Best Kicker Poems
Thinking About Angels
Here I am thinking
about angels, guardians
in the sky.
Funny thing: grief.
Well maybe ‘funny’
is the wrong word.
‘Volcanic’
‘Annihilating’
‘Illusionary’
‘Pulverizing’
‘Instantaneous’
‘Gasping’
‘Forever’ is
the kicker.
Here I am thinking
about angels, guardians
in the sky.
Kathryn Collins
February 26, 2014
She’s so neg neurodegenerative,
so womb retro Neanderthal
Her backward moving bellow decisions
aren’t thoroughly modern mellow
Got lip kicker high heels
that testosterone neuter kills
Miss So and So
loves to cold-heartedly
iron cast her anvil anger with
dragon breath death blows
She’s so con method constrictive,
so anaconda pocket squeeze avarice addictive
Those boa belly estrogen rolls
always take their masculine squeal toll
Her every hip sway diamondback pulse suggestion
is cobra hardwired for a vow recoil bosom confession
Miss No Good So and So
is a sultry eyelash she-devil
Delivering a bottomless pit of insomnia pain
everywhere she pillow goes
Hate,
You came to me
When I was a child
I don’t want you to
Be near me
Ever again
It was during WW2
Japan ruled
Koreans obeyed
One day
Mother came home
With tears in her eyes
Her voice filled with bitterness
A Japanese soldier kicker her
With his heavy boots
In a busy street
Where everyone was watching
Watching her bruised knees
Discolored shins
I felt hatred filling my entire being
Spreading like a wild fire
Not only against the soldier
But against all Japanese
I was a seven year old boy then
Late in life
I realized:
This must be how we learn to hate
A person and a nation
If unchecked, the hate will grow
Like wild fire
Spreading all over
Mother taught me to love
She said love was like
Spring sunshine
Helping people to get out
Of their cocoons
And mingling with others
As brothers and sisters
But how can I love
Instead of hate?
I did not tell myself to hate
It happened without trying
When I saw Mother’s bruised knees
Ugly face of hate filling my entire being
With the red banner of death
Coaxing me to revenge
Can I shove this hate
In the chamber of my will power?
Or Will it explode with mighty fury?
Or should I pray to God to diffuse it?
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
-------------------
Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line
Does happily ever after really exist?
Is it a cruel joke with a sardonic twist?
When the girl gets the boy, or boy the girl,
Life seems so good, a love affair in a whirl;
But the fairy princess dream, prince charming scream
Escapes the heart and blows the mind
As the whole fanciful delusion you’ll never find;
Watching the chick flick on an extra-large screen,
Can you feel the favour as you join the scene
That shows the hero marry the girl,
Then see him run away with the best man?
There are no happy endings in this world today;
The joke is the kicker in the face that blows away
Every thought of romance, rather escape to France!
But you continue hoping for that fairy tale end,
When the prince rides in on a charger and steals you away;
Are you blind to the passion that burns in the head,
While the heart beats faster, you could end up dead
As the perfect amour breaks in to your soul,
And stirs up the hornets that burn you whole,
Now the happy ever after can fall into the abyss;
Stop searching for happy ever after, the prince has left
And the dream is over, while you discover you are bereft
As the lover you thought was the prince of your dreams
Turned out to be the extorter of screams
And stealer of hearts, who smashes the happiness into the park
Leaving you wandering the streets after dark,
Hoping to discover it was never your part to end this way;
Happy ever after never happens in real life,
There is crying, there is pain, and so much strife;
Reach out with your heart to the only true love,
The one who stretched his arms on a cross and said,
‘I love you this much’ and gave you his life;
With a thunderous roar the grave gave up the dead,
And the Prince of Heaven rose up and lives no more departed;
So stop trying to find your prince in your dreams,
The only one you need has seen your scenes
And reaches into your heart to take out the pain
From losing the hope of true romance, all you need is a second chance,
And the hand of the Son of the King, who will give more than a ring;
Crown is received if you will bend the knee,
In homage to the only Prince where happy ever after is seen.
They walk alone together down the bright white line, their
Voices garble against the humming hordes as the
Tautness of the moment lays out like lacquer in the dustlight
Of our dreams, life feeding moisture under cleated white grass.
Talking angularly and stepping away from the parabola now they
Stop to admire the scoreboard like field generals
In the infinite march of Time's conquest.
They turn back into the red zone and ennoble their strides and
Emblazon their courage against the dizzying starscape.
A Jim-Jam Mickey-Mouse Poem
I think that you might never see
A poem as weird as this might be
For I’ll use luscious words
That otherwise might sound absurd
This poem may turn out silly-sally
Or even a bit dillydally
In hindsight this whole kit and caboodle
May come across as dipsy-doodle
I’ll find a rhyme for titillated
That’s quintessentially outdated
I might include a foxy lady
But not written like my friend Slim Shady
So there won’t be some randy blowhard
Gender-bender sleaze-ball retard
No hooligan with gizmo manikin
No easy rider glissade shenanigan
No penny pincher prude nitpicker
And of course no cowboy old ****-kicker
And I would be recalcitrant
If I were to use this poem to rant
Though I know at times I vacillate
I shan’t lambaste this tete-a-tete
I haven’t worked in balderdash
Bloke or codger or mish-mash
No Tallulah, no Colleen
No rambunctious Charlie Sheen
And there’s no dubious diddlysquat
But that’s abso-bloody–lutely all I’ve got
Mdailey 3/30/12
Tex’s shadow defines him—cut-out
from the heat haze of Karnak’s quartz,
a scintillating contrast to Egypt’s questing sun.
He slouches among the other black castings of
denser composition mottled with grays,
and Prussian blues, incongruent in a cowboy
hat. This six-gun scenario’s frame
disrupts the crafted precision of
a chiseled arch.
****-kicker, lizard-skinned, boots point
toward the desert’s dunes—death hides.
Needing no words to enjoy a taste of antiquity,
Tex shuffles sighs and takes a draw on
an American cigarette. With a flick of his fingers,
he deposits the butt alongside the others
in the white sand. His contribution
to posterity.
First Published in Spank the Carp Issue 21 2016
I think this Footman likes to snicker,
and the human situation is the kicker,
when one becomes sicker and sicker,
and it’s one’s time to die and cry for one’s soul.
Prufrock’s point is well-taken and understood
for the Footman is an end of life reality who is
the “King of Finality” and doesn’t care while seeking
mankind’s banal end, since Man is really small potatoes
in the Universe’s great and grand pecking order.
I think that I shall not want to meet this Bamboozler,
at least this would be my choice, if I really had one.
I doubt that I, like others, could ever be like Lazarus.
The Footman presents us all with a one-way ticket to
what awaits mankind beyond the pale of death!
And so we all await the end of our finite time as
measured in grains of sand and the clock on the wall;
waiting for the day and time of our final departure,
and hoping not to hear the scornful snicker, snicker
of the Prufrock’s Eternal Footman!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(July 17, 2014)
EndAround
If the endaround gets in the open and the balltosser does not get killed the
sideline washer will come into the game. Then the seventeen minutes will last
longer then ever and seem like forever the men with the whistles will forfeit the
flag the chain pullers come the ball is then moved to a different line.
In soccer the rules are different the endaround is the tommyboy.
The balltosser becomes the place kicker. The sideline washer is Jenifer she
takes up the seventeen minutes. The men with the whistles have none they are
called the ref. The chain pullers become the balltossers. They toss the ball out.
The tommyboy catches the ball in both games. The place kicker heads. Jenifer
smiles and forfeits the flag she is the ref in this game. The place kicker is dead.
Football and Soccer End around came.
EndAround
My palms would sweat. I’d get physically sick.
Why was I always the last one they’d pick?
There were times I would not be selected at all,
for a physical game, I was pretty darn small.
I watched as they’d point, whisper, and scheme;
avoid if they could choosing me for their team.
My Dad told me, “Son, God made you this small,
to prove it’s not height that makes someone tall.”
So, he set up a goal post, and bought me a tee.
He told me, “Success would be all up to me.”
I practiced my kicking whenever I could.
I worked very hard ‘till I got pretty good.
I’ll never forget that hot summer day,
tryouts for high-school to see who would play.
The teasing began as I stepped on the field.
My jersey so big, they laughed and they squealed.
The coach even grinned, as I heard him say,
“This is not a good sport for peewees to play.”
The practice was brutal, even more than I thought.
But then, towards the end, at last came my shot.
Coach explained how important a kicker would be.
Last season they had lost four games under three.
He placed the ball down on the thirty-yard line,
forty-yards from the goal I had claimed to be mine.
There must have been twenty or more who had tried,
all woefully short as the coach merely sighed.
With hands on his head he looked to the sky.
I was the last to step up and ask, “Can I try?”
Everyone laughed, ‘till he shouted, “Enough!”
then mockingly said to me, “Show us your stuff.”
As I carefully positioned the ball on the tee,
it seemed the whole world was laughing at me.
So, I called on the power that God will provide,
then glanced to a nod from my Dad on the side.
Three great big steps and my toe struck the ball.
I caught it just right. I knew how after all.
It seemed like slow-motion as the team stopped to stare.
The ball gently tumbled as if floating on air.
The looks on their faces I could never replace,
as it split through the uprights with plenty of space.
I looked towards my Dad now beaming with pride,
then turned to the coach with his mouth open wide.
Cheers were replacing the laughs I’d revered,
on the day that hard work overcame what I feared.
I went on to college and professional ball,
but that was the kick I enjoyed most of all.
I don’t think I’d ever have worked quite that hard,
if I wasn’t picked last on that old school yard.
rondeau
Envision your route, it's quicker.
Like your crowds thinner or thicker?
Traffic can ruin a trip, no fun;
my choice - less-traveled paths, bar none.
country bumpkin / city slicker?
Long journeys can be a kicker;
on a bus, some snore, some snicker.
Think through your options one by one.
Envision your route.
Some folks will dally and dicker?
Others like to blame and bicker?
think ahead ere the trip's begun;
you'll be happier when it's done.
If you drive, don't drive on liquor,
envision your route.
written 07/27/12, revised 07/19/19
to meet requirement of 8 syllable lines.
Host: Charles Messina - Contest: Rondeau
Saw it online-
Chicago headline, it read...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"FBI says bank robber called the cops to give confession and rolling location."
Apparently a 25 year old disabled man decided to hold up a teller and flee with $850...
Now for the kicker: The crime was committed in a bank inside the RANHURTS Shopping Center and the wheelchair convict was sentenced two and a half years and actually is from WHEELING, Illinois a suburb of the "Windy 2nd City."
Ok, either the guy failed to hear the call of a little girl in the parking lot yelling "Run Forrest Run!"
Or he flat out forgot his hometown's varsity team cheer "Go WHEELING, Let's Go!"
Because oddly enough, the criminal called 911 on HIMSELF moments after the stickup. He was found by police at the nearest payphone, in his wheelchair, holding the loaded wallet.
Quality convicts come in all shapes and sizes.
~You can't make this stuff up. Google it. (November 2003)
Things that make ya' go HMMMMMMM?
My Lovely Children – All Grown Now
It was one cold snowy morning, that dawn of 1970,
I awoke to many strange feeling, deep inside of me.
Quietly I sat, at my bedside in an eerie calm,
Not sure of what to expect, not sounding the alarm.
It took only an hour, the ride, registration and prep,
The next thing I remember, a face I’ll never forget!
A few years later, a similar repeat, it’s now 1973,
No calm this time, this little one, was anxious to be free.
Because of my previous history, they kept me overnight,
As fate would have it, things calmed down, no baby in sight.
Early the next morning, something woke up inside of me,
Within minute’s aides all about, tending to my new baby.
Third times a charm, as some would say, it’s now 1977,
I worked up to the very last day, then excitement at eleven.
No time to waste, we must make haste, phone call to the sitter,
Fifteen minute drive seemed liked and hour, hurry this one’s a kicker.
Upon arrival, I was immediately prepped, an led to the labor room,
In the blink of an eye, button pressed for the nurse, the rest you can assume.
My Lovely Children, all grown up now, we all fit just like a glove
God’s best was given to me through grace and the mysteries of love!
Written © 2/19/16
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poets/top_100_poets_most_poems_all_time.aspx
?My greatest, favorite poem by far and yet
For foolish politicians who want to fret.
Mother and Daughter Drinking the Water
Those in favor up votes tried to muster
Senators opposed presented a lackluster Philabuster
What was the kicker and final decider
To bill thought they would attach a rider.
(Not a Daisy Red one.)
They did decide to have some discussions
Seeing what would evolve and repercussions
From those who were for or else against
Pleasing or causing others to become incensed.
Bill passage bill was decided by single, old goat
Who in favor of whole thing finally had to vote
Turns out that both his mother and daughter
Were poor people having to drink the water.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC, USA
Hay, Hay What do you say
Nothing like good, old USA.
Some old member of the Michigan Governor's
staff actually said that his mother had to drink
and use the water. No wonder he went complaining
to the governor. This is also a good education
into bill making and breath taking by a bunch
of God forsaken politicians.
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poets/top_100_poets_most_poems_all_time.aspx