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Metaphor Football Poems | Metaphor Poems About Football

These Metaphor Football poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Football. These are the best examples of Metaphor Football poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

My Micke boys

                To be called ..
            ~   Grandma is a Honor ~

        I have been blessed with 4  Grandchildren

       ~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb "  He is God's Angel ~
   ~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~

     For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
       he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
      ~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
 
              Time passed another gift to see
               we are " Mickes" and Loved 
            Our Dad held the title in Baseball 
                   ~  that's how we roll ~
           those children are Grandmas hero's 

       The Irish they love big and Family is everything 
        The brothers will protect the beautiful sister 
              ~ as many lads will be calling ~

        Every time my Grandson hits a home run
     There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand 

       It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs 
           ~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
     either baseball or Art  ~ you shall find your gift given

                These children have been blessed~
                 ~  a beauty to hard to describe 
        If you think not ~~  Take a look at the Mom  
                     That girl can stop Traffic   
                    after raising three and still~ 

          "Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "

     May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell

Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse | |

Cap N Gown (Angel of Sadness)

I know you wanna see me in cap-n-gown 
A fresh breeze and a new way of life is what I found 
So please don’t cry 
When you don’t see me in my cap-n-gown 
In and out of foster homes 
My only comfort was pulling this holster alone 
From school to football practice 
Academy award winner 
my moms was the number one actress 
From football practice 
to back to those two huge oak trees 
A metaphor is simply that cold winters choked my knees 
And I know it’s gonna hurt 
Seeing “Class of 2005” imprinted on my shirt 
Maybe it’s me being selfish 
But how could I not tell you without a kiss 
Like me expecting to go to war 
and forgetting to enlist 
High school memories was fun and games 
Embarrassment was done in by shame 
Senior days are now numbered 
Summer smirks ever so humble 
Along with my peers 
my misery is pumping me up to fumble 
Still I know you wanna see me in cap-n-gown 
A fresh breeze and new way of life is what I found 
So please don’t cry 
When you don’t see me in my cap-n-gown 


Copyright © Jerry Golden | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse | |

Goeth Ye Patriots

(Just for fun, folks - and a nod to Old English)

Wat?!?

No jovial banter? No easy give-and-take of rivalry? Naught there be a good-natur'd ribbing between courteous competitors? Nay a rusty-edg'd petulance on propriety's behalf? No acrimonious innuendo f'r the sake of the game? Nay there a parry and thrusteth of verbal interaction, given eagrly in the hon'r of athletic engagement? Not yea a poison-ting'd barb-or-two f'r a corky adversary?

Ah well, I s'pose 'tis f'r the best, lest naught gallant Prince Brady springeth from the ramparts and striketh said foes to the quick . . . dark h'rse ye sayeth? Aye, I grant ye such, but such darkness yea the fires of Hades himself shant cleave in their most earnest reakoning, n'r shall thither be any who abscond the ire of it's somb'r intent.

Hearken ye anon to the soundeth of the armorer's accomplishments . . . the busy hammereth closing cold the rivets, as valiant Sir Thomas shall likewise closeth the lighteth from his foes' furth'r days. Seekest thou mercy? Dost thy heart thump with the rhythm of a calleth f'r clemency? Dost thy eyes endeavor to findeth the spark of benevolence in Prince Brady's gaze?

No one - nay, not yea I - can knoweth of such things . . . but ye can, as all creatures of similar acumen art apt, prayeth. Thou shalt findeth eventual attainment on thy boney knubs anyway, best prepareth f'r such ends willfully, hands clasp'd and eyes to the heavens . . . thy doom is thy salvation, as is the glint of Sir Thomas Patrick Edward Brady's salient blade!

Consid'rest thou admonish'd.

Copyright © Greg Barden | Year Posted 2016