Long Cleats Poems
Long Cleats Poems. Below are the most popular long Cleats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cleats poems by poem length and keyword.
He writes to me in curly cues painting
fractals on pressed paper made of rice.
Shreds of simple stalks are beaten to
bare the smoothness of his script.
We have not known each other long
but we have known each other since
man first made fire, the poet and his
muse. His presentation fascinates
with swirls of brush or indian ink
he strokes, both deep and long,
with pleasant pressure most often.
His words though highbrow smack
of pent passions, watering palates
and earthy scents. The wanting so sweet
no reality could fill the expanse, the
oceans of prose, the mountains which
jut provocatively, daring, inviting, the cleats
of man, use pinion and hammer triumphantly
upon the bounty of breast, the thigh of night
the whimper of dawn. Poet preen for your muse
Caress the unsullied parchment whiteness
in the hollow of my neck.
First Published in Pyrokinection May 2013
Winter’s beautiful season is like frozen pearls in white
Tree branches coated in frozen sleet glow at night
Some have the courage to embrace the storms of life
While some are fearful of traveling during winter’s plight
Rivers appear as beautiful frozen mirrors of glass
A sight to admire but best to try to not try to pass
Red cardinals perched on frozen tree branches
Singing the mating calls waiting for their chances
The sun warms and melts the ice-covered streets
Some embrace it as they walk outside in cleats
The bitter winter wind sometimes howls and sings
As the snow blizzard brings a white purity to things
Midwinter is an adventure for many who love to be
Out in the fresh air ice fishing or learning to ski
Snowmobilers pray for a nice huge snowstorm
To ride the trails for fun while still staying warm
Poetry Wheel Challenge:
Theme: Adventure
Emotion: Courage
Color: Pearl
Season: Midwinter
Form: Ode
Object: Mirror
Verb: Sing
Created using the PoetrySoup Poetry Wheel.
8/6/17
Regardless if I spend time as a salter
From here to beyond Gibralter
Going to make you falter
I don't care if you pray at an altar
Catch them by the collar
Not going to let go even if they holler
Spent time growing up in squalor
Never was I the best scholar
Getting my hands dirty for blue cheese and not no dollars
Another rascal
I heard about the scandal
And pscyhobabble
Talking about people like they're cattle
I can understand why you're feeling frazzled
And rather rattled
Toward me so many confide and tattle
But don't worry this will get handled
And it's not going to be a hassle
I will make sure they are used as an example
Getting continually trampled
By cleats and sandals
It will be worth the risk and gamble
No matter how far I have to travel
I will make sure I win the battle
Even if they got to get shackled
And put in front of a panel
Or left lifeless below or above bits of gravel
After all time will always tell and unravel
Regardless of if you believe it had anything to do with a bite from an apple
Hooray!
Wet grassy feet fill my soccer cleats.
Hot sweaty teens run fast track meets.
She skis down sugary mountain tops.
He begs his coach to play shortstop.
Footballs, field goals, fumbles.
Touchdowns, tackles, tumbles.
My mother keeps warm with hot brown drinks,
as I learn to skate on chilly rinks.
A sadly splintered hockey stick, from a two-quick hat trick.
A winning catch is cradled in a well-loved mitt.
Tiger wins with a hole in one.
Miniature golf is much more fun.
Double dribble the whistle blows.
Excitement on the court grows!
Busy balls dunked in their hoops.
"Hooray" the three cheers for the ALLEY -OOP!
I remember that boy standing there in the outfield grass,
Waiting and watching so no ball would pass.
He was in right field, or was it center or left?
I only know he played each with its own kind of depth.
The emblazoned cap snug against his skull, shading his face from the sun.
The game was all that mattered, even if he was having fun.
The colorful jersey which he proudly wore, with a number on his back,
Showed that he was part of the team, so everyone could keep track.
He waited patiently for a ball to come, so he could make a play.
Sometimes he waited the entire game, sometimes for a whole day.
But he stood his ground like the ballplayer he wanted to be,
Taking his stance, just like the pros he would see.
He would rub his mitt, then gently hold it open over his knee,
When the ball came to him, he was sure to be ready.
Was he wearing sneakers, or proudly putting on his cleats,
He wore bluejeans at first, shedding them for a baggy uniform without pleats.
It was those early years in the outfield where he was taught,
That errors are made, and perfection was sought.
He realized that errors would be part of the game,
Not only in the outfield, but in life all the same.
I remember that boy at each little league game I see,
For in truth I clearly recall that boy...once it was me.
For Oil Painting #4
contest by: Eve Roper
written: 12/12/15
Dust flies as cleats dig into the chalk line.
The crowd roars under the harsh stadium lights.
We love this game because it slows down time.
Every pitch is a fresh chance to rewrite the story.
It is the smell of fresh cut grass and hot dogs.
It is the radio broadcasting on a warm summer night.
It is fathers and kids sharing the same worn glove.
We stay through the heartbreaking losses just for this.
There is no clock ticking down to force the end.
Just nine innings of pure hope and second chances.
A perfect swing sends the ball deep into the bleachers.
At this time, everyone forgets their troubles and cheers.
I pack the backpack
then empty it
count again what I need,
discard the unlikely,
the unnecessary accessory.
I pack the backpack
shoulder it,
adjust the straps
remember to add a useful thing,
unpack and repack,
try to balance the weight,
smooth the angular,
tighten the loose.
Once again
add another small but
just maybe item
to the survival kit in the backpack
which I have just repacked.
I open the backpack
unpack just enough
to add to the survival kit.
I forgot to pack rope,
It’s a must have necessity.
I pack the rope.
This is a metaphor poem,
possibly a cautionary tale,
or an instruction manual.
I remember just in time
that I have left the instruction manuals
for the battery operated can opener,
the outdoor fire lighter,
the camping stove,
and a sharpening tool,
they are all on a small folding chair.
I gather the manuals up,
pack them,
try to pack the small folding chair,
decide I will have to carry it separately.
The backpack is back over my shoulder,
above that a rolled up pup tent.
The camping chair is in my left hand,
in my right hand a sturdy hiking stick.
Climbing boots and cleats affixed.
I go to the door to leave.
I can’t open the door
too much gear to go through
I may have to squeeze out sideways,
But now I can’t turn the door handle or lock,
too much in my hands.
I will have to unpack.
Metaphors are a heavy lift.
I wanted to hangout,
to be with the cool kids!
There standing together,
leaning against brick walls.
Holding their cigarettes,
rotating the filter between thumb and fore finger.
Putting Export A's up to their mouths for an extended drag.
The smoke seemed to surround them in a cloud of respect.
That was the time before their fingers had become yellowed,
before their teeth had lost that Colgate brightness.
They, in that moment were at the peak of their perfection,
oblivious that sometimes, tomorrow can be a cruel joke.
"What are you looking at?"
I looked down at my suddenly fascinating shoes,
watched my shoes move me in a different direction.
Their laughter stuck to me like a piece of discarded bubblegum.
So I kept walking, until I found a different self.
Determined, I carved out my own itsy bit of coolness.
A certain walk,
a bit of aloofness.
Not trying so hard to be liked.
Me the mysterious stranger,
dark clothes,
an aura of dangerous!
I tried it out for a while,
It somehow seemed to work.
"Lamoureux, you want a cigarette?"
"Na I ain't into that Sh_t!"
I walked away holding my head high,
"whatever dude.."
Somehow saying no added to my rep,
a certain kinda bizarre respect!
Army boots, metal cleats clicking as I sauntered away.
Then I went home
Changed back into familiar clothes,
dressed like myself head to toes.
Just a bit outside of normal I chose.
Said goodbye to my make believe, didn't need it anymore.
Just walked past it and slammed that door!
I had known cool for just a bit, it never truly did fit.
That dark bleeding persona wasn't me,
I needed my inner awkward to be let free,
but without being afraid of what others would see.
Friendly is how I was meant to be,
so I started climbing high up in my own tree
Fully myself, not some fake man of mystery.
Adios cool self, you're ancient History!
Bree Black bought Blythe six sets of sheets,
which Blythe soon sold to Susie Shoop.
Sheet seller Susie was so fleet.
She sold, for more, to Clista Coop.
Then choosy Susie bought brown cleats,
fine fritters, and pre-shrunk silk skirts.
Blythe blew her bounty at the mall.
Bree Black found out and was quite curt:
“Sheet slighter, Blythe, you gal with gall,
next time I’ll buy myself chic shirts.”
Date: January 14, 2020
Contest Title: Twist My Tongue Poetry Contest placed 6th (of 13)
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Date: December 24, 2020
Contest: Tongue Twister Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joe Sandler
My grandfather and I had a special relationship.
When I was young we lived near his home in Baltimore. But, my family moved away from
Baltimore when I was five and we lived most of my life in another state far away from my
grandfather. Whenever he called, however, I was the one grandchild he always wanted to
talk to so we could discuss his beloved Baltimore Orioles. I was the one grandchild who
followed sports closely and always remained a true Baltimore sports fan.
Later in life, I learned that my grandfather was actually a gifted baseball player himself when
he was young. In those days, he would explain, professional baseball players did not make
enough money to support a family so he had to make up his mind to either play baseball or
get married and raise a family. As it turned out, his love for baseball was only surpassed by
his love for my grandmother and, although he hung on to the newspaper clippings that
labeled him a “can’t miss professional baseball prospect”, he hung up his cleats and glove,
married my grandmother and went out to find a “real” job.
But his love for the game survived and year in and year out, he and I discussed the
intricacies of the game and enjoyed or lamented each baseball season based on the
successes and/or failures of the Baltimore Orioles. As crummy as the Baltimore bums are
today, I was fortunate enough to experience and share many more successful seasons than
poor ones during those limited years that I shared life with this amazing man.
I always felt sorry for my grandfather, considering him a victim of poor timing. Had he
been born about 50 years later in life, he would not have had to pick between being a
baseball player or earning a living – in fact, with his talent, he could have earned a much
better than average living while enjoying the one thing he loved most in life.
When my grandfather passed away, I was sure that he was joining a heavenly nine to once
again strap on his spikes and don the leather. Without a doubt, they must play baseball in
heaven. And I wait for the day that I sit in the heavenly bleachers and cheer on a young
grandfather playing this wonderful game with other boys of summer.
(Inspired by, “is there baseball in heaven”, by Constance, A Rambling Poet)