MURAL WITH TENNIS BALL
Pompano Beach Tennis Center | Pompano Beach Florida
Each and every day, at the Pompano Beach Tennis Center, players are greeted by the cheerful presence of a tennis ball in a mural.
The City of Pompano Beach guessed it – what may seem like a simple depiction of a tennis ball takes on a much deeper significance.
The mural’s delightful touch has the ability to set a positive tone for the games each day. It brings forth a moment of pause, a spark of joy,
and hopefully a surge of determination in players.
The mural’s subjects cannot be simpler – it features a tennis ball adorning the garage door at the Pompano Beach Tennis Center.
It serves as an unexpected source of daily delight. Its goal is to transform the moods of players, offering a touch of whimsy and positivity
as they engage in their day-to-day activities. What may seem like a simple depiction of a tennis ball takes on a much deeper significance.
As players approach the court there is a moment of connection with the sport they love and camaraderie with their peers.
In its simplicity, the mural manages to create a lasting impact.
A single glance at the tennis ball on the garage door brings forth a smile, a moment of pause, and a renewed enthusiasm for the game.
It’s a reminder that even in the midst of competition, a dash of playfulness can make all the difference.
Please use the contact button if you are looking to manifest beauty, inspiration, and creativity
through murals for your home or business, or call 954.643.5316.
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“THE ROYAL POINCIANA IN BLOOM” by George E. Merrick
Scarlet bloom of deepest dye,
That with the summer sunset vie
In flashful boast, thy thick-massed flame:—
Lo! Thou hast put its wealth to shame:
For all out-done, the tropic sun
Recalls his tint-skilled fays of fire,—
Glowing rich in envy as they fly.
The blood-red gleam of nonpareil
Amidst thy glare is hid so well
That none can know ‘tis bowered there
With scarlet flash of tanager;—
Nor,—faraway, in heat of day—
—A crimson stain against the green—
From very flame one can’st thee tell.
Above thy growth of tender green,—
That in thy pride can’st not be seen—
The throbbing pulse of flames’ desire
Seems urging tongues of crimson higher;
—As spray-wove gleams o’er molten streams;—
Or combing surges breaking low
Upon a sea of fire.
The southern land that yields thy store
Of matchless wealth;—in days of yore
Had envied oft the sunset sky
Where tropic summer’s gift days die
In glory’s blaze:—And, testing all her ways
She found at last thy blood-dyed bloom;
—than which the sky can’st do no more!
