Long Racket Poems
Long Racket Poems. Below are the most popular long Racket by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Racket poems by poem length and keyword.
They had measured on close counts,
Before they began his dismount,
All flowers and scents were left behind,
It was only mud that came to mind,
He was a log of wood that had no use,
They were about to consign him as refuse,
They had measured on close counts,
And now had finished his dismount,
They all glumly looked at the innards of earth,
Dug apart so as to be his home and hearth,
They lowered him with care,
Some cried and other shed tears,
Such care they had never shown,
When he was alive full blown,
They left him but he could not,
In years that followed he thought,
And all thoughts were about and their's,
But he lay still there,
Not able to do much,
While lower insects ate him as such,
Twenty yards under the surface,
The earth weighed on him like a mace,
He had volumes to carry,
Every moment without delay or tarry,
In peace he had the quiet,
Under the forceful mud of his burial site,
He was largely unattended,
Only heard anniversary footsteps,
When his thought subject came tending,
There was lot of din,
As one day woke abruptly in,
He could hear the rattling and banging of hammer,
His peace was disturbed and began to stammer,
It was furious and fast,
He presumed it could not be just his nest,
But also his neighbors from first to last,
It was familiar yes very much so,
All the sound and racket on the go,
It was regular and incessant,
As if it was rain rampant,
Yes, clouds up there from above,
Were pouring over his grave,
They sounded angry and irate,
And were determined to drown all gates,
He felt secure under mud,
And there suddenly was a seeping thud,
It was really bad and water had come in tones,
His grave was all definitely drowned,
Now the water had bossed over the earth,
Pressing it hard for the inner most berth,
It was invading the twenty yards,
And approaching him fast,
And he thought will the dead also meet the flood,
The seeping thud was on the first drop,
That fell on his stomach,
He churned as eating insects scurried,
Soon train followed thud after thud,
And then it was a volley of scuds,
His cavity was being filled,
And bones getting viscid and humid,
A coolness spread through rotten carrion,
And went on to turn into a bath for the skeleton,
It bathed him till it was just soaking,
Was it he who had ascended to heaven,
Or the heavens came pouring down to meet him even.
Within the glass backed walls of the squash courts, ....
Eager junior players are busy getting into their strides..
In small groups of 4 to 6, they are seeking to earn their stripes..
Religiously undergoing punishing regimes while in training...
Perfecting skills and flair to better perform beyond all these training...
Within the glass backed walls of the squash courts..
Players are wielding each a racket as an integral part of their hands..
Moving fluidly into anticipated spaces with well measured paces..
Unhurriedly and ever so confidently they execute hitting maneuvers...
One can't help but recall the phrase poetry in motion in their actions...
Within these glass backed walls of the squash courts..
Perspiration drenched players are seriously undergoing racket drills...
Moving swiftly and surely through well drilled routines without frills....
Whacking hard and fast the moving blur of a rubberised squash ball...
Confidently and effortlessly retrieving impossible shots off the wall...
Within the glass backed walls of these squash courts...
The dedicated coach is closely assisting and monitoring his players..
Eagled eyed and confident, he's getting the best out of the players..
Pushing and cajoling, occasional groans and cries of frustration and of laughter...
Help relieve the monotony in this serious business of training players to be better...
Within these glass backed walls of the squash courts..
Young players are diligently sweating blood and tears to excel further....
Endlessly going through technical drills so that their skills be better..
These endless cycles of training and stroke making drills are necessary....
For these young players are chasing living dreams of squash fame and glory...
Within the glass backed walls of the squash courts...
Kiddie dreams of glory and fame are planted in fresh young minds in earnest...
Sporting dreams are cultivated and gradually nutured into driving ambitions...
A number of such dreamers will falter never to taste the ultimate highs of glory...
But one in a while, a shining diamond of a player steps into court, to start a new story..
Within the the glass backed walls of the squash court....
A generation of champions are being groomed to hold court...
Outside the world awaits patiently, who's the next champion to step forth?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tonight....10:30 PM....
I can't think straight...ahhhh!
My heart is thumping with love-coated hate! Ahhhh...
The chirping pests get louder and more obnoxious than ever
COULD YOU STOP THAT RACKET?
Shhhh! Dead silence.
The chattering twerps project their voices to the highest extent
COULD YOU PLEASE KEEP YOUR BEAKS SHUT?
ZEEP. DEET! ZEEP. DEET! Commotion fills the apartment.
ZEEP..BLEEP..DEET! Ah! I think I'm going nuts...quiet down...now!
Will you guys stop making noises and sleep for cat's sake
SH! SHHH! SHHHHH! Don't make me scare you!!
Why aren't you brats shutting up? Could you all give me a break!!!!
Do you guys mind?
I'm trying to sleep...I have school tomorrow!
Could you guys find
Another way to communicate...'cause you'll see me building up in anger and you'll know
I mean business... I mean serious business. c:
So don't go there, birds...just do a quiet activity with your herds
Of buddies and your big-beaked turds...
Thanks a lot...now I have a major headache!!!!!!!!!
Don't test my fury...robins! finches! I can still hear your peeps!
Could any of you keep your chirping to a low volume for heaven's sake??!!
Don't bother me...mockingbirds! nightengales! I can't stand your beeps!
The chattering pests get a bit bothersome...then my irritation gets ever so worse...oh, it gets more hideous...more revolting
COULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR AND SLEEP?!
Good night!! Dead silence.
ZEEP! ZEEP! ZEEEEP! - I shake my head...pissed off to the point when I'd tie their beak shut
Hello? DID you hear me? Go to sleep now!!
The commotion ceases as my comfort approaches me...then I sleep in an instant
THANK GOD THOSE BIRDS AREN'T CREATING RACKET
Deet...Zeep...Deet...Zeep...and they rest in gratisfying slumber
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day....6:00 AM....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ZEEEEP!! DEEP! ZEEEP! DEEP!
Thanks for being my weekly alarm clock!
How alarming...my phone alarm didn't go off today!
Thanks for doing something productive, twerps! Now my life isn't full of dismay!
Just STAY silent, you pestering jerks!
Just stay put in the cage...and don't make foolish quirks!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-DEDICATED to my silly pet finches-
Li Na Tennis Champion
Asians in general sat up to take notice when from the vastness of China arose a tennis great…
Never mind it was a she, and at an advanced chronological ripe old age of almost touching 30…
Li Na from China was one well travelled tennis star, her world accolades coming in very late…
When many a famous players were thinking of retiring in fatigue, she upped her game to the level elite..
First and only Asian to win a Grand Slam Singles title, she was a ripe old 29 when it happened…
Many more illustrious tennis professionals have long gone to pasture before reaching 29 or after…
But not Li Na the most famous professional tennis player from China, the most illustrious too..
2011 French Open Champion at age 29 followed in 2 years later , 2014 Australian Open at age 32…
Now , if one were to check up on China’s most famous tennis daughter, Wikipedia has it all …
It chronicles in fascinating details the checkered career of this badminton reject since she was small…
An astute coach suggested she had best switch from the ever popular racket game called badminton…
In that big nation of badminton crazies all over, it must have hurt to be ejected from badminton…
But her excellence in tennis was astonishing to say the least, by 1997 she was in the national team…
Incredibly, she was then only a teenage at fifteen when China drafted her into her National team…
Two years later, in 1999 following a 10 months stint sponsored by Nike, Li Na turned professional…
Her rocky path to be a successful professional was camouflaged by her many ITF numerous titles…
However, she quit the National team in 2002, going on to complete a Bachelor of Journalism in 2009..
This was another cap in her journey to tennis success, an academic complement to her tennis prowess…
From the barrage of numerous first evers for this Chinese tennis phenomenon until her retirement..
It is obvious she was a tennis prodigy who happened to come from the far east to tennis fans' amazement...
For further readings of Li Na, the most famous Chinese phenomenon in woman professional tennis …
Do a Google search and feel amazed at the massive write up about China’s most famous daughter in tennis..
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Na
Or Look out for Li Na Superstar Part 2
(Originally wrote it as a song, but I like it like this as well.)
A shooting star
make a wish,
give me a kiss
on the hood of the car
I taste your lips,
it's the sweetest thing.
We're all alone
while the crickets sing.
With staring eyes,
see glowing fire-flies.
And shooting stars light up the skies.
A perfect night
with a gentle breeze
whistling through the trees.
It feels so right
as tensions ease.
So relaxed
just lay back
and taste the fruit
our peaches snack.
While feelings rise
and shooting stars light up our skies.
That fresh air scent
so good to your nose
catches on our clothes.
A night well spent,
together with you.
It's just us two,
The moon shining bright,
it's our only light.
While on this night,
in the grass we lye
as shooting stars light up the sky.
Crashing waves,
soothing beachfront sounds
wash out our sandcastle mounds.
Could stay for days,
on this sandy beach.
See the stars we reach
over the ocean sees.
And on the tides
it never dies.
Is what we realize
as shooting stars light up our skies.
Our quiet hill,
with no more racket.
Just a picnic basket.
The wind is still
under a tree.
Just you and me
eat off your belly.
So, so happy.
We wait till night
right before sunrise.
To watch the shooting stars light up the skies.
A shooting star.
Makes a light so bright,
it lights up the night.
Now here we are.
Lost in love
the kind you only dream of.
On the hood of the car.
To forever feel like this,
is what I make my wish.
When you wish upon,
a shooting star.
The time's eleven eleven.
A meteor shower
on the top of the hour.
Your smile is heaven
and you aim it at me.
It's all I see
a good memory
while you hold the key,
to me inside.
Fills me with butterflies
while shooting stars light up our skies.
Just us two
no one else around
your voice the sweetest sound.
I say to you,
that I love you.
You say you love me too,
while you take my hand.
Our toes buried in the sand.
Get lost in your eyes,
completely mesmerized
as shooting stars light up the skies.
Shooting stars,
hoods of cars,
late night wishes,
lighthouse kisses.
The moments ours,
just go with it.
Sunday picnics,
one way tickets.
And I got my wish it
all started with just one kiss.
How I love the taste of your lips.
Minuette flew over cobblestones much faster than herself, moving swifter than her thoughts could carry her, to reach their obvious conclusions up ahead. Metal cleated tap shoes made an awful racket racing through the labyrinthine of alleyways. Sidewalks drew too much attention to themselves with the noise and did not add to the solution she was looking for.
No one must see her at this hour as she travels down the streets. Her dark green dress lifted in the wind, just above her ankles, like a mask on open oceans as she sailed in it. A hint of pure white skirt was barely visible in the dim light. It was night. No. It was day. No. It must be afternoon. No. There is too much dark. It was daytime. I'm sure of that. The sun is simply hidden by the clouds as fog rolls in.
Was it the library or the café that made her frantic? Longberry is illusive, an easy place to get lost in, along with memories which plays odd tricks that come back to her in circles.
She was heading in the wrong direction. Minuette must pivot on the moment to rectify that and so desired to run faster than her feet could take her, backtracking from her origins. Time was running up behind her. There remained significant ground to cover and to master in mere seconds.
Archeologists must also eat. She was famished. The café will have to wait. Her mind is dead set on the library, which had by coincidence just opened up before her sleepy eyes. It is more important to feed her head. New books on rocks had just arrived. She was happy and dove right in to read each one, each savory line.
A crusty old man sat next to her for conversation. He will remain anonymous for the time being. There are many reasons why but moving right along and not to place such a fine point on the matter; she caught her breath somewhere between his bad breath and a smile and the color red, which welled up inside of her like fire.
An angry index finger came up to touch her cherry lips which parted with a simple "Shh." "We are in the library." She signaled to him to gaze upon the SILENCE sign, prominently on display, Pointed at it confidently to add to his enlightenment. Such evidence was hoped to change his behavior and his manners. Enlightenment was not his claim to fame. Not much could be done to change his odor either.
In the saloon Tom, Jenna and Tania were talking about Christmas week
They wanted to spread some cheer for the good folks of Soup Creek
Tom thought Milton would make a good Santa and hoped he'd agree
Their meeting was rudely interrupted with sounds of a noisy melee.
They went outside and Ranger David was looking very bemused
In handcuffs was a scruffy individual who was looking very confused
And had mean beady eyes with long hair and a long unkempt beard
He was shouting obscenities waving his arms and acting very weird.
Just then Sherrif Koplin appeared and asked David what was wrong
David replied "I think he's on drugs or he's been in the sun too long
I was over by Calypso Canyon on patrol, when I came across him
He pulled a gun on me but it jammed, and said his name was Jim"
Sheriff Koplin said "he's scaring the kids we'd best get him inside
Then I'll telegraph Doctor Keller to come and get him certified
I'll put him in the jailhouse for his own safety and for ours too
Maybe he needs a spell in an asylum that's probably long overdue.
The overland stage arrived next morning, Doctor Keller had arrived
It had been a long sleepless night for the Sheriff but he'd survived
Because the unruly prisoner had shouted obscenities all night long
And for a man to behave in that way something was seriously wrong.
Dr Keller had brought an assistant along, who looked like an assassin
The doctor spoke briefly with the Sheriff then to the jail they went in
The docs assistant had a straightjacket and rope; tools of the trade
A crowd had gathered to listen to the racket that was being made.
They came out half an hour later with the patient who was now secure
But in the scuffle had badly soiled himself and stunk of fresh manure
Doctor Keller approached the towns people and he had this to say
"This poor wretched man is quite sick and we'll be taking him away"
The overland stage then arrived in town and all three climbed inside
A journey to Sacramento Asylum was about a five and a half hour ride
The driver shouted and cracked his whip and they were soon on their way
"Good riddance to you " said Sheriff Koplin "don't come back any day.
written on 22nd November 2022
I have no desire to hear the worlds words
rather would I the chirping of birds
to hear the clapping of leaves in the breeze
whirring of hummingbirds wings of the bees
Or the babbling sounds of the brook
the rumbling of earth when its being shook
the patter upon my roof of the rain
the sounds of the city care I to abstain
I love the plunging of waves upon rocks
detest the noise of the ticking of clocks
road blare of wheels upon tar and cement
or clamor of crowds who attend an event
The racket of what some people call song
which clashing smashing banging belong
but the voices of wolves howling by moon
or soulful longing in notes of the loon
the rustle and whisper of wind in the wheat
tender the note of a newborn lambs bleat
expressions of nature when its in play
I want to hear what the animals say
The laughter of children learning a game
squawks of chickens and sheep that are tame
the wail of wind through a window crack
splitting of thunder lighting nights black
The chill on the spine from a low growl
so quiet you can hear the drop of a towel
music that lifts the breath of ones soul
the crackle of ice which freezes a pole
the echoes in canyons when you give a call
snapping of trees when in a storm fall
the rustle and flush the dog and the pheasant
their decent upon my ears very pleasant
I want to hear the sounds of Gods garden
when the trial is over I've got a full pardon
the voices of those whose hearts that I love
when I hear these its you I think of
These are the things that to my heart speak
sounds of the ones newborn pats of baby feet
take me away from Babylon's din
the screeching and static created by men
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
I think, there are ghosts.
They stay quiet, the ghosts do. Mostly quiet and invisible. You would hardly know there is one there in the room with you. They are there though. Watching, haunting really to think they linger on, just to be voyeurs. I don’t feel like I’m being watched though. They don’t even have real eyes, they have ghost eyes. I think that’s why they are lost, they can’t see where they are going, not in any discernible way. But they do follow. I can’t talk to them because their vocal chords are much worse than their eyes. They are quiet, mostly.
I hear a clang, a splat, squelch and a bong. It’s like the chimes of a clock striking but it’s a clock that has forgotten it’s a clock. Maybe it woke up too soon and thought it was a tomato today, or perhaps a lima, I can’t be sure. That sound irks me, only it’s, I don’t know what it is they are trying to say. I don’t speak ghost and ghosts don’t speak.
You may wonder why, I believe in ghosts. You may, if you don’t. I don’t need to believe, they are there with my knowledge or not, watching. It is, as if something happened, or will happen. Well things happen whether you believe in them or not.
You never saw a tree fall in the forest when nobody was around but you believe it makes a sound? Perhaps you don’t. You believe in gravity and in the sound mathematical equations you can preform to accurately predict orbits, acceleration and tension? Perhaps you don’t. You believe in oxygen and the carbon cycle. Perhaps you don’t, but that no more stops it than a finger stops a running tap. By any means, belief is not important. You can believe yourself to be a monkey and still believe monkeys capable of writing Shakespeare. You can believe you are a woman, and so you should.
We are not living in a time of truth. We live in a time where the truth is second to nature. Or maybe just second. Second to politics, second to wellbeing, second to matching socks. Where did those socks go? I can’t imagine ghosts have a foot fetish. Don’t suppose they get some thrill embarrassing those caught with odd socks. No, ghosts don’t steal socks, it is the washer that is the real kingpin in that racket.
O, the old toad talks
To the equinox,
But he sings to the harvest moon.
Cuz his little pollywogs
All swam off in the bog,
And they’re getting gobbled up by a loon.
The chance is remote
For an antidote,
And they’ll all be gone by noon.
See, the moon was on the lake,
but he wasn't quite awake,
and Old Toady really needed a boon.
O, moon, don’t shine so bright,
Or I will lose my kids tonight!
Please, moon, a fingernail,
So that old loon will not impale.
Dear moon, no wax, just wane,
Or I will likely go insane!
O, the old toad croaked,
And he cried till he choked,
But the moon didn’t hear a thing.
So he found a hollow log
In the middle of the bog,
And he brought all the game that he could bring.
O, moon, o please, o please,
I’m begging you down on my knees.
O, moon, I’m begging you,
I have no other kids than these.
Well, he roared so loud
That the noise shook up a cloud
From the pollen that was on the trees.
And it echoed off the lake,
Such a racket did it make,
That it rattled the old moon’s cheese.
Well, the moon just sighed,
Shook the cheddar from his eyes,
Bellowed, who is disturbing me now?
Then the toad stood his ground,
Said, the dog is not around,
And I don’t know how to find the cow.
But the loon is on the prowl,
And he’s acting pretty foul,
And he’s gobbling up the kids as we speak.
And if you don’t kill the light,
Pretty quick tonight,
Then their chances are looking rather bleak.
While they talked, came a breeze,
Blew the pollen from the trees,
And it landed in the old moon’s eye.
Well it made him wheeze,
And he started to sneeze,
And he thought he was going to die.
Then his nose began to squirt,
And his head began to hurt
And he said he had to go lie down.
So he headed off to bed,
Put a cover on his head,
And there wasn’t any light around.
Then the loon had a fit,
But she had to quit;
She speared herself because she couldn’t see.
Old toady got excited,
Got so tickled and delighted,
That he threw back his head with glee.
O moon, my dear friend moon,
Please get well, but not too soon.
O moon, I thank you so,
Now I can watch my children grow!