Purple and black bird
Dropped the cowboys a pigskin turd
Telling a tale with heart
Playing the dramatic part
Preventing extra time
Dallas didn't mind
But the lone stars were declined
When the loop was sealed
Closing the deal
Making the Rippleys highlight real
Pulling off the steal
Disarming gunslingers' shooters
By using Tyler's powerful booter
Seconds it took to set up the stage
Creating festive rage
When odd looking ball took flight
Through the three-point designated upright
What a sight
North westerners went home lesson learned
About how they got burned
You may want to listen to Mister Poe
Bagging the Arlington's deceased head to toe
While enjoying the Rio de Janeiro show
Home it is time to go
Say good night
But lights
Should shine bright
Exorcising any Brazilian frights
A young discus thrower hurls the discus with all his might
It lands, churning up the soil somewhere nearby
The discus thrower is happy, or perhaps disappointed
If his rival has managed to throw the discus further
Let’s try to give these competitions some meaning
Is there anything in them, hidden behind the obvious
Behind the victories and defeats – perhaps a thirst for a little power,
A sublimation of war, or, conversely, the peaceful labour of farmers?
Or do competitions serve as a consolation for those
Who cannot or do not wish to compete?
But perhaps someday, another time,
When discs are made to order,
Tailored precisely to the thrower’s palm.
a and
an abm
anu always
astounding at
adaptative antic
accommodate again
addlepated aversive
alpine anchylosis
are as
am ?
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 14–20, 2026)
Dice black and white
Not looking for a fight
Lucky hands, grip tight
Wanting a winning sight
Put pair into flight
Fist raised, power, and might
Snake eyes say good night
Every week, my dearest day
is when my buddies and I partake and play
our regular contest of cards.
What's great about codgers and cards
that would make an old duffer's day
and inspire pensioners to play?
I dunno, but I think I will peacefully play
with these jokers, and cut ups, and cards,
and these goofballs till my dying day.
It's our day - time to play cards - goodbye!
The once was a group on Fourth of July
Who partied with all that money could buy
Games and food suited their mood
A flaming dessert seemed good
Until a roman candle torched their pie
There was an old man from Keokuk,
Who suffered a spate of bad luck,
He said with a grin,
When he finally got in,
I couldn't buy a break for a buck!
Once in four years
no matter how far
all the nations gather
regardless of borders
inside the stadiums
painted in different colors
chants heard from every corner
football lovers of all kinds
celebrating history being made
players from the best teams
from all across the world
Forty-eight in number
playing for the cup
match after match
Right on this field
Dreams will be shattered
Hardwork will be rewarded
Talent will be showcased
Once the whistle blows,
Fate will be decided
All will go home
One will bring it home
most of all,
this world cup is a farewell
to all our heroes
who will play well with all their heart
one last time
giving us memories to last forever
so when the game is over
no matter who wins
We will all bleed from our eyes
for all the legends
we will lose tonight
a thought strikes a match
nothing much, a little flame
moths alter their course
someone whispers, what if this—
the curtain catches the light
a balloon inflates
sky requires another sun
string loosens, goes slack
already counting the stars
on the backs of envelopes
morning finds the chairs
still facing yesterday's stage
confetti in shoes
someone refolds promises
along familiar creases
after all, a spade
fits superbly well in hand
soil under the nails
the gate can't bend or unhinge
rain dons handle with slippers
no trumpets today
the kettle attends to rain
a chipped cup, still warm
someone has darned the elbow
of the coat we nearly threw
I can lean against a wall
with a cold drink in hand
or a joint between my lips
and stare off into space
with a warm smile on my face
while I think and dream
of other lands far beyond
the urban place I call home.
This poem will only make sense to you if you've played any video games that have a futuristic, cyberpunk sort of vibe. In this poem, you are not really you. You're playing as someone else.
THE SHADOW OF SPITE
You smile at me with eyes of
stone,
And leave me standing all alone.
You twist the truth to play your
game,
And try to ruin my good name.
I see the trap you want to set,
But I will break your heavy net.
You watch my life and wish for
tears,
To feed your own dark, hidden
fears.
You fake a smile but hide a
knife,
To bring hard times into my life.
You thrive on pain and love to
fight,
And block out my my happy light.
But I will stand and face your
test,
And give myself some peace
and rest.
Your cruel words will start to
fade,
And ruin all the plans you made.
I'll step away and shut the door,
So you can't hurt me anymore.
Now in diffrent beds
But you liked to stray!
What one now dreads
Your game you play,
Always at logger heads
It seems day after day!
Tearing each other shreads
Things we would both say
Someones called the feds
Now they are on their way
Did you take your meds?
You are starting to sway
My rabbit plays poker
He’s no joker
He knows how to bluff
and lots of other stuff
We split the winnings
which has him grinning
I told him 20/80 ~ stupid bunny
thought it was funny
The woody musty note of fallen leaves
hints that summer’s gone, but no-one grieves;
at least not us schoolboys walking home
as we, those piles of chestnut leaves would comb.
Glossy brown gems inside their prickly husk
we searched for as the day turned into dusk;
if none were found among fallen leaves: a stone
a ball, a stick, into the tree was thrown.
Conkers in autumn, sport of playground kings;
horse chestnuts drilled and threaded upon strings,
in turn dangled like victims from a rope;
each swings his own with scarcely hidden hope
to smash their archfoe’s conker into pieces
thus the value of their own increases.
It goes like this, each day for quite a while,
bruised hands and wrists accepted with a smile.
One day it stops, unwritten, but seems right,
time to start preparing Guys for Bonfire Night.
agonised beatniks can delve & euphemize from
hippie imagism jazz khz logging my noncritical
priming quadratic reverberation shakeout
through unproductive vicinal with you
Games Categories
Read wonderful games poetry on the following sub-topics:
adult, arcade, board, card, classroom, high school, playground, sports, video
and more.
Definition | What is Games in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
amusement, athletics, competition, contest, festivity, frolic, fun, hoax, jest, joke, match, meeting, pastime, play, practical joke, prank, recreation, sport, sports, tournament