Soccer Free Verse Poems | Examples
These Soccer Free Verse poems are examples of Free Verse poems about Soccer. These are the best examples of Free Verse Soccer poems written by international poets.
It’s not final,
If the person placing a flower by the grave…
Watching my hand reach out of the ground and grasp such flowers.
Grabbing them and pulling myself up like it’s a foothold…
Finality.
When something is final.
It’s like the last soccer game you played in high school.
It was nice.
She’s grabbing my ankle from the grave.
Just because I thought she was gone.
She’s not the zombie I would have expected.
Just has a flower.
I gave it to her but didn’t expect it to be like this.
Finality.
She has that flower still.
It’s been three days since she came back.
"He won’t paint", cried out the Father
suspecting a flame of genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons,
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father pleaded:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring only turned away
to suck a thumb.
Months past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons, dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions the boy unleashed
from his newly erupted consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
Upon reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.
His smelled of semi-soft cheese
with a low moldy blue undertone
I had no tolerance for his smell
for compared to gym socks,
ammonia,
or barnyards,
it was pure Eau de Toilet !
After a game of indoor soccer
he'd break wind
while holding up one leg.
He smelled of rotten egg
formaldehyde,
and sour pickles,
from New Orleans....
While they chased after him
with bottles of perfume
He'd do the armpit fart
then run away.
Leaving behind,
a skunky smell of Cannabis.
While we’re renaming things,
can we please rename “United States” to “AAAmerica.”
I know I’m tired of scrolling to the bottom of every pop-down country list.
And ARE we united? Really, even a little?
That awkward moment when you’re already said, “what?” three times,
and you still have no idea what the conversation is about, but you can tell,
by bouncy and eager expressions, that the topic is loaded. Never sit at the end of a table, dining halls get noisy.
Has a song ever been your safe place?
What if it keeps you warm in a storm,
by getting you up and movin’?
Oh, what about the inimitable effect of a handsome guy?
Now, I don’t engage in decorous affections,
but ‘Cute Soccer Guy’ (I’ve mentioned him before),
wakes us up, by just showing up, oh, we play it lose,
and all, but he makes all of our hearts beat a little faster.
A song for this:
Twiggy Twiggy by [re:jazz]
The Trouble With Boys by Little Eva
His dog stops often to sniff
the scuffed turf
of this recreation park.
It smells last Sunday's soccer game,
by tracing the sweaty play, the spots
where the spinning ball
slid crazily,
through layers of musky mud.
The man of course smells little of this,
he only smells the ethereal
trace of her memory,
her arms clasped around him,
when on this very field
they had to part.
Yet even here
in this rucked and rutted earth
like a dog he follows a certain scent
one that the dog never will.
such artistry, tied to two trees
background of a neighbor’s house
which one is mere majestic
you’d say unhesitatingly, the web
but did you know my neighbor
they shingled and painted
their whole house themselves
it was something else
you’d look at it and think
it’s boring brown, but
I see deeper into their lot
the spider’d disagree
my analysis is persistently
annoying because her web
appears as a soccer net
or football for those nuts
in the UK - don’t disparage
you say - but they are nuts
for football, aren’t they
the world wide web would AI
something achingly intricate
but it needs to mind its own
because we all find in small things
something quite beautiful
case in point, fireworks I couldn’t see
but I could hear the one’s next door
as I sat outdoors (and the only time
this year) I saw, lit up like a gathering
of fairies, in my little woods, fireflies
don’t argue, just nod, nod off
and be human instead
Every night a well-dressed puppet keeps score
of the deaths and casualties of the freshest war.
Some nights the tally is low like a soccer match
tonight, it's triple digits for the blue-collar man.
On the scorecard are soldiers, civilians and children
never makers of munitions, or wealthy politicians.
What of the wild beasts and dear family pets
lying twisted and bloodied in virgin bomb pits.
Forgotten in the backwaters of useless battles
a last meal of shrapnel and ear-piercing rattle
Their names never honored on the marquee
but they should be-they all should be.
I want to feel the ground swell
to share it
Saturday, comes too soon
drowns the afternoon
and see City demoted for fair play
10,000 plastic cups
a river of lager streams
Its not that I'm afraid of fencing
but these stadiums hem me in
poems wing -zing themselves through the air
hitting me on the back, in the neck, in the ear
I am being pelted by them on a daily basis.
The only way to get away is to write them down.
They begin to settle when they realize I am honoring them.
Thus, I keep a pen handy in restaurants, while waiting for soccer practice,
in the doctor’s office.
You never know when a good one is going to come full out at you.
I blame my freckles on a shotgun blast of poems.
The first time we met
Was the day I knew you were the one to get
My first Jack Russell Parson Terrier
Was coming home without a carrier So small and plump
Holding you firmly so you couldn’t jump
Feisty and full of energy
I knew then you would bring us wonderful memories
Our walks together
I will always treasure
Your strong presence
Showed your wittiness for independence
How you never wavered
Your might and will both tailored
Giving me your paw
Showing me you’re smarter than before
Hearing your mighty bark
Would of called the entire animal kingdom to the ark
Playing with your soccer ball
Displaying the skills of a professional on team Nepal
With all your might in your heart
Helping us to understand the importance
of a restart
Your determination
Your life
Will always remain the greatest gift
that forever shines on
so bright
~October 08, 2008 - June 15, 2024~
Congolese leopards,
As Congolese national soccer
team which calls " Leopards "
won the Egyptian national
team which calls" pharaohs"
in African national cup,
millions of Congolese were excited
as the African giant team lost
and went back home.
Football has its reality
Many people thought
that the leopards of Congo
Would lose the game
and go back home.
They still have a long journey in tournament.
As they equalized all their matches .
One and one with Zambia
One and one with Morocco
Zero and zero with Tanzania
One and one with Egypt
No team
won them
so far.
Egypt lost on penalties
and Congolese became victorious.
A bisque sun on the windowsill, the early light smells of marigolds.
Beyond, the garden is as usual, a haven for cracked clay pots,
after windy nights there are yet more broken terracotta options.
Breakfast and the Broadwood table is salted and buttery.
Blue and white dishes, like fledglings, wait to be fed.
I sense soccer moms hurrying their ducklings along.
Egg sandwiches will spontaneously appear on the hour.
Nearby, bushy shrubs sup on their own green tealeaves.
I like it here, where groundhogs whistle in the cabbage patch.
Spreading blueberry jam, wondering what kind of man I am,
shrugging the thought away.
Carry it like a babe in arms,
Or asymmetrical soccer ball.
Marvel at its inner chamber;
Threaded seeds sleep in its room.
Consider its genetic detail,
Its encrypted secret code:
Copies made for generations,
Manuscripts illuminated -
Still unknown.
The silent child sees Cinderella
Riding in her pumpkin coach.
The artist sees its painted jacket,
Sleek and smooth.
And now, it’s time to sit and eat it –
Orange, baked and sweet,
Remembering other Sunday dinners -
Now, all gone.
There was a day once
when the factory boys
took to a rusty van
driving through the early morning dark
to play soccer on a muddy field.
Our team was called. now let me think,
does it matter that I cannot remember?
Let's call our crew the 'Raging Eagles'.
the Eagles had pimples and bad breath,
but we were all mates for the day.
It's not easy to 'rage' on a rutted field
in the middle of an industrial estate
on a misty Sunday, but we did our best.
The other team arrived full of snarky-jeers and leers.
Insults were returned, added to and sent back.
The game was more a donnybrook than
regular soccer.
Rules were made up on the fly
only to be broken.
Legs were kicked black and blue,
one arm and a head diagnosed by one and all
as totally for33ked.
Later we convened to a pub
at the other end of that sooty town
and downed a few, then a few more,
vowing to be brothers forever.
These are interesting times:
hordes of Hitler Youth
are marching out
from our institutes of higher learning,
those who believe that 'all lives matter'
are labeled racists.
We saw none of this coming,
and is that our kid in that zombie mob?
Dad has been busy at the golf course,
mom coaching Little Legue soccer.
We thought it was a good life
the dream
at the heart of the American Dream
not noticing the corrosive rot
being sold as truth,
and now,
and now,
we are all very sick,
even the dog has been brain-washed,
it is behaving like a rabid Nazi,
not a big leap for an Alsatian guard dog.