It came in one of those carboard boxes I knew would come every Christmas. It smelled of distance and packaging tape, of my mother’s efforts to ensure the box remained in tact. If only the airplane would fly my family home instead of another box of shampoo and polos.
Stepping hesitantly out from behind the bedroom door, Elsa cleared her throat. “H-how do I look?” she asked, choosing to ignore the nervous hitch in her throat.
It was comical really that, or all her desire to embrace this new world, the clothing was proving to be her most challenging obstacle. Pants, for woman never mind a queen, was all but unheard of in her land and the shirt without sleeves – a polo, Ruby called it – while undeniably comfortable, left her arms feeling scandalously bare.
she goes around like that too often. in nothing but my polo shirt and her underwear. bare legs, bare arms, even in winter around the below-freezing house because we’re both too cheap to turn up the heat. of course i myself don’t mind. i do mind when she forgets what she’s wearing and answers the door like that.
She sat on the sidelines of the polo field with her straw hat on to keep the sun out of her eyes. But something caught her attention and she looked up only to gaze into the eyes of a dark haired man smiling down at her.
what i would give for time to ride a horse – it has been so long and to feel the power and enjoy the sunshine would be wonderful. we tend to spend our time facing those things we don’t wish to do rather than embracing those we miss…
He grinned at me. “Well, I think it looks cute.” When I raised my eyebrows, he smirked, turning away. Inwardly, I sighed. It did look cute. Everything looked cute on him, even if it was some pink polo that made him look like the obnoxious rich kid he was.
“Hey, you going to play polo at your daddy’s country club?” I called before realizing he wasn’t standing two feet away from me any longer. He had gone on to talk to one of his other friends, and once again, I found myself wishing that I could just find the right thing to say for once.
When me and my friends at the pizza, Jim, the busdriver started turning the bus around.
“I forgot my polo shirt at home, kids. We’ll have to turn around.”
As so, with that, the bus made a complete U-turn and made it’s way back home.
“Marco!” I yelled out, searching all around me with my arms, trying to find Andy. “Polo!” He yelled back, Laughing, “You’re never gonna find me!”
He was to cocky for his own good.
We were enjoying our vacation in Kentucky. We went to the country club where there was a polo match going on. How they keep from hitting each other and the horses with those mallets amazes me!
Marco polo is a game that you can play with a group of people or just one person. Either works. the object of the game is one person has to close there eyes and count to well what ever number you choose. but they have to keep there eyes shut and they run around trying to tag whatever person they are near.
he wore polo—everything. she hated it until she loved it–until mere sight of the horse would cause a caving of all other senses. she could smell him—hear the low rumble of his voice—feel his hand on the small of her back—taste his shea butter flavored skin—that horse showed her who he was.
Spring became summer, and Dave went to the storage boxes to get some polo shirts to wear instead of his sweaters. A flood of memories washed over him just as the scent of the mothballs did. A thousand moments from his married life flashed before his eyes in an instant. Even down to the minute details, he had lt his wife run their married life, trusting her. And he was pying the price now.
Long days at the pool, eyes shut. I searched for my friends, yelling out, “MARCO.” They responded in unison, “POLO.” I moved towards them. But I never found one.
When you find you calling, you feel like there is nothing more natural to do. If someone would forbid you of doing what you love, they would look at you and think you’re a crazy person. You just want to do what you love, like Ralph Lauren and polo shirts…
did we ever consider polo to be something worth trying? the snooty image of a royal figure, trotting like a statue, was all that crossed our mind. never the graceful horse, the smooth jolts every now and again, and never the adrenaline of the speed. we were wrong, as usual.
Polo for men , a scent, polo , a game played by royalty, polo a glorified golf shirt. If you want to ride a horse and use a big stick to hit a ball and smell good and look good while you are doing it then gooooo POLO!
I sat anxiously waiting by the goal posts. This was the final Polo game of the year. If we didn’t score in the next five minutes, we would lose. It was our final game as seniors at Westbourne High, our final chance to prove ourselves.
I can’t think of anything to say about this word – I hate the sport, never cared for the candy, I don’t wear name brands or covet this line of clothing (waspy, boring, flat) – oops, my time’s up.
But you see, I was never good at sports. My dad tried to teach me basketball, and I just couldn’t aim. In PE, I remember shooting all the airballs and not being able to perform a single pull-up. I guess all that “potential” had to be distributed elsewhere, wherever that is.
I wish I could have been Marco Polo. I would like to explore the world in the same way he did. Learning about cultures I’ve never heard of before. Meeting powerful people I’ve never heard of before. What an adventure. Too bad there isn’t a place that hasn’t been explored yet on this world anymore.
Polo had no way of knowing what her rider wanted her to do. The girl on her back was rigid. Should she climb out, or remain stock still in the rush filled water? Surely neither. There was a reason they’d come here. It was hot. Best to roll.
The first thing he thought of was white. What the rich wore, what the rich played, sitting on top of their goddamn horses. Horses that no one else within the same district could afford, horses that a lucky few (well, somewhat lucky) could come into contact with. Watching his employers play, he brushes a horse just a little harder than he should, watching in jealousy.
There was a polo team hanging around the village, looking for a field to play in, but they could only find one mallet, and they decided to use it on their captain. He’d been bragging for too long about his penchant for dominating the game, so they felt his time had come. It was a gentlemen’s sport, but bragging was unbecoming, and so they decided to brain him.
I wore a polo shirt every school day for 13 years. Now that I don’t have a uniform, I’ve discovered that I actually like polo shirts. They elongate my torso and the collar is oddly comforting. The nostalgia and the comfort within it help me.
They were playing polo when he realized that he didn’t belong here. It was his parents country club, he didn’t want to be a member. He didn’t care about polo or anything else in the club. He felt so out of place, he threw himself off the horse.
I wore Max’s polo shirt to the park, where I met Stacey. She looked more than a little worse for wear. I wondered how long it had been since she had slept for more than four hours, or eaten a solid, nutritious meal, or managed to find at least an hour or so just to relax. As it happened, I had offered to visit her for said “relaxation” time. Now, the more I looked at her, the more I realized just how unsteady she was.
“I’m going to leave here as soon as possible,” she told me when I sat down on the bench, “and I’m not looking back.”
Underwater, things look blurry. Don’t play water polo with glasses. Don’t. You might hurt someone. Or their ego. If they’re a dude. So WATCH. OUT. Y’ALL. NO POLO STICKS. ON THE BALLS. WATCH.
It came in one of those carboard boxes I knew would come every Christmas. It smelled of distance and packaging tape, of my mother’s efforts to ensure the box remained in tact. If only the airplane would fly my family home instead of another box of shampoo and polos.
Stepping hesitantly out from behind the bedroom door, Elsa cleared her throat. “H-how do I look?” she asked, choosing to ignore the nervous hitch in her throat.
It was comical really that, or all her desire to embrace this new world, the clothing was proving to be her most challenging obstacle. Pants, for woman never mind a queen, was all but unheard of in her land and the shirt without sleeves – a polo, Ruby called it – while undeniably comfortable, left her arms feeling scandalously bare.
she goes around like that too often. in nothing but my polo shirt and her underwear. bare legs, bare arms, even in winter around the below-freezing house because we’re both too cheap to turn up the heat. of course i myself don’t mind. i do mind when she forgets what she’s wearing and answers the door like that.
Touch me like the mist off a waterfall.
And with such gentleness, I’ll hear you whisper once again, “No, not there either.”
i don’t know much about this except you are riding a horse and hitting a ball with a stick or something, i don’t know… anyways, its a sport, i think.
She sat on the sidelines of the polo field with her straw hat on to keep the sun out of her eyes. But something caught her attention and she looked up only to gaze into the eyes of a dark haired man smiling down at her.
what i would give for time to ride a horse – it has been so long and to feel the power and enjoy the sunshine would be wonderful. we tend to spend our time facing those things we don’t wish to do rather than embracing those we miss…
Polo is a sport. I’ve never played it. It looks like fun tho. It has 4 letters in the word. It rhymes with hello. It can
He grinned at me. “Well, I think it looks cute.” When I raised my eyebrows, he smirked, turning away. Inwardly, I sighed. It did look cute. Everything looked cute on him, even if it was some pink polo that made him look like the obnoxious rich kid he was.
“Hey, you going to play polo at your daddy’s country club?” I called before realizing he wasn’t standing two feet away from me any longer. He had gone on to talk to one of his other friends, and once again, I found myself wishing that I could just find the right thing to say for once.
When me and my friends at the pizza, Jim, the busdriver started turning the bus around.
“I forgot my polo shirt at home, kids. We’ll have to turn around.”
As so, with that, the bus made a complete U-turn and made it’s way back home.
We played marco polo all day tell it was time to get out of the pool.
“Marco!” I yelled out, searching all around me with my arms, trying to find Andy. “Polo!” He yelled back, Laughing, “You’re never gonna find me!”
He was to cocky for his own good.
We were enjoying our vacation in Kentucky. We went to the country club where there was a polo match going on. How they keep from hitting each other and the horses with those mallets amazes me!
in the pool i play
wondering about the day
that will come after the next
one game so simpale
yet confusing to play
Polo is a type of men’s caloune.
Marco polo is a game that you can play with a group of people or just one person. Either works. the object of the game is one person has to close there eyes and count to well what ever number you choose. but they have to keep there eyes shut and they run around trying to tag whatever person they are near.
he wore polo—everything. she hated it until she loved it–until mere sight of the horse would cause a caving of all other senses. she could smell him—hear the low rumble of his voice—feel his hand on the small of her back—taste his shea butter flavored skin—that horse showed her who he was.
Spring became summer, and Dave went to the storage boxes to get some polo shirts to wear instead of his sweaters. A flood of memories washed over him just as the scent of the mothballs did. A thousand moments from his married life flashed before his eyes in an instant. Even down to the minute details, he had lt his wife run their married life, trusting her. And he was pying the price now.
“MARCO. POLO.”
Long days at the pool, eyes shut. I searched for my friends, yelling out, “MARCO.” They responded in unison, “POLO.” I moved towards them. But I never found one.
I still haven’t.
A shirt a game on horse back on beautiful green turf. Beautiful horses and wealthy people sunny skies
When you find you calling, you feel like there is nothing more natural to do. If someone would forbid you of doing what you love, they would look at you and think you’re a crazy person. You just want to do what you love, like Ralph Lauren and polo shirts…
did we ever consider polo to be something worth trying? the snooty image of a royal figure, trotting like a statue, was all that crossed our mind. never the graceful horse, the smooth jolts every now and again, and never the adrenaline of the speed. we were wrong, as usual.
marco…………polo……………polo . or like polo brand t shirts or a terrible deciese.
Polo for men , a scent, polo , a game played by royalty, polo a glorified golf shirt. If you want to ride a horse and use a big stick to hit a ball and smell good and look good while you are doing it then gooooo POLO!
I sat anxiously waiting by the goal posts. This was the final Polo game of the year. If we didn’t score in the next five minutes, we would lose. It was our final game as seniors at Westbourne High, our final chance to prove ourselves.
It was sunday morning and he was watching polo. Sarah was sitting in the kitchen, she stared at the rainy window like hope was an unknown word now…
I can’t think of anything to say about this word – I hate the sport, never cared for the candy, I don’t wear name brands or covet this line of clothing (waspy, boring, flat) – oops, my time’s up.
But you see, I was never good at sports. My dad tried to teach me basketball, and I just couldn’t aim. In PE, I remember shooting all the airballs and not being able to perform a single pull-up. I guess all that “potential” had to be distributed elsewhere, wherever that is.
I wish I could have been Marco Polo. I would like to explore the world in the same way he did. Learning about cultures I’ve never heard of before. Meeting powerful people I’ve never heard of before. What an adventure. Too bad there isn’t a place that hasn’t been explored yet on this world anymore.
Polo had no way of knowing what her rider wanted her to do. The girl on her back was rigid. Should she climb out, or remain stock still in the rush filled water? Surely neither. There was a reason they’d come here. It was hot. Best to roll.
Swimming, shirt, Niall, one direction, sport, solo, water, waves, t-shirt, Marco polo
The first thing he thought of was white. What the rich wore, what the rich played, sitting on top of their goddamn horses. Horses that no one else within the same district could afford, horses that a lucky few (well, somewhat lucky) could come into contact with. Watching his employers play, he brushes a horse just a little harder than he should, watching in jealousy.
Polo t shirts in a mess at the department store. Stripes and solids all over.
The moment I put this in my mouth, the mind and the flavor, the refreshing air that circulates inside my mouth. ! True polo is a mint with a hole.
There was a polo team hanging around the village, looking for a field to play in, but they could only find one mallet, and they decided to use it on their captain. He’d been bragging for too long about his penchant for dominating the game, so they felt his time had come. It was a gentlemen’s sport, but bragging was unbecoming, and so they decided to brain him.
I wore a polo shirt every school day for 13 years. Now that I don’t have a uniform, I’ve discovered that I actually like polo shirts. They elongate my torso and the collar is oddly comforting. The nostalgia and the comfort within it help me.
They were playing polo when he realized that he didn’t belong here. It was his parents country club, he didn’t want to be a member. He didn’t care about polo or anything else in the club. He felt so out of place, he threw himself off the horse.
ripples of blue
chlorine clean
in antiseptic waves
marco
at the
center
of a galaxy
I wore Max’s polo shirt to the park, where I met Stacey. She looked more than a little worse for wear. I wondered how long it had been since she had slept for more than four hours, or eaten a solid, nutritious meal, or managed to find at least an hour or so just to relax. As it happened, I had offered to visit her for said “relaxation” time. Now, the more I looked at her, the more I realized just how unsteady she was.
“I’m going to leave here as soon as possible,” she told me when I sat down on the bench, “and I’m not looking back.”
Underwater, things look blurry. Don’t play water polo with glasses. Don’t. You might hurt someone. Or their ego. If they’re a dude. So WATCH. OUT. Y’ALL. NO POLO STICKS. ON THE BALLS. WATCH.