The whistle cuts the sky in two,
Sticks rise like antlers, hearts collide,
The grass remembers every shoe,
And ghosts of games still run beside.
Sticks rise like antlers, hearts collide,
The net hums tight, a storm contained,
And ghosts of games still run beside,
Where speed and grace are unrestrained.
The net hums tight, a storm contained,
The sun glints off the masked and fleet,
Where speed and grace are unrestrained,
And thundering steps and silence meet.
The sun glints off the masked and fleet,
The grass remembers every shoe,
And thundering steps and silence meet—
The whistle cuts the sky in two.
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Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: April 11th, 2026 09:23
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is about the sport of field lacrosse
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Sports Poetry.
Offline)
Comments2
Nicely done
Matthew, this carries that sense of presence without connection…like something meaningful is happening, but the personal thread has been pulled out of it. It’s subtle, but it leaves an impression. That quiet detachment really works here. Beautifully done, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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