Drop shots to elude sharp drives
A kill will deflate opponents’ pride
In the middle, when the rally starts
That instant where I need to be smart
Flicked, pushed and dropped a net shot
The umpire called fault, although I was not
I may lose today, I might be in pain
But I’ll be back tomorrow to play again
I live my life like a badminton game
I play for fun and not for fame
Many tennis teams, come to our valley
It is rumored they "volley" with Sally
All those balls in one court
She will have to resort
To a scorekeeper's card to keep tally !!
____________________________
For Roy's Contest: Bawdy No. II 6/16/14
Zila 'the killa' chinchilla as he was known
Sat in his villa on his golden throne
He was a marvel a maverick a real joker
A prancer, a chancer, a lifelong nonsmoker
Our boy 'the killa'.
Never mediocre, always bodacious
With girls he was, I say, flirtatious
Feeling alive never monotonous so audacious
Fur so soft they cried "goodness gracious".
That a boy the killa.
He put his looks to use
Cringey styles gave him abuse
On the catwalk flawless a real Zeus
Shuffling on four feet he did enthuse
The little bugger was let loose
Our furry friend the killa!
He did play hardball he made a racquet
His fame put him in a new tax bracket
Shops now selling his slick leather jackets
The naysayers who said he won't hack it
Killa's chirping like a feathery blue tit
Our dear old friend the Killa!
If there's something the Killa can teach us
To profit in this world you gotta have guts
Analyze that minus and change it to a plus
He made no fuss he never cussed
Call him a wus he will go nuts
He's one of us, the Killa!
Start
The great tennis legend Roger!
Watching his game is a pleasure
The first service is a bullet
That hits the court like a mallet
The adversary is confused
Just misses getting bruised!
Challenges the absence of line call
Replay shows the trajectory of the ball
Referee’s verdict, ‘ball is in’
He grumbles and calls it a sin
To use the racquet as a gun
Denying the opportunity to run
His returns are the best in the sport
Ball is directed to the corners of the court
His drop shots are precisely done
Ball just crosses the net heavily spun
If the opponent manages to return it still
He’s crouching at the net ready to kill
There are times when it’s not his day
All his game plans go astray
He struggles to turn the game his way
That is when pretty Mirka starts to pray
Seated in her box she closes her eyes
Appeals to God with her silent cries
Lo behold! The game turns around
Everyone in the court is astound
The final score board says it all
Liebling Roger no longer with his back to the wall
He acknowledges cheers for his guile
With a clenched fist and triumphant smile.
End
Starting with the toss up
I’ve made an unforced error
I’ve only gone and followed through
Squeezed the jissom out the old fella
New balls (and pants) please – love all
I think your ace
With a backhand that’s made for passing
On top of a lovely forehand
With a lovely high toss that’s absolutely smashing
Sure you moan and groan
But I love the racquet you make
Lets have another rally
Are you sure you’re not courting
I’ve a changing room free
If you fancy finishing me off
With a serve and volley after
Good Evening, the BBC presents
The highlights from the days events
I pass you now to Sally Hughes
Who brings you all the evening news
Today in Paris, bomb explode, did
With paralise, electric grid
The Gendarme closed major routes
While soldiers search with guns to shoot
Fears eighty people may be slained
More than a score, badly maimed
The Euro falls against the pound
A wildcat strike on underground
Bringeth commute upon a stop
Catching travellers on the hop
The murderer that roamed the land
Has now been caught, we understand
Finally on a lighter note
A chimpanzee befriends a goat
They never leave each others side
The owner said with bursting pride
Now my colleague John report sporteth stuff
One goal for Arsenal was not enough
In the fourth round of the FA cup
Everton did Arsenal whoop
With goals galore, more than a brace
Midweek defeat, now saving face
Success too at Wimbledon
With three straight sets, against his one
The champion, four in a row
Calls it a day, its time to go
I place my racquet on the floor
For I no longer, achieve more
Let some new blood, attain my crown
Meanwhile, upon the Epson Down
The favorite,s out, will take no part
With murmer found upon his heart
Its sad to hear, his jockey states
Racing not, is what he hates
I pass you now to my friend Lou
Who bringeth weather news for you
Showery rain, doth teem until
Fall of snow, be-hammer hill
Then forked electric cracketh the sky
While thunderous drums boomed up on high
The once calm river tormenteth banks
By rising climb on each its flanks
Then suddenly as all begun
A quiet comes as peeps the sun
With warmth of beam and lance of ray
Wildlife chatter at end of the day
And that is all we have this night
So taketh care and sleepeth tight
The BBC return on morn
With tales anew, of hate and scorn
Sweltering summer temperatures
and warm sultry summer nights
left me scratching my legs red raw
I hate receiving nasty insect bites
I’d slather bare limbs with cream
that the chemist had given me
Bites are an issue that I live with
itchy red legs are quite unsightly
Every beach dress skims the earth
and I ensure I spray all my skin
But these heartless hungry critters
find a gap and they get stuck in!
I’ve spent all my hard earned cash
yet have been unable find a cure
Why can’t these creepy crawlies
abstain, their bites I can’t endure
A friend suggested that I purchase
a new-fangled electric bug racquet
It zaps the pesky bugs with each swat
and E-Bay didn’t charge me a packet!
The package arrived back in May
with my electric zapper I’m smitten
I’ll carry it with me all summer
I am certain I’ll never get bitten!
Lipogram Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Letter O has been omitted
Rhyme checked with rhymezone
06/17/21
Well, my left sided hand just isn’t my fave,
I don’t let it do anything,
If there’s ever a contest of “Who is the best?”,
My right is the one that will win,
It can’t button, can’t write, can’t hold a cold beer,
Can’t handle a racquet or ball,
It can’t do little tasks in day to day life,
No matter how big or how small,
But my right hand it can, it holds a place in my heart,
My right is right by my side,
My right hand has always helped me along,
Ever since I was the littlest child,
As a matter of fact, I’ve a wonderful plan,
A plan I might start later today,
I’ll go on a holiday, just my right hand and me,
To a beautiful place far away.
I swung with a vengeance but missed that damned fly
The breeze I’d created caused him to pass by
My electric racquet in underarm mode
Still failed to make that bluebottle explode
It filled me with hate as it buzzed round my plate
I swung and I swung and became more irate
That foul little demon was soon to be dead
As soon as it took itself off of my head
Now, I’m not a coward in anyone’s book
But I’m in no hurry to smell my brain cook
I angled my zapper to strike as it rose
And almost set fire to the tip of my nose
It flitted at speed like a Pac-Man on heat
But I am a human… I will not be beat
My dinner was cooling and it wasn’t salad
I’ll murder that fly and then write me a ballad
Overarm, underarm, back-hand and flip
My energised racquet was firm in my grip
At one point it landed on chandelier-high
And I had to wave that light fitting goodbye
My sausage was cold (can we please keep this clean)
And I had become a fly killing machine
A back somersault and a cartwheel or two
My electric racquet had flashed neon blue
Poor little Tiddles, she trusted me so
Her recuperation has some way to go
But I’ll give her cuddles and snuggles and then
I dearly regret that I zapped her again
Twas kinda Dick Whittington, but in reverse
Tiddles left home and I don’t know what’s worse
My poor little kitten is out on her own
But that demon-fly is at rest on my phone
How great the temptation to say what the hell
And batter that fly and my iPhone as well
But then it took off and it sped through the air
I swung and I swiped and set fire to my hair
Okay I confess; just a few hairs got singed
But I don’t have many and that’s why I whinged
In anger I swiped at the sound of its hums
Which came close to giving me two deep fried plums
How bloody long can a bluebottle live
My electric racquet and I cannot give
Yet more gymnastics to vanquish our foe
As I shoot some volts through my right hand big toe
I whirled like a dervish and now on a mission
I swung like a thing that had infra red vision
But, boy, did I cheer at the quiet little ‘phut!’
As that fly took a window to find it was shut
***
But now I feel guilty for I’ve done okay
Though I don’t know who saw me swinging away
I owe my new job to that small airborne menace
My local school wants me to teach the kids tennis
Winders protection racquet?
DODGE COOKIES USE CNTRL SHIFT N....INCOGNITO BROWSING
Yes winders bloody winders,
The bastard’s bogging up today,
And the cookies bloody cookies ,
Are a loaded, loaded hey,
So you clear out the cookies
Keep the passwords dumble dumb,
Or programs will krapp about all over,
Wheres me password, grumble bum???
And they are selling you protection,
From the vicious scum sucking scum,
Written by the virus protector,
A protection racket mum,
Lots of money in it some?
Should we go get-um friggin Linux,
Not much virus work for some,
Is it any less frustrating chuckle dux,
For the idiot my chum ….
Add to it hey
Don Johnson
Word Quintet in E Minor
Too many tan hearses cruise down my street in 1963
Too many grieving souls cry shattered tears here.
Green throbbing lawns ruminate like grazing cows.
Red-bricked chimneys stand erect in the tall wind.
You and I have footsteps to take as we smell gladioli in 1968.
You look sporty wearing a white skirt and cashmere sweater.
I sit on a bench in the morning sun talking about rutabagas,
As you arrive holding a white tennis racquet made of catgut.
She and I grapple the monkey bars with orange drinks in 1962.
The green ocean of expansive grass lay beneath motionless as ice.
Thoughts of quiet summer shade subside into a lazy sun-drenched day.
Afternoon tides melt into the memory of days spent on a cool porch.
You and I are eating amidst the others as they talk trivialities in 1969.
You are sitting close to me wearing a tight-fitting dress with buttons in front.
We’re eating veal cutlets with mashed potatoes under a hanging light pendant.
The traffic outside is oblivious of our plans to make out wildly after dessert.
Too many tan hearses drive away from my street in 1964.
Too many funerals for the quietly erudite and the boldly afraid.
Green carpeted graveyards yawn with ennui in their insistent desiccations.
Old men with canes totter over star-lit graves behind rusted barbed wire.
Guide and guard that mandate
Using all gadgets like a racquet
within the bracket.
Against all bandits and pirates.
Tho' it's after the similitude
of the mantle on Elisha from Elijah
which made the former to sell all his cattle.
Unknown to him, it was a miracle
Luv, retire from that racket
All because you aspire to acquire a rocket.
It may end like a cricket
or lack a backdate to lactate a rebate.
It's beyond a debate amongst your classmate,
roommate or age mate.
It's carrying an expiry date not minding your data base.
Man-date says you are a man with dates.
I met the buddha today sitting under a tree
told him violence was the only cure
that no bald hippie
would ever set the world free
like a tension spring he jump to his feet
his face on fire
no trance of that sublime meditative state
without a word of comprise
or a attempt at a debate
he kick me in the balls
battered me black and blue
shoved a tennis racquet up my ass
as i laid there in tremendous pain
how i wish i kept my mouth shut
and just walked on past
as he rolled my aching body to nearest ditch
he whispered in my ear
karma can be a evil *****
AYE RIGHT
Written 6 May 2008
So the guy
In the Right Guard advert
Has "had a bad day"?
Excuse me if I don't
Shed any tears
On this jumped-up eejit's behalf
A dressing down from the boss
When his powerpoint presentation
Doesn't go down well?
Try drawing the Nat King
With hungry kids to feed
A real living hell
A rogue tennis racquet
Sends a dummy's head spinning
In an embarrassing incident at the mall?
Try security guards
Turfing your gin-soaked carcass
Out in the rain
When you try to kip in their hall
A key breaking in the door
So his night of passion
With a beautiful bird is put on hold?
Still much better than
A sherman over the Daily Star
And the worst imagineable paper cut
On one of the folds
I wonder how this idiot
Would deal with genuine grief
And despair?
He'd need more than
A can of Right Guard
To stop the sweat from
Flooding everywhere
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXXIII
IF ever I had a country, a country where I were, by virtue of the highly
meritorious and exceptional services rendered to the State in conning and
duping the People, persuaded to assume the role
of Ministre d’Etat without Portfolio or duty
I would – I solemnly assure you, the Common Folk –first and foremost focus my very close attention on the questions of feminist practices discriminatory
And having noticed aghast with utter shame, disgust and fury that in some
countries women (sadly excluding trans-gender athletes) are treated with
utmost disregard, enmity and indignity
As for example, they being downgraded to the abysmal level of having to play
Soft-Ball (what’s that? “Round-us”?) while men knock-about with hard
base-minded balls of virility
I’ll invite the Minister of Sports to my official well-leathered and cushy
chambers to see how I esteem my Personal Secretary by letting her turn up for work in her swim-suit with her pet monkey on her knee
And I’ll warn him, nay, threaten him with my wagging fore-finger, on how I’ll
under-cut his Olympic Budget in half if he didn’t thenceforth authorize
soft-ball gals to cavort on the pitch with just the women’s Beach Volley Ball suit – with no “strings” attached – for all, including frustrated
cameramen looking vainly for the “opening” shot…. for all to see
And this, even if I were doomed to be strung up on the White House Christmas Tree
So be it, even if I never ever had no country nor squash racquet to bash balls soft or hard care-free
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, August 12, 2021