Long Kickoff Poems
Long Kickoff Poems. Below are the most popular long Kickoff by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kickoff poems by poem length and keyword.
Just because we wish it so, means not that it will pass;
this lesson’s one we all must learn in the Gamecock class.
Runs my blood, it’s red and black---garnet the deepest hue,
any orange is anathema, do not this misconstrue.
They always fought with all their heart, especially on game day,
ran out to strains two thousand one, sandstorm on white display,
from first kickoff to last tackle, they’d hit with abandon,
they feared no foe, this fact is true, but seldom champion.
Football saints are lively here, from Rogers to Norwood,
When Lattimore took the field, we always felt they could,
defeat all squads, from Florida to the great North land,
and many others in between, I’m sure you understand.
Jadeveon polished our fame, no one could say “Who dat?,”
he pulverized a Wolverine, and handed Smith his hat.
Sidney Rice and Sterling Sharpe could surely catch that ball,
while Alshon and McKinley too, flew often past them all.
Sheldon Brown and John Abraham were known to give a lick,
while Swearinger and Gilmore too, could make a tackle stick.
Ryan Brewer bowled them over, while Succop split the posts,
Connor Shaw and Phil Petty racked up the winning boasts.
So many more graced our field, their names are not forgot,
Wharton and Boyd, Culliver and Ellis, and even A. Pinnock.
Munnerlyn, DiMarco too, and who could forget Ace Sanders?
Ajiboye and Cunningham, were not gridiron outlanders.
Kalimba, Ko, Dunta and Zola, we’ve surely had strange names,
But on the field they won our hearts, and more than a few games.
Faison to Watson, and all others, who flashed their spurs with pride,
we celebrate each footballer who’s graced the Gamecock side!
I sat in front of the TV to watch my football game,
When from out of the bedroom an order in my wife’s voice came.
“Honey could you fix me some Dr. Pepper, please, with lots of ice?
And, if you fixed an English muffin, that sure would be real nice.”
So I missed the opening kickoff, returned for a score,
As I settled back on the couch to watch a little more.
“Honey, I need to use the bathroom, could you help me to me feet,
And while I am in there, do you think you could change the sheet?”
I got her back in bed, and made sure she was all right,
As I heard the announcer saying, “What a game we have tonight”.
“Honey could you get my magazine and find my reading glasses?”
I hope I can see one play before the half time passes.
“Honey, the electric blanket seems to have come unplugged from the wall,
And could you adjust my pillows, my head keeps wanting to fall?”
I got her all adjusted - comfortable and warm.
And returned to the TV for the half time commercial swarm.
Just before the second half started, I checked on her once more,
Sound asleep and peaceful; she let out a resounding snore.
I tiptoed to my TV, so happy I could sing,
Just before they kicked it off, the telephone began to ring.
Quickly, I answered it and said no one is home,
“Honey, that woke me with a fright and I don’t want to be alone.”
So, I sat in bed and held her hand while we watched the Oprah Show,
How my football team fared that day, I never was to know.
But having her here in our home, right where she belongs
Is better than any ole football game – of that I’m sure not wrong.
Priest’s Palette
Looking in the mirror over the sun visor of our nine passenger 1959 Ford station wagon, which we really need with six children, Dad says he does not care for Ash Wednesday.
His after-church reflection shows the black ashen cross on his forehead, not that different from each of ours, though more noticeable on his bald head.
“That priest makes a bigger cross every year. I think he does it on purpose,” he gripes.
Mom laughs, looks at us, winks and says,
“It’s because he’s also an artist and you have a big canvas.”
Following Mom’s lead each kid chimes in…
“No wonder, look at how much forehead you have, Dad.”
“He really could have made it bigger, there’s still a lot more room.”
“Maybe next year he’ll use blue to match your tie.”
“I think you should keep it, Dad. It makes you look ten years younger.”
Before the younger two have their say, Dad says,
“Is there anything else or should I just drive straight home
without stopping for ice cream?”
That quiets us down, at least until the kickoff to Lent the next year.
Last night at Ash Wednesday service kneeling
in our pew after receiving our ashen crosses,
my wife understands my silly smile,
and the tears in my eyes.
Somewhere along the way,
I lost my me.
Where did he go?
He must be somewhere inside of me.
I know he’s in there somewhere;
Hiding behind the Dad I became much too early.
Or perhaps behind the façade of the professional
businessman I had to become to meet life’s obligations.
Come on out me.
Where are you?
I heard him crying the other day while I was reading “Old Yellow” to my son.
I heard him chuckling this morning when listening to the “Knock, Knock” song on the
radio I intentionally left on “Kids Place Live” after dropping my son off at school.
I caught just a glimpse of him in the mirror I passed rushing into the family room to
catch the kickoff of the Super Bowl.
But he always scampers and hides from me when my son needs to be tucked in;
Or my wife needs help around the house;
Or the mailman drops off more bills to be paid;
Or my phone dings with another email from work;
Or … whatever “or” happens to be happening.
My me used to be so fun.
My me used to be so spontaneous.
My me used to get up in the morning and be out of the house before anyone else
got up.
I hope my me comes out again sometime soon.
I think I would like to meet him again before it is too late.
A daytime in Madrid
Gray sky overhead
The mist forms rows
Eyeing, hesitating
As spectators in a field
Hovering for kickoff
Masses of zealots
Shining bands of fans
In the style of a royal army
The sound of shoes trampling
Moving to a specific ground
Hovering for kickoff
The reals of Madrid are tough
They defy tooth and claw
The adrenaline level is rising
Blood of steel ran in their veins
Artistic knives are at the ready
They hurt the stadium
The reds of England look anxious.
To do this, a hero must be called.
A savior in times of peril.
A leader to rally the troops.
A Liverpool that flips the tides.
Halftime is near
Relief for the Spanish is near
But there is a last terror spell
One final shot towards glory
A clip-on their lips
A blow on the Reals' souls
The fate of our heroes is unsure.
What lies next for the Reds?
But one thing is certain.
They seek victory.
Will they master the chaos of war?
Written: June 2, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
The symbol delta means change
Monroe, LA was the kickoff place
For Delta Airlines and Monroe, LA
Kicked it off to Atlanta, GA. Isn't
That deranged? And we wonder
Why we never had and/or lost
Economic growth.
Well in 1942, before I was born,
The people of Monroe told Delta,
So long goodbye take a long flight,
To Atlanta, GA. Well that is what
Monroe,LA does to potential workers,
So long farewell, go to Dallas, TX,
Houston, TX, Atlanta, GA, and other
Parts of the country or the state.
1942 marks the beginning of shame
To this city's name. They kicked out
Delta, me, classmates, and family,
Because they don't want change,
And keep most people in leadership
Here who are backwards, selfish,
And don't want change.
They kicked out Delta because
They don't want Monroe to grow.
Now the economy goes from
Sluggish to not moving anymore
Because they kicked Delta
Along with me and many other
Clean out the door.
wrote 12-5-10
As the bright colors of the fall darken
and the rain and the wind hearken.
Drop of leaves from the tree greatly increases
while the temperature of the air decreases.
And while many days are tempered and dry,
rainy days leave me needing to sigh.
Trees still boasting colors are now half bare,
still causing humans to come and stare.
Leaves pile up in yards so brown
children jumping in with gleeful screams all around.
Halloween has come and gone astray.
November is now here let's be thankful before it goes away.
Apple and pumpkin pie smells fill up the air
spirits are happy and people share.
November has Thanksgiving the kickoff to a holiday season bright,
it has everyone looking forward to Christmas and New Year's delight.
November Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
11/05/2022
Rattling and clanking
Starting after the November thermostat click.
I love the smell of the house
When my dad would first turn on the furnace
For the winter.
It is a fungus-growing-on-rotting-tree smell,
Something slightly burning.
Soon to follow: the counters covered
In Chex and pretzel sticks and mixed nuts
On greasy paper towels,
I love the smell of the kitchen
When my mom practices grandma’s old recipes
For the holidays.
It is a hot-water-hitting-cocoa-mix smell,
Something to come inside to from the Spearmint cold.
Then: relatives visit from down the street
And down in Texas, all smelling
The same scents of my home
And happily intruding with their cigarette-and-leather
Or Coors Light-and-cologne smell in my life,
Rattling and clanking.
< let's get ready for some football ..... Ya !
Eagles verses da ..... Bears Well ... then Hey !
Here's kickoff ~ by da ....... Bears
Ohhhhhhhh ! fell off .... T ..... Unfair
Second ..... blocked ..... Eagles 7 - Nay !
Entry For
Linda Marie's
Let's Limerick Contest
G.L. All
Tribute To Football
From the horizon will rise conflicts and progress
The later is better than the former in rebuilding
The fallen walls of the grand citadel amidst grass
To stand anew that tardy root that out shooting
In zealous nous to shelter its grandson's prospect
And to strain the form Fig that stood before, hops
To branch broadly and vastness follow to protect
Govern, nature, reserve the lost and found hopes
Of both the comrade and us born in the free doom.
let not the new dispensation hallow deviation only
On scripts and manifestos, Practicality off doom
Is the plea seek from the gifted by Appollo solely.
If then the my poetry tells no lie, I be glad too, and
The brwal which spelt ceaseless at the kickoff end.