SUE LITTLETON : Autumn into Winter
SHANE JONES : Story from Ed Fisher
JEAN HULL HERMAN : Observing Men at Play the Rites of Racquetball; or,My Bag's Bigger than Yours
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Autumn into Winter Story from Ed Fisher Observing Men at Play | the Rites of Racquetball; or,
My Bag's Bigger than Yours  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? GoTo Games

SUE LITTLETON
Autumn into Winter
  The forest of life is filled with wondrous trees and each leaf on each tree is a loved one, a relative, a friend.   There are only Four Seasons to each life, and my Autumn is upon me.   My trees are filled with leaves of every hue, from the palest green of a young grandchild to the deep golden red of a fellow poet. As I walk beneath the dappled shade of memory, I accept the natural sequence of death; I mourn the losses, understand that living – and dying – is chronological. It is the destiny that takes friends and contemporaries out of sequence that saddens me almost beyond my strength. (My young grandson was one.)   Friends are so dear, so few, so carefully chosen that when a friend dies, a friend with whom I have spent hours exchanging confidences, whose dear face in a snapshot taken when we were both young women of childbearing age brings tears to my eyes, I wonder Why, why was her span so short?   So this is my Autumn--  may my trees keep their bright leaves a little longer! Winter is that season of forever, when my own seared leaf shall fall, my mighty trees totter, my forest linger only in printed words – if that. Give me my Autumn, my many-leaved Autumn, my Autumn of red and gold and rust, and I will not begrudge too greatly Winter's final blast.  
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Autumn into Winter Story from Ed Fisher Observing Men at Play | : the Rites

 of Racquetball; or,
My Bag's Bigger than Yours  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? GoTo Games

SHANE JONES
Story from Ed Fisher
yeah, it was down at the bar that it happened. this little guy with like really dorky glasses, maybe he was gay or something, I don't know. but any ways, he just kept on picking on this huge mother fucker drinking some hard shit, like Tequila, or something. the little guy was just starring him down and the big guy looked depressed or something, maybe he was laid off work that day, because when he got up off his stool the whole damn place watched his move. I thought he was going to the shitter, or something, maybe he was gonna go outside for a smoke, ya know? but he looked pissed, and right as he was going to walk by the little guy he brought back his fist, like a wheelbarrow of bricks, and just clocked the little guy right across the side of the face. the little guy feel right off his barstool and when he tried to get up you could see his glasses were smashed on the side and half of his eyeball was hanging out. crazy shit man, real crazy shit. the big guy just sat back down and got another beer and for the first time that night laughed and started to talk to some blonde next to him. a real tough guy.
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Autumn into Winter Story from Ed Fisher Observing Men at Play: the Rites

 of Racquetball; or,

My Bag's Bigger than Yours


 
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? GoTo Games

JEAN HULL HERMAN
Observing Men at Play | the Rites of Racquetball; or,
	My Bag's Bigger than Yours
On the gym track bright and early, 'fore the crowd was hot and surly, Going 'round, I saw the gym bags, saw the floor five deep in gym bags, Saw a plethora of gym bags and the men crowding 'round the court, Waiting for their turn. Puzzled, I lapped 'round the track and every time I rounded back, There stood guys correctly got up, uniformly gym-clad dressed up, Ready for their turn to step up, hit that little racquetball, Ready for their turn. Ostentatious bags by Reebok, Nike, E-Force, Black and Steinboch, Bags that wouldn't make it through an airport's luggage check device, Crammed with shirts and gloves and head scarves, shoes and laces bearing logos, Ready for their turn. Oh! the racquets! Each, superior. Pity the novice 'quipped inferior, Novice brave in bright white sneakers, clean shirt, no gloves, simple shorts, Novice thinking his bag, paper, straight from Sears, would sure suffice, Ready for his turn. One sweet specimen caught my eye – one man's racquet snared my eyes: Twenty-two-inch-long string techno-marvel, quivering, ready, in its frame, E-Force specially-molded carbon poised for owner's skillful strike As he swept into his turn. Though e-quipped manly cap á pie, this hero, strong of limb and eye Swung his snappy 22-inch-long strings fiercely at the trophy ball, Noisily slammed it 'gainst the glass walls, rammed it home against the tough glass, Scoring with his turn. There's a moral to this story: honor, manhood, love and glory Are not found by slamming 'round some busy little tinted ball, But in the size of one's equipment. Actually, it's all equipment, Displayed at every turn.
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You Take Advantage of My Good MoodTOP Autumn into Winter©  SUE LITTLETON . A metaphor, comparing tree to life's autumn, once extended become a conceit (its formal term not an insult). They are rare and rarely as successful as this one by LITTLETON. Texas Poet Sue Littleton lives in Buenos Aires , Argentina. Her poems have been published in anthologies and literary magazines in the U.S. and Canada .  Read her 7th bilingual book, Sueku/Suku, classical haiku in English with minimalist Spanish translations, published May 2011
Story from Ed FisherMID  094POEM2©  SHANE JONES . from v01.08:093 poetryrepairs.com
Observing Men at Play

: the Rites

 of Racquetball; or,

My Bag's Bigger than Yours


]BTM Observing Men at Play: the Rites of Racquetball; or,My Bag's Bigger than Yours ©  JEAN HULL HERMAN  .
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