Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Sport Poems

Below are the all-time best Sport poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Sport poems written by PoetrySoup members

View ALL Sport Poems

Search for Sport poems, articles about Sport poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Sport poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Sport Poems
Read Sport Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | Sport Poem | |

The Battle

The menace of war in the chaos of life
The peril of ocean when tempests are rife;
The danger of jungle where feral beasts hide
The terror that lies in a mountain slide.
All these things are simple child's play
Or frivolous sport on a summer's day;
These sad battles that rouse and vex
The heart and soul of love and sex.

Struggle and hardship,  beasts of prey
Are there to menace all human clay:
The bird uncaged can take to his wing
But the hazard of love is another thing;
Under the torment of passion's control
Love crushes the body and steals the soul.
A minute of rapture, an age of despair,
These are the gifts of love's warfare.

Always and forever since time began
When man dared woman and woman lured man;
In that sweet peril that prowls and lies
Is a bloodless conflict when eyes meet eyes.
That careless menace, forever sweet
Whose forlorn end, is joy's defeat;
Now and forever till time has passed
On passion's altar, hearts shall come last

Details | Sport Poem | |

I Love Horses: A--Z

I Love Horses: A--Z

A is for... Appaloosa. They have 
blankets on their rumps. 
B is for...Belgian. They work 
hard and can pull up stumps. 

C is for...Clydesdale. They're 
BIG bays with white fluffy feet. 
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony 
from the moors--so sweet!

E is for...Egyptian, the finest 
horse on desert sand. 
F is for...Fresian: Big black War 
Horse--a Knight's demand. 

G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare 
beauty like fairy tales. 
H is for...Hanoverian. The best 
all-round from England hails. 

I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal 
horse that's black and white. 
J is for...Java Pony. He's 
Indonesia's working sprite. 

K is for...Knapstrup. He's a 
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey 
leapers known in the Big Tops!

M is for...Mustang. Wild and 
Free--roams America's West. 
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed 
black and drives the best. 

O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage 
ribbons just get bigger. 
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers 
named his, Trigger. 

Q is for...Quarter Horse, 
cowboy's fav'rite! Does 
Everything!
R is for...Racking Horse. His 
ride's so smooth it will make 
you sing. 

S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse, 
Gaited beauty everyone loves. 
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing, 
"The Sport of Kings", he does. 

U is for...Ukrainian Riding 
Horse: Beautiful born after 
War's end. 
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish 
black stallion and true friend. 

W is for...White Horse(Albino). 
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of 
course!
X is for...Xilingol. He's 
Mongolia's riding draft horse. 

Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut 
pony from Japan. 
Z is for...Zebra: African wild 
but tamed by man. 

A personal therapist long past 
the end,
The love of a horse...is the 
love... of a Friend. 

deborah burch
02.28.2013

For Cyndi's contest

Details | Sport Poem | |

ON THE ROCKS

Whiskey on the rocks, advised by my doc
combats dementia, so bring on the blocks
no need for a glass;  I'll have me the bottle
with a big bowl of ice this baby I'll throttle

The whiskey's gone, now a brandy'd be fine
my inside's on fire, there's a hoop up my spine
swigging from the bot comes at a price
I'll temper the fire with whole blocks of ice

The flames have been doused;  rum, if you please?
my head's in a clamp;  ice will loosen the squeeze 
now, be a sport and pile on the ice
two bowls or more I think should suffice

Three bottlesh down, all on the rocksh
my tootshiesh are shtarting to curl in my shocksh
my shmile is chemented, my lipsh glued together
my fashe the feel and texture of leather

Twishe left, thrishe right my head ish shwinging
short, long, short, long my earsh are zinging
either I'm crosh-eyed or my brainsh have been fried
elsh why are my legsh by three multiplied?

I'm freefalling on shixh feet firmly earthed
alternating twixht lower and then upper berth
vocal chordsh tangled, shizhably crimped
I'm walking with a lishp and talking with a limp 

I'm teetering-tottering or tettering-tortering
I've no clue which ish which and given up wondering
the world ish a blur;  I musht be plarshtered
the liquor went down well;  ishe warsh the barshtard

On all foursh – nay, twelve, I reach the bed
now I'm pondering and shcratching my head:
am I waking up or about to retire?
I shimply topple over, my whole being on fire

In the Land of Nod I'm harnessed by tether
in comely dreams of cowboys and leather
when plagued by a swishy feel in my bladder
swelling as fast as a pregnant puffadder

Abruptly awakened when a stream emanated
unable to move, still intoxicated
stuck to my bed and severely drenched
nausea ensued in the encompassing stench

How my stomach reacted I'd best not relate
suffice to say it was a full freight
soiled and hung-over, a word of advice:
liquor's fantastic but steer clear of ice 


Details | Sport Poem | |

No Mans Land

A brand new development for you and me
A gated community you just have to see.
Situated on the plains of deep despair
A rocky road will lead you there.

Surrounded by lovely weeping willows
Beautiful vistas of the sea of sorrows.
So if you are feeling down and out
This community is what it's all about.

The school of hard knocks will teach you well
The Drown your Sorrows pub is really swell.
And should you crave some company
Why down the street lives Lady Misery.

Soliciting is certainly not allowed in here
Opportunity won't come knocking, have no fear.
Undesirable tenants were the ladies Luck and Hope
Fortunately for us they decided to elope.

The restaurants will only serve the bitter pill
Of humble pie and crow, you can have your fill.
For sport we do have plenty of space
Feel free to enjoy our weekly rat race.

So if you feel depressed and without hope
Why we offer bungi jumping without a rope.
We have taken great care as you can see
To offer our tenants every possible amenity.

So if life has turned its back on you
If you have nothing to lose and feeling blue.
Consider buying your very own stand
In this community called No Mans Land.

Details | Sport Poem | |

The Sundress Girl

Little Lulu, a cute little girl. in her sundresses loved to just twirl. Around she kept going, pink underpants showing. Her life would become one big “whirl.” In grade school, she grew to be wild. Upside down, in the playground, this child from the monkey bar hung in her sundress among all the boys standing round her, who smiled! As a teen, Lulu still loved to wear a sundress to make young men stare. She was thought a great sport when she wore a dress short, legs crossed as she sat in a chair. Little Lulu was so hot to trot her affection by many was sought till that cute buttercup got finally knocked up. Then a white wedding sundress she bought! The years crept up quickly on Lulu. On her porch she now stands and calls, “You-hoo!” to every old guy who might give her the eye as she twirls the huge skirt of her muumuu!
Written by Andrea Dietrich Inspired by the contest: "The Sundress" Sponsored by ~ Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~~

Details | Sport Poem | |

Lotsa Limericks - It Couldn't be Verse

		1. Big Brother
Big Brother's protecting his mice
with a secret eavesdropping device.
          If you hang up the phone
          he'll send in a drone
when a warrant won't really suffice.

		2. Neutrality
The internet's meant to be free
for all, such as you, such as me.
          But now there's some doubt -
          will it lose all its clout
with the death of neutrality's spree?

		3. Privacy
'twas surely our forefather's dread
all our emails would someday be read.
	Now that push comes to shove
	by the powers above  -
private thoughts must now stay in our head.

		4. Guantanamo 
Guantanamo bay's a resort
where fishing's a fabulous sport -
	with your back on a board
	tepid water is poured
wringing tales for a kangaroo court.

		5. Banks
To bountiful bailouts give thanks
for there's nothing much richer than banks -
	making money galore
	taking homes from the poor
while managing mortgaging pranks.

		6. Health
If you live in the States don't get sick
(lest a cut of the upper class clique).
	If you suddenly fall ill
	all they'll offer's a pill -
if you're lucky you'll surely die quick.

		7. Economy
Our economy's doing just fine
lying dead with a slug in the spine.
	So follow the call
	where there's money for all
and profit's the bottom-most line.

		8. Safety
Now police vigilantism's wide spread -  
but not justice… not even a shred.
	The avengers of right
	are still stalking the night 
so beware of a cap in the head.

Details | Sport Poem | |

DOUBLE OH

DOUBLE OH

1

James, you’re incorrigible, my double Oh.
Outclassing the other tuxedos, you arrive
at the crowded casino and men glower
as women part their lips, each rivals. 

There sits sensuality. Wry brows
lift as you order a martini; particular,
your tastes, roughly refined, never bowing
to convention. Across the table, you war

with yourself. Those dual sides I easily spy,
the loner who targets curvaceous company
and the agent, hardened, a master of lying.
Your lady-killer grin ricochets off me.

Pure trouble. Fury with both barrels loaded.
Duty will win out and leave me owing.


2

Duty will win out and leave me owing.
but I’ll not be indebted to any man, 
alive, that is. These endowments only show
boys like a chest full of toys. Hands spanned

my waist and assumed they’d touched me.
Barely a graze, though some kisses stung,
cuts to the quick.  But you drawl, Tiffany…
Damn your smooth tongue. It lays diamonds. 

Secret service, indeed. I see your skills
and change my position, spin like roulette.
The bed accommodates looks that kill.
You measure up. I’m your compromised pet.

Sport or mission, each need maneuvers
Whether in espionage or under covers.  

3

Whether in espionage or under covers,
player, you’re always on top of the game.
There is something about the way you steer
my mustang, that says you’re entertained

by the maniacal, amused by the chase.
Still, villains and vamps require tutorage,
must submit to limits, be put in their place.
It’s no laughing matter as you nudge

metal against metal, step on the gas
and custom fit nine feet into a six foot
wide alleyway. You’ve taken Las Vegas,
as if the city had been sleeping. Fueled,

you shoot me a look; it rolls like dice, 
smoking...and as hot as smuggled ice.

4

Smoking and as hot as smuggled ice...
our affections flare in body language-
covert actions, once overs, slick disguises,
decoys and leverages, crucial appendages

like that Berretta. Question, what is a Q?
Q-uash, Q-uerken, Q-uarrel, or Q-uest? Do tell.
Each in their way seems to apply to you.
Now, kiss this Q-ueen, go on, man handle.

Oh, these constant disruptions are criminal.
Bonds-men! And do you ever use your bed
for rest, Lover? Trust me, let my arms cradle
your patriotism, your scars, your ... hard head.

First, stop thinking. Then, dust me with jewels.
Nights like this are mined by heroes and fools.


5
Nights like this are mined by heroes and fools,
but evil never sleeps, never sleeps; it plots
like pulp fiction, builds death rays and lewdly 
patrols, then rams plugs into corrupted slot  

machines, if you know what I mean. Schemes
multiply like clones, soulless clay, half baked,
and chaos organizes its minions, impedes
even a primed paladin. They have you scaling

the contumacious walls of dooms day
as they attempt, again, world domination.
Greed cordons, but you shatter barricades,
then infiltrate lairs with polished persuasion. 

Go to work. It’s fine. I’m not new to hellfire.
Let your femme fatale help settle old scores... 


6

Let your femme fatale help settle old scores.
They’ve caught me, think they have the upper hand
while I deliberate on small minds, locked doors
and the strange repression of man.  My plan

hadn’t read the script. Well, mistakes are made
even by the best or those with the best
of intentions.  Gunplay, bombs, each escapade   
to rout the opposition, even that wild west

savoir faire just bores the bikini off me.
We blow the bad guys to smithereens. Done.
Until the next brute needs a lesson.  Discreet?
If I must be. But really, darling, you’re no fun

And as cocky as they come. Never fumbling.
Good girls fall hard, bad girls just crumble.


7
Good girls fall hard, bad girls just crumble.
even I cannot decide which type I am.
After all, what’s love but a risky gamble
bluffing the heart with poker face claims.

I know I cannot be a Moneypenny
nor would I choose to be royalty
and don’t get me started on that Tool, Plenty,
or  the other tramps in your ample harem. 

Wicked your grin, I see thoughts progress
to where palms find more than just a mouthful, 
measured your motions, slowly you undress
me, whisper Tiffany in a voice so lethal. 

Where did you learn to do that? Look out, below
James, you’re incorrigible, my double Oh.





Tiffany Case, Bond girl with grit




Details | Sport Poem | |

Aussie Roulette

Aussie Roulette

50 years ago we had a sport
Of the deadly dangerous sort
Fight a Tiger snake just one
Quick as lightning in the sun

Used just once a post hole shovel
6 foot long was the handle
Running barefoot with the Tiger
Banded black n brown, a gamble?

Adrenaline ignites, terrifys!!!
Up the handle 5 foot tries
3 strikes each the 5 foot bugger 
Deadly battle, won another

Fang marks on the handle sit
Near my hand where he had bit
Don’t fight old Tiger he may win
Stupidity it is a sin!

Don Johnson

Hindsight says don't play with snakes.
My Tiger was launching 5 foot all his body at me, incredible because he was 
racing  alongside me  at the time.

Details | Sport Poem | |

SMITTEN OLD MAN

SMITTEN OLD MAN

High school year book, 47
I’m not a gad looking guy –
Short hair, sport coat, tie

This remembered as I gaze across the room
She’s sitting at a table near the wall,
Lap top open, ear phones, late and all

She wears a sleeveless blouse
On a cookie now I’m nibbling,
But, my God, her arm! What’s that scribbling?

From distance the appendage looks solid black
Is she weird, some sort of voodoo?
“No, you idiot!” I laugh. “Just a tattoo.”

Through her tangled blond hair a streak of purple,
No cosmetics improve the sallow face,
Clothes, by 40s standards, a national disgrace

I’m smitten – chair seat a bed of nails,
Arthritis rebels, bony hands clutch -
This modern generation, it’s just too much!

Dave Austin


Details | Sport Poem | |

POSSUM JUGGLING

POSSUM JUGGLING  
  Written By the Poets Listed After The Poem.  
  
Possum juggling is a trick conjuring sport.  
You should never do it if your arms are short.  
Nasty teeth are gnashing as they're tossed in air.  
The juggling of possums requires flair.  
Full-grown possum are very massive fellows.
Their bulk when lifted, like handling jell-o.  
They are so at ease as they fly through the trees.  
Are you ever so tall?  Fight them on your knees! 
Though cuddly and soft, please never be smitten.  
Asleep they appear, in a flash you're bitten.  
Upon one look, so UN-cute the ragged claw!  
Surely reminds me of my mother in-law.  
In my compost bin found this fury creature.  
Pointed nose, stinky as my English teacher-  
For that part which sticks out of the can at dark.  
Not a pretty site though pink, duck. It’s a fart!  
Quickly grab his leg and throw him really high 
Let the little blaster soar into the sky! 
Be quick, juggler, Granny Clampett is waiting 
It's possum stew she hopes to be creating 
Wait, I forgot! My arms are too short for this.
Now on my face sprinkles a souring mist.
The moral of this story, surely you see!
Never juggle opossums! Just let them be… 

Contributed Poets (in alphabetical order)  
Charma Chircop, Austin Daver, Carolyn Devonshire,  James Frazer, Robin Gass, James M. 
Goff, Raul Moreno, John Robbins, James Peranteau, Dane Smith-Johnsen,

Details | Sport Poem | |

Dad's Last Ball Game

Being the shortest in my high school gym class
Attempts to play basketball brought no success
Broke my finger while trying to catch a pass
Leaping to take balls from tall girls? What a mess!

Always loved football, baseball and soccer too
But in basketball I succumbed to defeat
Just couldn’t get into it, that is true
Till Dad took me to see the Miami Heat

Startled he was, watching me jump up and down
Although my enthusiasm was contrived
The cheers of other fans my loud voice did drown
This was the last time I saw my Dad alive

I’m so thankful now that I went to that game
Dad was so grateful for these moments we shared
When I watch basketball now, it’s not the same
It was Dad and not the sport for which I cared



*Entry for Deb’s “Play Ball” contest

Details | Sport Poem | |

Catch of the Day

My passion for fishing is well known

But sometimes my catch brings a huge groan

     Octopus clung to my boat

     Dolphins around me did gloat

The queen of the sea had been dethroned



Sadly, a true story for Royal’s Favorite Sport challenge.
It took my 10 minutes to try and pry the octopus from
the back of the boat.  Each time I pulled up one arm, 
it slapped down another one.  They have suction cups on
their arms.  My article “Octopus on Board” was 
published in Florida Wildlife magazine.

Details | Sport Poem | |

A Sport for Gold Diggers

Sookie said (as she stood at the tee), "Though this golfing is boring to me, the odds can't be beat. Of golfers I meet, for each woman, the males number three!!" *Note: Female golfers number fewer than 23% in this sport. With the many doctors and lawyers that seem to enjoy this activity, I can't help but think it would be a great place for a single lady to meet rich men! For the Golf Limerick Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish

Details | Sport Poem | |

Moments In Time

The sweetest sounds of burning trees
A gentle stroking in the breeze
The calm has lasted past the storm
Cloudy visions, Satan’s roar
Too many sights have passed my way
A time found only in the haze
The softest screams are running bare
My aching bones creak as I stare

You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark

The battle’s started at the end
No one is coming to repent
The sinners grab their wine from prey
No judgment calling here to stay
The sport is reckless to be told
The one is laughing at his souls
It falters nowhere to be sure
The power grows forevermore
Like a spirit in the wind
I have no say in where you’ve been 
But cross the line to come to me
And pay the price for ecstasy

You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark. 

Details | Sport Poem | |

Lady Legend

A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown thrown to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of impozter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward. While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!

This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.

Details | Sport Poem | |

Daniel the Conqueror

In a land far away was a family with two boys
The oldest loved sports the youngest only toys.
You should be like your big brother the father would always say
It’s time for you to toughen up and leave this childish play.
Yes Quinton was a fighter, loved games of every sort,
But nothing did he want to do more than play a sport.
Daniel he was meek and mild a softie like his mother
He hated when his dad would say, “Be more like your brother.”
Hurt and down he took a walk up on a rocky hill
Throwing stones hard at the water, he let his anger spill.
Why doesn’t my dad love me? Into the air he cried,
Kicking rocks with fists curled, tight against his side.

Meanwhile on an island far across the sea
A leader spoke to the animals, almost like a plea.
Legends say a leader from mainland shall appear 
A strong and faithful warrior, a boy that has no fear.
How shall we find this man child? Asked the animals out loud,
We’ve never seen a human said a yearling really proud.
The Albatross said strong and brave, I will bring him here
I know he isn’t very far, I feel his presence near.
The bird flew out across the sea searching high and low
Wondering where he’d find him, the boy they needed so.
There; high up on a hill side a warrior stood so tall,
He knew it was the chosen one, for he could hear him call.

Now in a flash he swooped down, grabbed Daniel real fast
The albatross was thinking, I’ve found the boy at last.
Daniel he was screaming as he dangled by one leg
Flying over water yelling let me go I beg.
As they neared the island, the animals all gathered round
Watching as the big white bird, let their hero down.
Welcome said a racoon, we’ve waited here so long
Today we’ll have a party, let’s fill the woods with song.
They sat all night telling horrible tales of an enemy they feared
And all felt a little safer now that Daniel had appeared.
I’m not the hero you think I am, there’s been a bad mistake
And a little bunny looked at him, you must be for my sake.

Daniel fell in love that night with all his new friends here
None of them made him feel bad, they made him feel so dear.
For their sakes I must beat this foe, an enemy, a disgrace 
Making sure he never comes back to this peaceful place.
For days they planned together, what everyone would do
And when the varmint showed up they stood up to him too.
Instead of running and hiding, they stood together tight 
The badger lost the battle and ran home fast that night.
The wise old owl thanked Daniel for ridding the beast at last
Conquering their worst enemy, who now is in the past.
On wings of love the hero left his friends on the islands strand
When Daniel went back home that day, he had become a man.

The moral of my story? With a little love and trust,
Everyone can be a hero, we are more than clay and dust.
 
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.18.2014
Carol Eastman’s Contest: 
Fable to the Rescue 
1st

Details | Sport Poem | |

An English Life

An English Life

It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness

The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.

I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
 A greeting into their kingdom
 
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood

Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour. 

And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was, 
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
 A simple life, maybe, but what a life

For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
 And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
 And every fish I ever caught.
 
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life, 
For they found paradise on the Foss.

They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.

Dawn on the Foss, was my church
 My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.




Details | Sport Poem | |

Tennis Undies

Gussie Moran, a tennis star,
Created quite a stir
When she wore lace-trimmed underwear,
Created just for her.

In 1949 this was,
On Wimbledon’s staid courts;
The British folk were scandalized,
According to reports.

Designed by Teddy Tingling,
A tennis pro and Brit,
The all-white skirt (above the knees!)
Had newsmen in a snit.

They said she brought “vulgarity”
And even, more so, “sin”
Into a sport that prior
Only let the proper in.

Along with her obit, there was
A photo of her wearing
These very clothes; to us, today,
They’re anything but daring.

But bravo to this fearless gal!
Her charms she did assert
When she gave fans at Wimbledon
A shock beneath her skirt.

Details | Sport Poem | |

The Death of A King

Contest Entry: Ancient Egypt

Four men, one king what a show
Taught muscles, strong bodies, no foe
The sport of Pharaoh’s to kill a King
In rapturous applause crowds stand and sing

'I am a God' cries the new pharaoh 
To prove it is a must
'But watch me adoring ones
Kill this King with a god given thrust.'

'Hold tight the rope you men, on it your life depends
Not only yours, but your family too
Let not the torn muscles or bloodied hands you bare
Because t’will be their deaths I swear to you.'

'Until I grab his mane
And with my God-given power
I will prove that before my name
Even this King of beasts will cower.'

Hurry now our muscles cry, the rope cuts though our skin
If you must kill this mighty beast you better first begin
Raise your sword son of the gods take his spirit to strengthen your soul
Just to leave this arena alive that is our only goal.

A mighty beast does fall leaving four men on bended knee
The pharaoh won the call his cheering people do agree
Their sweat it doth mingle with the blood of the mighty beast
Although they slayed a King, at least with their families they will still feast.

©  26/11/2013


Details | Sport Poem | |

Millicent

Millicent Portia Ponsonby-Smyth
Could speak fluent French by the time she was five.
By the age of just eight she was top of her class,
There wasn’t a test that she couldn’t pass.
English and maths she coped with just fine
And quantum mechanics she’d mastered by nine.
Her parents were proud, but a little concerned
That she’d never have fun if she stayed in to learn.

Her father said, “Millicent go out and play.”
“But father I’m reading so here I shall stay.”
“Being so clever is great there’s no doubt,
But once in a while you need to get out.”
She said, ”Pater, please listen I’m happy to study,
And if I go out there’s a chance I’ll get muddy.”

That very night she was taken off guard,
She discovered a sum that was simply too hard.
She stomped round her room in utter frustration,
She just couldn’t do this quadratic equation.

Gnashing her teeth and tearing her hair
She kicked out in temper at her teddy bear.
It flew through the air and bounced off the wall,
So she kicked it again before it could fall.

It bounced off her head and then off her knee
And suddenly Millicent giggled with glee.
She continued all night to kick it around.
For hours she kept it from touching the ground.
In the following weeks she practiced some more
And saved all the money she earnt from her chores.

She went to the shop, bought a ball and some boots,
And learnt how to dribble and learnt how to shoot.
Every day after school she went to the park
And practiced her football until it was dark.
She continued to study the books and the sport
And paid close attention to all she was taught.

13 years later Miss Smyth is delighted
She’s the first girl in history to play for United.

Details | Sport Poem | |

Reporting Live On The Soup (Colorado)

"Howdy to you all from Colorado!  This is Cletus Schlunk reporting,
Where gossip is fair and balanced and there is little or no distorting!
It's the home of the Rockies, Broncos, Nuggets and potholes galore,
And old mining towns like Leadville and Cripple Creek, full of western lore!"

"Hordes of gaping tourists from all over come to visit the Centennial State,
So I collared one to get his views and his comments to you I'll relate."
"Sir, could you spare a few minutes of your time for a little chat?
Tell me where you're from and where did you get that silly hat?"

"Ah'm frum th' great state uv Texus an' that's a hunder'd dollar Stetson son.
Now, don'tcha go a-makin' sport uv me - ah've cum here ta have a little fun!"
"Be forewarned that when sipping a cool Coors, respect the altitude here."
"Yup! Ah've figgered out that jes' one uv 'em will set ya' on yer rear!"

"What do you think of our magnificent mountains reaching for the sky?"
"Shucks! We used to have 'em in Texus an' they wuz nearly twice as high!
But ah'm here ta tell ya', they wuz flattened out years an' years ago.
That's why Texus is th' biggest state in the lower 48, I want ya'all ta know!"

"Have you fished our pristine streams, many that are off the beaten track?"
"Yup!  Caught a 30-incher - he wuz a Texus minner so I throwed 'im back!"
"Well, folks, he out-bragged me so I brought the interview to a hasty cease!
Till next time, from Colorful Colorado, I wish each of you happiness and peace!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Placed No. 2 in the "Reporting Live On The Soup" Contest - July 2010

Details | Sport Poem | |

Royal Crap

King Pin and Needle Queen
Sitting  in their court
The jester tosses coloured eggs
To amuse them with his sport
The king will catch a red one
The queen, she grabs a blue
But when they crack them open
They’re filled with chicken poo.



Details | Sport Poem | |

Tried & Tested - into the sunset

I am so far out of my element
It almost seems unreal
When in truth, which I always seek to find
Pretence is all that I feel
In this, my second language
I aim to express the glistening skin
That hides the shallow graves of conscience
Trapped so deep within
The pottery I shape in craft
Though pedistilled and on display
A camouflage that’s merely drafted
words of wisdom most portray
And in the spirit of fairness
As a virtue which we all possess
Accept my resignation
For this sport has had its best 
I’m off to party hard and waste
My life as best as I know how
The animal within this chest
Needs freedom to survive for now
The playing game of words
is but a winding road that’s filled with stone
I’m parched in parts unheeded
As my cluttered soul heads home

Details | Sport Poem | |

Besides Love Men Need Fishing,

FISHING


Besides love men need fishing, 
And for both, most are wishing, 
Catching trophies chosen best,
To be envied by the rest.

Fishing is a game of sport 
Loved by all, both tall and short.
We must fool the fish’s eye, 
If we plan to stir and fry,

Some use boats while others wade, 
As they fish the sun or shade. 
Ice-cold drinks help pass the day, 
While life’s troubles fade away.

Most men feel they've everything, 
With their rod, hook, cork and string.
Be it river, pond or lake, 
We all pray our line won't break.


By Tom Zart 

Details | Sport Poem | |

The Game

The game is his friend.
Always there for him.
Never turning him away.
Inviting him to visit
And giving him the 
Best seat in the house.
In front of the screen.

It is his sport.
Replacing baseball, football,
Basketball and all others.
It lets him score 
And makes him feel
Like a winner.
Like a champion!

The game is his sustenance,
Feeding his thoughts,
Shaping his soul,
Controlling his mind,
Closing the door to family.
To intervention.
To the world.

Anger grows behind 
Raised brows and widened eyes.
Desensitizing him.
Honing his skills and
Numbing his feelings.
Making him blind to life.
Making death easy.

Without compassion,
Without love.