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Best Softball Poems | Poetry

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

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New Softball Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Softball poems are below this new poems list.

Memory of Playing Softball by Rodeheaver , Julie Leigh
Softball by Patton, Morgan
Eritrean Softball Game - 1959 by Bdosa, Vee
Play Ball Softball by Gelb, Michael
Softball Time! by Lacey, Joshua

View all new Softball Poems

The Best Softball Poems

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The Victory Dance

To play as if today
Is your only chance.
Some say, “It’s just a game.”
Have they done the Victory Dance?

When hard-earned Victory
Was finally at hand,
Have they felt the glory
Raining down from the stands?

To do or not to do….
No one wants to hear, “We tried.”
Effort and dedication will be rewarded… 
They are the magic on your side. 

Yes, to fall short is still an option;
But much better to succeed.
Heroes are made and remembered
Only by their deeds.

So, just go out and win.
Give your all to each and every chance.
Persevere and achieve…

And do the Victory Dance.

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

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Batter UP

She comes to bat with the score tied three to three.
Staring out at the pitcher,
she goes into her stance, 
just hoping the ball will come over the sweet part of the plate.
Into her motion, the pitcher winds and fires.
Gathering all of her strength, 
her eyes lock on the fast approaching yellow softball.
Like a gladiator ready to charge, she coils her body ready to strike.
Swinging with all her might, she connects  
and the crowd goes wild as the ball sails
over the center fielder's head and to the fence.
With the crowd cheering, 
she takes off like a young cheetah toward first. 
A smile on her face and a gleam in her eye, 
she looks up and catches the coaches signal to go to second.
Seeing the ball is still in the outfield
and the third base coach waving her on, 
she rounds second and heads for third.
Fans fired up cheering, 
mom and dad hold their breath and pray 
as she rounds third for home.
Looking up and seeing a good relay throw to the catcher,
she throws on her brakes and reverses to third.
A bullet throw from catcher to third base
has her in a rundown.
Like a ping pong ball, they have her running back and forth,
but she’s not worried with her speed.
Then it happens,
the third baseman overthrows the catcher
and she is off for home.
Heart pounding and breathing hard,
knowing it will be close,
she dives feet first and slides into home base
under the tag to make a home run.
The crowd is roaring in the stands, 
jumping up and down, hollering and clapping their hands.
Her team mates run out of the dugout and mob her with joy.
She’s made the winning run to break the tie.


A true story of my nine year old granddaughter making the winning run.

 Poetry Contest: The Poet's Heart -
Sponsored by: Greg Barden 

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2015

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A Recipe For Fun

> > 
> > Author: Dennis Howe
> > February 2001
> > 
> > Take ten
> > seasoned ball players and throw
> > in a large pinch of leather and aluminum.
> > Put the mix on a dirt field in the shape of a diamond
> > and add some green salad grass for color. To this, add
> > another ten seasoned ball players with a large pinch of leather
> > and aluminum. Raise the heat slowly to about 80 degrees, with a
> > few clouds for partial shade. No mud. Slight breeze, but no wind.
> > Add two pitchers of medium grit. Marinade some team spirit and
> > sportsmanship. Dice some Twinkies, sunflower seeds and chewing
> > gum. Sprinkle with water and soda pop to taste. With a white ball,
> > at game time, stir all these ingredients together with grounders,
> > foul balls, fly balls, base hits and home runs, and garnish with a
> > strike-out or two. Do not add sliding. Sugar, sweat, and verbal
> > spices can be chopped in at this point. Scoring is to taste and
> > recorded for future reference. Pour these flavored items
> > in to a large softball bowl, and then separate into
> > individual servings on Saturdays at Clark Park.
> > Finish with a handshake, pat on the
> > back, and a hearty..............
> > "see ya next week"
> > 
> > The ASU Intra-University Softball League thanks "Chef" Dennis Howe for his
> > role in organizing, supporting and participating in this League since 1987.

Copyright © Dennis Howe | Year Posted 2015

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Jesyca A little girl full of life with so much love for her papa. It was love at first sight when papa laid eyes on her at her birth. He was her nanny; papa never laid her down but cradled her in his arms until it was time to leave. He was mama until she was two. When he would correct her, he'd say, "No, "Papa." She was unbending and would repeat by saying, "No," Mama." He taught her to ride her first tricycle, taught her to throw her first ball, he helped her with homework when she started school. Once in a while she'd call and asked, "Papa would you come to school today and have lunch with me." and of course Papa couldn't never say no to his little girl. Her first baseball game she played on, was a t-ball team of all boys and one girl. Of course, she outshined them all and took home the winning game ball. She has been playing in the All–Star Softball Team. Now eight years old, coaches are watching her to get her on their team. By Eve Roper 9-10-2014

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2014

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BT Protest Poem

Booking BT Engineers

Now here’s a little warning, that I think you all should know,
That the BT engineers round here -  will hardly ever show.
When I made my third appointment, they sounded quite alive,
As they book you in - then not turn up - but phone just after five.

And you never get ‘your’ engineer; as they’ve got a little trick,
they pass the job to “Abdel”   who is paid to take the stick.
Apologies abound from him - he’s …“so sorry” as can be,
then he re-books your appointment - four days on at half past three.

You’d think communications would be what they do the best
and with all their smart equipment, they’d be sharper than the rest
But instead they keep you waiting when at home and on the line
and it’s always thirty minutes - and it’s every sodding time.

It’s bad enough my broad band’s shrunk; you’d hardly know it’s there
and the crackling conversations make you really want to swear.
So I’ve hatched myself a little plan, and we’ll see how good they are
though I dare not get my hopes to high – as it’s all been crap so far.

You see,  I’m  going to raise an invoice for my waiting time at home
as I’ve had to take the time off work - two days sat by the phone.
Appointments are appointments and they make them every day,
they were quick to warn, if my fault - that I’d have to bloody pay.

So standby for the outcome, but please don’t hold your breath
as acknowledgment of their poor show could be their kiss of death.
For although I’ve got a business line to justify the need,
They’ve as much idea of business as a chimpanzee on speed.

Copyright © Dennis East | Year Posted 2016

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On Base Percentage
Foul Ball
Batting Average
Love for the game

Copyright © Morgan Patton | Year Posted 2017

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Alone yet not alone

Alone yet not alone
I thought i was alone
Alone in this ugly circumstances 
of no freedom 
Where grief are always 
Present in an heavy heart 
As the head worries
So my peace was far from
The joy i use to know 

Alone yet not alone
I thought i was alone 
Yet each time i struggle 
I realise life dont leave 
Me to face it challenges 
On my own 
Is not by my own grace 
I am alive 
Life have a purpose for me 
That i realise on the experiences
 i encounter in
Every challenges of life 
that comes my way
So for every ups and down
I know God is with me

Alone yet not alone
I thought i was alone 
Yet every breath i take 
Is not just on my own 
I could feel my guiding angel 
Around me even when am 
At sleep 
I could feel an energy that 
Always lead me through 
The shadows of death 
Where evils is the author 
Of each breath taken 

Alone yet not alone
I thought i was alone
Not until i realise the soul
In me is not apart from my 
As every time i breath 
Every time i look within 
All i see are the marks
 That helps 
Me realise that 
No matter how hard life is 
No one is left to live for 
Either are you left alone 
By the rule of nature
So i listen within 
I Look down deep 
I realise in all my misery 
That am
 alone yet not alone

Copyright © richard nnoli | Year Posted 2017

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Ball Card Heroes

With bat and ball and gloves in hand and on our way
we'd pass by old man Finch where when he'd sit and watch the world
one of us would wave. Most times he'd look,
he'd say— Ever tell you boys about the game?

He stole our breath away, sure, a hundred times.
We were fielders for him, basemen, catchers and every ball
split seconds from extra innings in mid-flight-
from-outfield-to-second-base-and-home-plate night games.

Peanuts, beer, hotdog vendors shouting—
with every other voice, shouting!
Out! You buncha losers! C'mon cmon cmon! Safe!
Allow the call or fault it, either way.

We were ball card heroes, just the same,
with bat and ball and gloves in hand and on our way.

Copyright © Kevin Taylor | Year Posted 2016

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Strike Three

0 balls 0 strikes, no outs, top of the first
Jogging up to the mound 
You jump over the foul line because of superstition 
Left hand picking up the big yellow ball with red lacing 

The seams slowly becoming more embedded in your hand
Right hand in nestled in a web of leather
As you breath in your left arm goes swigging back 
Exhaling as your left arm wisps around you 

And as the ball flies to the plate it takes all of your problems away 
The tall man in blue glancing at you calls strike one
3 balls 1 strike, two outs, top of the fifth 
Pacing behind the mound 

You jump to get rid of the hesitation sitting on your chest
Left hand lighting gripping the ball 
Right hand sweating in the web of leather 
You use all of your energy to take a deep breath in 

Swing your left arm back 
Echailing as your left arm wisps around you 
you let go with a slight pain in the wrist 
And as the ball flies to the plate, the pain doesn't go away 

The tall man standing across from you calls strike two, and 
you pretend that the pain dissipates 
You play the next few games 
But the same pain accumulates 

3/12 math problems completed, months later ,9pm
The same pain threatening your grades
Your mom decides that it's time you see a doctor 
3 balls 2 strikes, full count, top of the sixth 

Inside you know that this could be your last 
Left hand squeezing the ball 
Right hand resting in the leather
You take a deep breath in and let your left arm swings back

As you exhale your left arm wisps around you 
At the bottom letting go 

Of the thing that has kept you sewn together like the stitches and the leather
As your last pitch crosses the plate 

	The tall man in blue nods and calls strike three

Would you have played for those three months
		Or would you have just given up?

Cause you just struck out

Copyright © Alley Mcintosh | Year Posted 2017

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A Soft Ball

This maybe a contest of sorts
But she said I can't write about sports
'Cause it's not funny of late
To see a man's ball deflate 
And have to debate it in court.......Hahahahhaahh  It's still funny

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2017

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What Silence Can Be

Silence isn’t always an empty space driven between two.
It can be a deeper meaning of understanding.
Silence isn’t always filled with anger.
It can be the lull that speaks harmony.
Silence, It’s often confused with absence.
But it’s presence can fill wounds, 
And heal the worn.
It’s associated with dark and dreary, 
But rather provides peace and upliftment

Copyright © Kaylee Thomason | Year Posted 2016

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Respect The Game

To know just where your're going

You must know where you've been

You must respect the history

The things others have seen

It's true in all things relative

Be it music, sports or life

If you don't know where you came from

You're just dancing on a knife

Gherig, Ruth and Robinson

May, and Mantle, Seaver too

Respect their contributions

And don't just say Ruth who?

Respect where things have come from

And the players of the past

Because you learn and make things better

It's what makes the damn game last

Jimmy Foxx, Bob Gibson, Kaline

Nestor Chylak and The Goose

They made baseball special

They gave the game a little juice

Orr, Richard and Gretzky

Gordie Howe and Howie Morenz

You have to know about them

You need the beginning to your ends

Bob Baun and Bill Barilko

Connie Smythe and yeah...the Chief

You have to know their history

They're what it is to be a Leaf

The game has changed immensely

Things can not go back in time

But to me...the old alumni

Made the game I know as mine

Respect the ones before you

The ones who laid the groundwork down

The ones who made it special

The non-pretenders to the crown

Elvis, Buddy, Harrison

Played the songs inside their heart

Lennon, Wilson and the rest

They all played a real big part

Every single generation

should learn from the one before

For if they don't know where they've come from

Then what has it all been for?

Nicklaus, Palmer, Bobby Jones

Sarazen and Hogan too

They pushed the gameright to it's limits

Now the pressure's upon you

The new breed are the teachers now

They're the ones to lead the way

When twenty or so years from now

You'll hear somebody say

"Respect who came before you

The ones who made us so damn proud

LIke  Nash and , Perry and  Taylor Hall

They played the game so loud

Pudge, Jeter, and Verlander

they brought it up a notch

They were there to stretch the limits

Not to just sit by and watch

Rory, Justin Rose and Mahan

Bubba, Dustin and the rest

They are the players of the future

They all respected the games best

So, to know where you are going

You must know where you have been

Respect, past through the future

And all that's happened in between.

Copyright © roger turner | Year Posted 2018

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Copyright © Jerry Wells | Year Posted 2017

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The Play Is Made

Oh, how I love a good game; I anxiously await my turn, And then I make my play. I also love a good play; Good scripts, for which I’m always game; Stories with a good turn. When the tides of stories turn, It just makes the play Afterwards, for coffee I’m game. On weekends, I love a good poker game; it’s a game that can quickly turn on a wrong play.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2018