LPiA-25 Nov. 1

[Tiger the Lion]

Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 1

Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.

Topic : Write a poem inspired by a piece of sporting equipment. (ice skates/baseball glove/tennis racket etc.)
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

Questions?

[dukealien]

Arc


Observe the bow:
its concept plain
but its use complex.

A simple stave
(also in music with
strings, threads
of tones to be released)
stress and expression
arrow dispatched
and soon received.

Today’s equipment
wheeled and strung
in pulley-graphics
with sighting mechanisms
weights and levers
descends from war and hunting
down to targets.

This, then,
from death-sending wand
to wheel-bound testament
of crass perfectibility
now need is gone.

[Todd]

Lessons in Gravity

When he first held me
I believed the ball would fly
that I could cut the tether
holding it to earth

I could replace the slap
of leather with a slap of my own.

Contact

might bleed greatness
into my grain.

I shifted with his hips
felt his front foot land soft
on the earth, felt him choke

me and weight returned
heavier for having hoped.

[RiverNotch]

I miss the cold cutting into my extremities
like my feet were made of cheese.

Journey south enough, you'll find
the seasons blend together like
sunlight were Falernian wine,
the sky a cage-cup finished white,
and moisture moisture.

I miss playing a round
of football with the horizon,
the Moon coming up as quickly
as she goes down.

How little the Nile sparkles
compared to the sea
but for the eyes of crocodiles.

[CRNDLSM]

So many teeth ive knocked out
Only way to make me stop
Scooting and sliding about
Slicing air from a slap shot
Anytime my goals been struck
Caught up in a scoring spot
One by one the players drop
Fighting over the hockey puck

[rowens]

Color

My kneepad moved
like a bird off
of its wingspan;
a couple of
golfers, forming
a tagteam, in-
terfered with a
music that cawed.
--I slid out my
blade and cut the
charade into

reality.  . . . 

[busker]

Stan McCabe's bat

There have been many relics,
many a this and that
of what great men did their deeds with -
then there's Stan McCabe's bat.

For so they spoke of his scimitar
that day in '32,
showing Jardine for a gimmicker,
for a bunch of clowns his crew.

Though to us today, the hills and vales
look modest, of his career stats,
that won't impress the Laras, Gayles,
nor Sangakkara frats,

though the teams he slew were but a few,
till the war brought a requiescat
to his career, it holds true,
as true as space is flat,
at 29 parsecs it's still '32,
England's being tonked through and through
by Stan McCabe's bat.

[Tiger the Lion]

Hero

I feel bad for him most days;
thumbing his phone into a froth
in the dank of that basement,

all that promise 
now just an itch
under the skateboard helmet
mother makes him wear.

He was equipped
to be a player.

[Quixilated]

Sincerely, Not a Fan

Sports equipment strikes in me
a special kind of horror
it's a muddled murky bog
of obligation and expectation
In it's ghastly mirror my face is other,
unlike, an exception. No ambition,
no competition, (I just hope
both teams have fun). Don't
mention scores and numbers
or the names of all the plays.
And if you're watching football
I'll try (and then I'll fail)
to keep my laughter to myself
each time they say "tight end."


-----
alright. caught up.

[Weeded]

Home Run

Inside I felt a dance yearning,
aching like a fire burns.

Deep in my core I feel the rubber burning
twisting to every impact
begging for a suicide of sorts
beyond the turf into the outer layers
not quite whistling, but reminiscing
of fans in the bleachers and crying soars.

[Keith]

One last time for charity

I unearthed the bag from its basement tomb,
broke the corroded zip to a puff of Wintergreen
and musty dried mud.

The boots fit as did the kit, where I could fold into it,
the nylon stretched out thin over bad food choices.
I had become the fat bloke relegated to defense.

Heavy strapping, Two Paracetamol and two Ibuprofen,
a desert storm cocktail of youth, sanctioned by the government,
yet I still asked my knees if we would return from the mission.

As I stepped out of the cold damp changing room
to the clatter of screw in studs on concrete,
I could feel the armies rising in the north.

Facing my opponent in the center circle
I took his hand and whispered.
"I will have my vengeance in this life or the next."

[Weeded]

I miss the cold cutting into my extremities
like my feet were made of cheese.

Journey south enough, you'll find
the seasons blend together like
sunlight were Falernian wine,
the sky a cage-cup finished white,
and moisture moisture.

I miss playing a round
of football with the horizon,
the Moon coming up as quickly
as she goes down.

How little the Nile sparkles
compared to the sea
but for the eyes of crocodiles.

fuckin sha-weet

[MidaPoems]

A game of precision

A ball so small,
Withstanding an iron hull,
Shot yards away.

Many forms of clubs
Hit with heavy might,
The ball that doesn't
Fear spite.

To roll
In a hole,
Its goal.

Wind resistance
Is fiend nor foe
To end on shore.

The sand hill
Doesn't drown,
It makes the player frown.

When water hits,
It doesn't resurface,
It stays put,
Without feeling the putter.