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Best Race Poems

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

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Details | Race Poem | |

where braves amid the mists ignite


where braves amid the mists ignite

He knows the dance of lines at night,
 and their expanding, wayward trip
the perils and the clipons' grip.

Convergent margins that unite
 where once per life, lines sternly meet
to be horizons' incomplete.

Past scenes recite and years invite,
 abstruse the ranges, lift and share
with precognitions' blue affair.

His dream abides on beaming light,
  bike's thrust approaches distant knots
and his horizons' linking thoughts.

Where braves their destiny incite
 as lines embellish roads' decor,
and scenes return to years before.

Defiantly his words indite,
 what his third destiny perfects,
trajectories of skyward wrecks.

Where braves amid the mists ignite
 their speeding dreams of years eighteen
and turn to woods of evergreen.

He knows the dance of lines at night,
 convergent margins that unite,
past scenes recite and years invite.
 His dreams abide on beaming light
where braves their destiny incite,
 defiantly his words indite
where braves amid the mists ignite.

© 12-23-2013, G. Venetopoulos
(Iambic tetrameter)

"Third Destiny" = Please read the "About the poem" details.

Details | Race Poem | |

Race Against Time

A race against time.

I can not enjoy my days.
They are not long enough, for the things I want to do.
I simply come and go.
Stay long, I can not. 
Like a relationship that comes and goes.
My life has no stop.
Ending up in places no one knows.
Over the edge, over the top.

I look at the time .
It flies by fast.
Where has my day gone?
In the morning I am sipping on coffee.
Now I am in bed, my day is done.

Minutes pass me by quickly.
Not giving me time to breath.
One day I was 23 years old.
The next day I turned 35,  asking where did all the time go?
I am not getting young.
When is this going to stop?
It all started when my life begun.
Will it end the day I drop.
Like the milk that spills from a cup.
A race against time
Should I just give up?
         I.T.
S.K.A.T. POETRY
3-31-10

Details | Race Poem | |

Trapped

My spirit and soul are trapped in this vessel of flesh. They scream to escape and to be liberated and soar on the breezes of life. To frolic freely among the trees, among the clouds and to run without weight and care.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they want to get out. Out from under all the stress and demand in life out from all the evil and hate of the world.

My spirit and soul are trapped in demand to perform, to keep a smile when I am down, to keep a stiff upper lip.

My spirit and soul are trapped to work for things and objects, to keep up with Jones and Kardashians. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that all men are made equal when the reality of this world says different, that only green currency is the great equalizer. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that single is not wholeness that it is necessary to be joined with another body to be view without stigma.

My spirit and soul are trapped in a body not acceptable because it's fat, it's woman and it's black and aging.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they are screaming to be free... screaming to reveal all the possibilities of how good life could be if I just didn't give a damn about who thinks what about me.

Details | Race Poem | |

The Leader Bunny

All the little bunnies were lined up for a race. Why, you may ask?
Because the dear old Leader Bunny was stepping down with grace.
He had led the others for years without disgrace, in all pursuits.
He was their advisor, friend, and confidant... solver of disputes.
Such a lofty position was dearly sought by all…from all around.
But he could pick only one to wear that lofty, wonderful crown.
So a race was determined to quickly resolve, the question therein.
And a lovely little laurel crown was offered, to the one who did win.

Now many strategies to win emerged from within the race.
The most common was the notion to set the fastest pace…
A few would use tricks that might hurt, in order to slow others down.
A few were mean, for they wanted the power that comes with the crown.
Two were clever and would catapult each other at the very end.
A few just practiced running to gain the added stamina needed to win.
Only one little rabbit found shoes for the poor, for it was a rocky trail.
And when the race began he helped those hurt in the prevail.

Now the dear old leader had never actually worn a laurel crown.
His had been symbolic; his works had brought him his renown.
When the Leader Bunny gave the laurel crown to he who won the race…
Only a few were surprised, when the little helper won the Leader’s grace…
Though some would go on to complain because he had come in last…
It truly takes someone who knows how to serve, to lead and guide the rest.
But my moral to this story is that…. Regardless what some may think…
It takes compassion to correctly lead…and sometimes the last can be the best…



Details | Race Poem | |

Woods of Evergreen


Woods of Evergreen

He knows the dance of lines at night, 
 and their expanding, wayward trip, 
convergent margins that unite
 the perils and the clip-ons' grip.

Defiantly the speed directs
 where once, per life, lines sternly meet, 
this trip's third destiny elects
 to make the skylines incomplete.

The scenes return to years before
 abstruse, night's ambit takes to where
the lines embellish this decor
 with his cognition's blue affair.

But who transforms converging states
 beyond the compass' distant knots, 
becomes a smile that far abates, 
 and his horizons' linking thoughts.

And those who dare to pass beyond
 their speeding dreams of years eighteen, 
their margins' arbiters, self-spawned
 become and woods of evergreen.

© 12-23-2013, G. Venetopoulos
(Iambic tetrameter)

Details | Race Poem | |

This Poem Wants 2 B A Revolutionary

This poem wants to make a change . . .

To be a strong yet silent raised fist in Mexico, 1968.

To stand at a window w/a shotgun writing the words
“By any means necessary”

To sit in at a lunch counter in Birmingham, Alabama
Until it is read

To start a breakfast program in Compton, California
In order to feed hungry minds

To stand up for its rights in Akron, Ohio and shout,
“Aint I a poem?”

To integrate an all white book store under protection of the National Guard
And when George Wallace says to it,
“You will not enter unless it’s over my cold, dead, body. . .”
This poem will gladly take him up on his offer

But now this poem feels that perhaps it is too militant,
Maybe it and Spike should just “Do the Right Thing” . . .

Take the hand of other poems deep in the South Georgia woods and lead them to freedom
Under cover of night-light

Take its brothers and sisters out of the man’s world and
Into Aaron’s “Boondocks”

Play its own music, live in Jamaica and
Grow Nappy Locs

Start a union with A. Phillip down at the docks

Be read by Martin while being pelted with rocks

Find out what would happen
“If Beale Street Could Talk”. . .

This poem will get accused of “Ego Trippin” but 
will not take it personally, declaring,
“And Still I Rise” 

It will invite other poems to a free concert headlined by
Marvin, Stevie, Chuck D, and Black Thought

It will do what it should, not what others think it ought

This poem will be munificent . . .
Will give because so much has been given to it

Will do because so much has been done for it

Will be able to sit down because so many others have
Stood up

But this poem can not sit still for long
Because this poem has been disenfranchised . . .

This poem was told there is no longer a need
For affirmative action
only to have it replaced with definitive inaction

This poem cast a vote in Florida, 
only to be told that it did not count

This poem observed its commander in thief, fly over rising waters in the Lower Ninth Ward 
just to keep his feet from getting wet

This poem watched its country expand our “melting pot” to include all types of ingredients, 
Then scrape the black off the bottom of the pan . . . 

and send it back to Haiti on a raft

This poem has been pulled over for being DWI
(drafted with intelligence)

This poem was profiled at Hartsfield Airport,
And made to take off it’s . . . blues.

This poem never planted any genus of Bush, 
It’s not concerned with whom you marry,
Nor does it desire to trade the blood of young soldiers for oil, but look what it got

No wonder,
This poem wants 2 b a revolutionary . . .

Details | Race Poem | |

The Human Race called Mankind

The third millennium of what?
Man is lame
clearly lost the will to walk,
he’s blind
no longer able to reason.
His fingers cast hope
upon the keyboard,
his mind creates
trends upon the screen,
he inflicts pain, a global sadomasochist
he sees others in his historical
image!
He plants his seed
most upon stony ground,
he offers peace
a twisted excuse
to deliver his belief,
he’s losing God!
He thinks he’s superior, 
he’s lost the ability of simplicity,
whilst delving in ideology
akin to profit.

Harry Horsman for Michael J Falotico contest
What brought you to poetry.

Details | Race Poem | |

A Stranger After Dark

I was sitting on the back porch ‘bout an hour after dark When I couldn’t help but notice a tiny pulsing spark. I thought it was a firefly – It had that kind of glow But I’d never seen the likes of it – what it was I didn’t know It flittered to and fro just like a firefly does I went into the backyard to determine what it was. Just as I approached the place I thought that it might be It flew right up and landed very close to me. Soon I realized it was no ordinary find. What happened next you won’t believe – it nearly blew my mind. A Lilliputian creature stepped from this tiny craft Right then and there I was aware of questions I should ask. He must have been aware of the fear he’d caused in me. I could see my hands were shakin’ -- never thought I’d be set free. His tiny voice became quite clear and in a most convincing tone He said, “My friend, be not afraid – I‘m here all alone.” He appeared to be confused a bit and why, I’ll never know But the fear that he had fostered was about to let me go. He began to tell his story; I let out a sigh I knew I’d better listen to this little guy. Now, he was small in stature; ‘bout a half inch, nothin’ more – Why, I believe that he could pass through the space beneath the door. . He then began to tell me – It must sound like a dream. He was here because of some wayward sunbeam. “I race Haley’s comet to the far side of the sun.” He said, “The race is always over before it has begun. There is a reason for these victories, you see My good ship Omnipresence, right here in front of me.” “Time and space,” He said. “Are always at my command. I can do more things with them than man can understand.” He said, “I spin the rings of Saturn, create firmament at will I flew a mission of atonement to a very special hill.” I asked, “Do you know Jesus? He died upon that hill.” He said, “When all things are settled, everybody will. I led three wise men to him that cold and wintry night The shepherds were there to witness a miraculous sight So you ask do I know Jesus? -- it fills me with such mirth -- This very craft was hidden there at the moment of His birth. I was there to hear the angels when they sang out on high. Yes, I’d say I know Jesus, That’s why I’ll never die.” Written By John Posey 12/18/12

Details | Race Poem | |

The Non-Marathon

Today the New York Marathon's
Become a non-event.
The runners' opportunities
To race both came and went.

At first the mayor said it's on,
Despite the storm's destruction;
And then, last minute, pulled the plug
And gave a new instruction.

The racers coming to New York
Most likely were confused;
And those who paid for flights and rooms
I'm sure were not amused.

It's sad that all that training
For this race has come to naught,
The miles of pavement pounded
On each sneaker that was bought.

But certainly the mayor
Could have hurrried his decision.
His turnabout last-minute call
Has earned him great derision.

The city wasn't ready yet
To up and celebrate.
The mayor should have known that,
But discovered it too late.

Details | Race Poem | |

Gold-Trochee

If my horse on the race course
a winner for me
then the course for my race horse
makes me debt free.

So the beat of the mare's feet
makes me debt free
gold such a treat for this feat
a winner for me.

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