Ground (an acrostic poem)

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Gripping the dirt like he was afraid to fall into the sky

Really it was his muscles clenching all at once

Outside the thunder rumbled, marking sonically where he had been zapped

Under those angry clouds, the smell of ozone persisted

Not that the people with the ski masks on noticed.  They were too busy trying to flee, but they

Didn’t have time because Thor stood back up and smiled.  “Now it’s my turn.”

Range (an acrostic poem)

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Risking it all on a forty-footer

And as the basketball left her hand, the clocks went to all zeroes

Now it was now all physics, the skill was already committed

Google clutch, and it would show this shot if it goes in

Everyone waited seemingly forever as the ball bounced on the rim once, twice…

Catch (an acrostic poem)

Count them.  Twenty-two.  Read ’em and weep.

And that means you busted.  You lost.

That’s not right.  You speak of deceptions.  I always win.  I’m a winner

Can you follow the rules just this once?  You don’t always have to win

Ha!  That’s how a loser speaks.  I won’t fall for your trap!

 

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