Best Coached Poems
One of my favorite poets here is Craig Cornish. He made me fall in love with the sonnet. :) He coached me in getting the meter right. It has become my favorite form to write in. This is a poem Craig wrote for me. I'm so honored! :)
Menina que Passa for Eileen
She saunters along the boardwalk
more confident than in her youth,
when young men would swoon
and older men were wishing to be
young again.
She meanders next to the surf laughing
at the sea's efforts to catch her toes
in a rush of briny bubbles tickling
the grains of sand hurry away.
She strolls and as the sea
eddies and pools in her footsteps
like the memories that wash her mind
tosses her hair face to the sun and
embraces the day
She wanders near the smooth stones
polished by the relentless tides
like days and years they come and are gone
come and are gone
but with each a blessing
she ambles among those blessings
with a flair and an aire
she has that "Something"
that "Je ne se qua" and she is beautiful
Craig Cornish
To me, a gift of words is one of the most treasured gifts I could ever receive. Thanks, Craig, for making me feel beautiful today. :) Hugs
Categories:
coached, friend,
Form:
Free verse
THE DALLAS COWBOYS
Can you not hear the rumblings of that distant herd coming,
The loud thundering of destiny’s champions crossing, the NFL
Field of dreams, beware the rampaging lightening team known
As the Dallas Cowboys, for they are the hail storms victorous
Breed, the eye of the hurricane riders, searching for their
Well-deserved trophy of fortunes honor!
Remove your cowboy’s hats of respect unto them, ladies
Curtsy with reverences motion, for these athletes are
Endurance’s best, and they shall overcome against
Any opposing finest challengers, these rangers of the
Old western traditions, that carry this country’s time
Honored name of the cowboy to the ultimate extreme,
Of skill and strength’s dexterity!
Dallas all plain drifters of purity’s valor, head to head
No bull horns about it, these are the champions of the
Gladiatorial games in the world of sportsmanship!
Yielding unto no oppositions combatants, these warriors
Hold their ground with distinctions sheer magnificence!
Let those world famous cheerleaders scream with every
Field goal achieved, for these beauties know that no
Other team in footballs annals will score, to the level
Of these good old boys, named by fame's hall of records,
The famous Dallas Cowboys, heehaw and God bless hum!
Now listen you city slicking team of sports hall of fameing
Seekers, you’d better go back to your home fields of
Advantages, for hear in this lone star state, we take no
Prisoners, and show no mercy to out lander's!
Here in the ALAMO state of freedoms calling,
We remember our heritage standing tall and
Proud against all odds, blazoned in bullets
Historical legends, our grand team barres
The name of fore-barriers proudly, those
Pioneer’s men known, as the all American
Cowboys!
These six-shooters whom rode the die hard tails,
Across a new world creating a country of freedom,
Where only the tumble-weeds rolled, and desert dust,
Coached a man’s thirst almost to madness!
Now in traditions sport of men, a new team of desperado’s,
Threatens this lone star state, but have no fear my fellow
Texans for our Dallas Cowboys will send them packing,
With a good old boy’s field goals smacking, so I’ll cheer
Them on, waving my hat in the evening air, yelling heehaw,
Go get hum boys!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
FOR LINDA THE DESTROYER
ROCK ON SISTER POET
Categories:
coached, dedication, football, heart, imagery,
Form:
Free verse
A Poet , a dreamer , a man named Michael.
Named after my father and also a saint.
Drifting through time with my pen I paint.
Just a soul gliding in and out of God's cycle.
My name is known as the Godfather's last son.
Also a star who wore a little white glove.
But mostly just me who writes from love.
An Angel I'm not , but there's no harm in my fun.
Though I'm not Michael the second.
I tried to fill my dad's big shoes.
We coached together whether win or lose.
Such times imbedded in my heart as his son.
Now my own man and later in life poet.
I share my life in words to those who can't see me.
I hope to touch a few of those who read and feel me.
Each new write is another way for me to show it.
Now you have a clearer view of Michael your friend.
A confused life at times but now has found his sight.
With Rosanna by my side all is good, and life is just right.
I'm stronger for it all and never will this heart bend.
"What's In a Name Contest" by The Sweetheart of Poetry Soup
Categories:
coached, introspectionlife, heart, heart, life,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
I think of how you must have been
in bygone days with friends from your boyhood.
From things you’ve said, I picture you back then
blazing trails and camping in the Cincinnati Wood.
And then perhaps you stood a man at seventeen
with one carnation pinned onto your suit.
Vernal still, and on the threshold of your dreams,
you’d blaze a path anew and leave your roots.
Years passed. Only you can fill in all the spaces
of what you heard and tasted; what you did;
pursuits, accomplishments, and the many places,
and when you found Alaska, I was just a kid!
I’m certain that you felt at home, grew bold
on the tundra, moved with feline grace, and maybe kayaked there,
viewed double rainbows, hunted, and knew the color of gold,
climbed mountains and inhaled the pristine air.
You’ve seen the eagle soar; fulfilled a destiny.
So much you’ve done in all your fruitful life.
You served your country, married, made a family,
coached softball, taught and traveled; loved your wife.
Today you move more slowly, or so you’ve told me.
I’ve never seen your face. Better do I know your soul.
I see you as a wine finely aged – mulberry,
red and sweet – not bitter – and you long for a life that’s full.
Behind closed doors you sit alone in your chair.
I envision books displayed, numerous on a shelf.
Despite this show of knowledge gleaned, your house seems bare.
Your family’s gone, and you’re having to care for yourself.
You like to frequent restaurants and watch a little TV,
but friends have passed. You need a fresh new plan.
Forge a new frontier, my friend. Exclaim your poetry.
Poems should have a purpose, and so too must a man.
May 29, 2022
Categories:
coached, poets,
Form:
Ode
Fear – anxiety, panic, alarm
Dread that may be without purpose
But a darkness that is powerful and strong
It was fear –
That taught me to listen to the demons
Of doubt, distrust and discouragement
It was fear –
That left me feeling like I was unworthy
When Jesus whispered “faith” to my heart
It was fear –
That silenced my hopes and my dreams
Colored me in hues of doubt and disbelief
It was fear –
That lingered on my thoughts when I was hurting
Breaking through the peace, the serenity in my soul
It was fear –
That smothered out all my greatest inspirations
Destroying my ideas, my insights into contentment
It was fear –
That ruined the beauty of those moments
When joy sought me out to fill my spirit with elation
It was fear –
That wrecked my plans when I was on fire, passionate
About some hope or desire, purpose that was alive in me
It was fear –
That erased my designs when I had things figured out
Leaving me with complete confusion, perplexed and disillusioned
It was fear –
That darkened the sun’s rays, editing out grace
Promising nirvana when all that was – was shame
It was fear –
That hurried me past the wonder and the awe
Gone were the joys that comforted my thoughts
It was fear –
That promised me the moon and the stars
When, in all truth, there was only the cynicism
It was fear –
That allowed me to reflect on the losses
Wounds that were painful and tinted with heartache
It was fear –
That coached me in hatred and loathing
Prompting my aversion to the light of truth
It was fear –
That sought me out with its heated breath
Raging horrors of apprehension and distress
It was fear –
That I left behind when I found His grace
Saving me from my unending quest for faith!
Isaiah 41:10 (KJV) Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.
Categories:
coached, angst, anxiety, christian, dark,
Form:
Free verse
Devotion Poem. Dancing Dream
(Dedicated to my husband Jim, with love)
Like a story’s narrator, I cannot see myself
In life nor in dreams, nor in memories where
My recollection of you comes first
Of your eyes, which I have
Absolutely memorized, especially
All their glistening smiles,
When they look fixed to my own, bringing
Your heart into mine, committed in love,
Creating song where none sang
In the empty minutes just before.
It is the sensing through touch that I treasure,
More than the seeing.
So again, as through all my memories:
Reach with your hands;
Offer your arm; lean in with your chest;
Set your head upon my shoulder
As you speak — with the voice
I’ve always adored — to again say,
“I love you,” just as you did this morning
In the dream that woke me:
I was dancing my ballet for you.
How amazing it was! You even coached
Over the passion of the dance
And the music, until it stopped.
You came to me. Tired, I leaned back
Against your chest, the crown of my head
Fitting straight under your chin.
I did not see me. I did not see you.
But I could feel, yes, feel the motion
Of your chest as you breathed, and
Feel the warmth of your body, your
Chest, firm against my back...
So, I was surprised when I woke
And you were not there. And I was here,
Not having danced the ballet at all,
But, yes, still fully, completely feeling
The warmth from leaning against you.
Your warmth from life,
From memory,
Re-lived in a dream.
*******. ********. ********. *******
(C) sally Young eslinger 12/19/2020
Thanks be toGod
Categories:
coached, dream, feelings, love, memory,
Form:
Free verse
Working in physical education
Blond teacher had a realisation
Spotting a young boy alone
Standing all on his own
Her curiosity, frustration
Young man, why are you all on your own
To the others, why are you disowned
Well, I'm not the teams sweeper
I'm their bloody goalkeeper
Please Miss Coach, it's time you went home
Categories:
coached, humorous, soccer, sports,
Form:
Limerick
Where I live
The land slopes downward
Towards Merrick Road
Inviting me for a walk.
Stopping at a corner
I hear my name
Turning around
I say hello
To a neighbor
We exchange pleasantries
No need to say anymore
And I continue on my way.
My wife and I have roots here
Passing my daughter’s school
I remember that July
When fathers,
Tradesman
And office workers alike,
Toiled under a hot sun
Working together
To build a playground.
Near the park
I coached my son’s soccer team
Families came to watch
Their children run like the wind
Memory tells me
It was a good season.
On nearby streets
I helped neighbors
With routine chores
Lifting and pushing the unmovable
Shiny things for a kitchen
Or for the room upstairs
Odds and ends
We call possessions
My wife worked close by
To be home
When our children
Stepped off the school bus
Our house ran under
Her watchful eye
A job never done.
In return we are known here
And I take every opportunity
To walk through a quiet town
As early evening
Descends
On everyone and everything.
Categories:
coached, lifeschool, wife, children, school,
Form:
Narrative
From Deion Sanders to Warrick Dunn
Bobby Bowden coached some of the best
Highly regarded by team and staff
The FSU coach withstood each test
With two national championships
And two great Heisman Trophy winners
Tallahassee fans basked in glory
Until the talent ranks grew thinner
Suddenly loyalty’s cast aside
Despite thirty-three FSU years
Just a few losses were all it took
To turn his fickle fans’ cheers to jeers
How sad Bobby’s been asked to step down
Glory fades fast; don’t rest on laurels
Fans want a young gun to take the lead
But he’ll never match Bobby’s morals
The coach who refused to cuss or quit
Gave Marshall his playbook when their team died
Best known for just saying, “Dad Gummit”
Bobby gave us all a sense of pride
He’s being forced out, no loyalty
Decades of worship stop on a dime
But he won’t be replaced easily
They say it’s lights out for Bowden’s time
The second most winning One-A coach
One of just four in the Hall of Fame
Bows out humbly in two thousand nine
Tossed like pig skin to the Hall of Shame
But I’ll never forget Bowden’s name
The players will miss his leadership
Bobby deserves respectful tribute
Not mean quips shot from turn-coat fans’ hips
Friends, Coach Bowden has been my idol for years. He instilled spiritual values in his
players while coaching them to season after season wins. If this poem sounds "emotional,"
it's because his ousting makes me disgusted.
Categories:
coached, angst, sports
Form:
Quatrain
As a new father I coached my little league son
He was clumsy and uncoordinated
Picked dandelions in the outfield
Watched bumble bees fly and hum
Would run to a grounder and watch it stop
pick it up to throw it but it would drop
He enjoyed his team mates for they were friends
He struck out more than hitting the ball
Funny thing was he would always run whether he did or not
How I wanted him to hit the ball so hard
Perhaps a grand- slam homerun for him and my heart
But the greatness was in him- he was part of the team
His greatest joy was afterwards
When we’d all go get ice-cream
Categories:
coached, father, funny, nostalgia, son,
Form:
Rhyme
Challenges are not just MET by Carolyn.
As a child, she searched for them and took them in -
Running faster than the boys and spinning on her head.
Off roofs she jumped. It’s a wonder she isn’t dead!
Lacking fear, maybe she was foolish,
Yet she LIVED her life as she chased her every dream.
New challenges have come, and dauntless they seem.
Disease has brought her disabilities.
Expectations are extinguished. Her life has little of ease.
Viciously attacked, this brave woman who
Once played on a high school football team and coached gymnastics too
Now shows us nothing less than grace
Shining from the smile on her face.
Heroes come in many sizes, and one of them for me
I have named here poetically.
Read the first letter of each line and see what it spells out.
Earning my respect, this friend and poet is what courage is about.
12/16/16
Categories:
coached, courage,
Form:
Acrostic
Sweet were the days though too few in number
When dread was lain over all tomorrows
By those whom upon the Rod of Asclepius swore
Sending him to seek solace
And pass by unseen
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
A blue star burned cold upon his brow
In the darkness to proclaim his coming
To this place he claimed
As the home of his heart
To play his part in this most sacred scene
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Alone he arrived
To no greeting or welcome
But gladness filled him all-the-same
No company would be kept
For this final thing
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
There were no songs in the Hall
No one to sing
Of loves lost or left behind
Succored and scoured
By compulsive dream
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
No proof against arms was his armor
Though many times it had saved him
Against ravage and rage of weather
Their service no longer in need
He laid them before him in offering
To the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Although weakened, quickly he kindled
The first glowing embers
Coached them and coaxed them
So fragile and nascent
Till they brought into being
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
His presence in this hostile home
Alone would suffice
No grief-stricken children
Or wailing of women
No beeps or buzzes of cold machines
Only the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
He dreamt of the First Dawn of his absence
And was surprised it weighed nothing
Against the many that he was graced to see
Contentedly he caressed them
Comfortable in his memory
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King.
His star dimmed slowly before the First Dawn
With dignity dwindled the last flickering flames
As cold grew the King
On his throne of Stone
Set free near the ashes
Of The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Then Alpenglow burst the first rays of day
Round the only monument
To a life lived like lightning burst forth from the storm
So proud stood the peak
Glad alone to have seen
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Categories:
coached, death, mountains, nature, suicide,
Form:
Prose Poetry
I once got myself a monkey
(God knows what breed his was).
He was black, with dark, big eyes--
A devil-thing you could never pass.
Pearly-teeth shone in his mouth,
When you but pleased this thing;
We'd get-along well together,
(Me thought we could do with some training)
And, I tried teaching him
And taught him little tricks,
But my word! The poor thing,
Got rounded in the basics:
A few things of course, took him time,
While others, he could never learn:
Like when I said,"Sit Marcel",
He'd start to jump up and run...!
(Which wasn't quite the big deal,
For he was still learning what to do)
At least it was better than
When his filth I found in my shoe!
I coached him about 'toilet-culture'--
Taught him where men with a pot always rushed;
When that one day, on missing my spects,
I found them only being flushed...
Nonetheless, we glued well as pals,
But for a diner's calamity:
When I ask him once,"Get me that rice",
He sat on the tray and chose to pee!
He sought a perch upon my head
So I always had unkempt hair;
He'd sit, digging deep and hard,
I don't know for what thing up there.
(A small cheery, childish thing,
He'd always place himself with me)
But if he'd not torn my favourite shirts,
I say, I'd be much, much happy...
We used to talk as great pals:
He'd face me then, and play his part,
Although upon losing interest,
He'd slap me, scratch me, and cut me short!
This training and all friendliness,
Sure made each grow fond of the other
When I realized, he had to leave somehow
(Leaving me to shrug and shudder):
As a final mischief of his,
He'd got himself in a dirty puddle,
Then placed himself in the cupboard,
Disturbing order to a state of muddle...!
When that I asked him to get down,
He looked at me somewhat askance;
As if he knew what it was--
The unpleasant thing that had come to chance...
The grin on that face I was to miss
I know--the parting was like Hell...
He knew not what would change for us,
I still miss good ol'Marcel...
Categories:
coached, children, funny, happiness, hope,
Form:
Narrative
I remember every feeling every second
Etched in my memory it will always beckon
As though it was yesterday vividly acclaimed
I knew my life would never be the same
But I was ready when the news was given to me
The doctor “said you are pregnant” what to see?
She showed me the written proof
I jumped in the hall almost hitting the roof
My dream came true, my wish, and my bliss
God had heard my prayers I feel his wish
After many years of crying, doubt and sighing
I was to become a parent no more trying
I rushed around like a women that was smitten
Nothing could stop this gaiety, glistening
Now I need to buy books on pregnancy
Baby names, and good diapers with absorbency
Paint the room blue or pink trim?
Change the light switches to dim
What a whirl win of thoughts and ideas
Now caressing my face were happy tears
So on went the days turning to weeks
Closer to the day I could hardly see my feet
The time had made its approach
Two weeks early its time to get coached
She made her arrival nearly 14 hours later
My baby girl, no feeling could have been greater
(Inspired by Gareth James "Best day of your life contest"!)
Categories:
coached, daughter, family, happiness, lifeday,
Form:
Bio
by: Eric L. Boddie
Regardless what you think, everything we know has been coached
Where Did God Come From can only be answered with the common sense approach
But what do we know, let's start with that first
The only thing we know for sure are instincts, like water will quench thirst
Does Air carry its actual name, what if what we eat was first called dirt
That's just food for thought, for most purposes, the system does work
But every term has an author, actual truth is only found in math
Because if knowledge is never ending, we will forever know less than half
But when they say in the Beginning there was nothing, then all of a sudden, a big bang
Well, much like common sense, that's something math just can't explain
Turning nothing into something seems like history's oldest scam
Because if matter can be neither created nor destroyed, chemistry has to be a sham
Science contradicting science at every single turn
And they even made it a religion, Jesus Will Weep as they burn
And the way they will try to convince carries an easy description
Because how could it be anything else but science fiction
Like they will tell you that the sun is so many degrees hot
How do they know, did they hold the thermometer, I think not
Well who knows the answer, hmmm, I can only think of One
With Absolute Truth, one hundred....and fiction, none
The Author Of Math, The Resurrected Lamb, yeah, you know Who
That Good News From The Doctor, That Promotion At Work, That Strength you need to make it through
But Where Is He From, well, The Beginning Is All I need to KNOW
And When He Calls For you, will you have enough Faith To Go
"The Origin Of God"
Categories:
coached, bible, blessing, god, jesus,
Form:
Epic