Long Striker Poems
Long Striker Poems. Below are the most popular long Striker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Striker poems by poem length and keyword.
Soccer
In my childhood, we played football like other sports
But we didn't think much about it
But suddenly, as it appeared to me, the sport became
a craze with fanatical fans arguing about which
The team had the best goalkeeper or striker
The heart of soccer came from England; we knew
the names of the famous teams and the interviews
in a sports magazine about their life
That was about the time when I would rather read
a book, but to see frenzied fans going mad when their
team lost
I'm not against football, but it is essentially a sport
that has its beginning in the working class, and still
has its aura
It is a place where people with scant education can
become rich and feted for scoring goals
for the soccer stars, now an instrument for big
business, the prize is high, but many spend their
money buying an expensive car that shows the status
being recognized and written about
Although my interest in the sport- can we call it sport
I do take an interest when a tall Norwegian scores
goals and is regarded as famous.
Argentina's son, a lineage to immigrants
shaped by boyhood aspirations
diminutive left foot striker
taunted "dwarf" in childhood
his growth hormone deficiency
overcome through meds and workouts
a counter to foes physically imposing
Messi's daily slog of skills
agility and balance
slow grind of mastery to mesh the skills to speed
on the football field, Messi dribbles through opponents
pivots round defenders, takes an opposite direction
accelerates
de-accelerates
takes stock of field positions
awareness like a lordly hawk that calculates its prey
a kick triggered whittles through the air
the ball's stinging centre,
flight controlled
at a goal keeper spiralling to the ground
this FIFA World Cup champion
devout in faith
celebrates goals by a gaze upward
a pointed hand to the heavens
another field of his embracing
790 - Messi's career goals for Barcelona clubs and
Argentinean glory
football awards that roll on like credits on a movie screen
on field moves that burrow into memory
through the entanglement of limbs
Messi's footwork, like a dancer's gift
his sprints to fill the field with unheeding power
midst the bulging roar of fans
a homage to glorify the footballer
before he fades
to legend
Poem written January 4, 2023
You are a fantastic sufferer,
A passionate star striker-heightening my tears to happiness
How I wish for merely a moment, that I could forget all my fears
And allow myself to imagine your warm arms around me
Telling me "Alone you never be in this fight against the maggots"
And I would lay my head against you in peace,
Calmed by your heavenly inhalations
For once knowing, I never fight in the solitary despair of Alone
Reaching peaks of patience, I long to remove memories of the unattainable
Had his green eyes only met my own again...
Yet well I know, the dark intense eyes that see me,
Would admonish and feed me
With wisdom and excitement far superior than the offerings of kings
That claw my back in lust, and promise impossible things
An obsession far more potent than the wines I never drink
Do not make me cling into the furies of obsession again
Let me know you feel the same
Or else I will lay my head against the rocks,
Cradled by unpredictable seas
Laboring in merciful grief,
I seek the truth
Because whatever the answer, I will always admire you
Leave me alone....
Or Forever be my own
"Demons cry because they know your beauty surpasses the ugliest-- the most glorious."
You won't und'stand if you d'nt experience it,
My fatherland is where I cut my poetry teeth.
'Tis also the place where I had a splendid childhood,
Naija- where we cruise our tyres around the hood;
I remember days of Ten- Ten and Sendi,
Back when we were innocent and knew no Fendi,
When we would play monkey post in the rain,
And I was a midfielder whose energy ne'er drain.;
Oloje 98 was the world cup I played in,
Abdul and co of Okekere knows what Im saying.
I, a star in all games with Kume the striker,
were so lethal like the venom of a viper;
Beautiful times of watching rams fighting
At Barakat Ita-Nmo while we chill with Beske biting.
Days of when we would go hunting with my gees,
Even though we ne'er came home with a geese;
And during ramadan we built beautiful mosques,
And they were as white as the elephant's tusks.
Omo Alfa Alaaya would often be the Imam,
Deputied by Abdulmajeed and Imran;
'Was one of those who wakes the 'hood for Sahur,
Trying to be a scholar like my uncle Sheikh Sabur.
Hunting for kuluso whenever the rain falls,
Ofcourse hiding in my closet when lesson teacher calls:
Dada was gentle, Mama was strict,
And if not for that queen, Nigga would be street.
Days of when I would be dragged to ile kewu,
Just because I wanna play with Kayode and Gebu;
I had no xbox but had Mario and bomberman
And had a cute cat but not a dobberman.
A star I was, with my BMX bike,
Aint nobody riding it if I dont like;
It was a beautiful childhood afterall,
A mosaic of experiences painted on my wall.
I try not to think about it, my friend.
It's so horrible, and yet,
I'm on beer ten, and I won't see you again -
So, I'll tell you a secret.
No, it's not what happened in Vietnam.
I still see it in stop-action -
If you measured it in inches and seconds,
That moment was a fraction.
A youth soccer game, my dad in the crowd,
It was nineteen sixty-two
When we lost the championship game
As I let the winning goal go through.
As a boy, I never hurt anyone,
Was a friend when needed.
I always helped my mother with her chores.
Mom and Dad, I heeded.
I studied hard, did all my homework,
Followed every rule.
Upon college graduation, I was rewarded,
Accepted to med school.
Today, I am a successful surgeon
Using scalpels and knives.
I make so many people feel better -
Sometimes, I even save lives.
Yet, deep down, I don't have what it takes.
I let everybody down.
What you see before you is a failure.
I should be buried in the ground.
I see it as we speak. My dad was in the crowd.
It was nineteen sixty-two.
We lost the championship game.
I let the winning goal go through.
You see, there's nothing now that I can do -
But wait, I have a little son.
He plays goalie on his youth soccer team,
A great boy who likes to have fun.
When the rival striker takes his final shot,
There's one thing my son won't do.
Well, I hope he doesn't, no, he better not,
Let the winning goal go through.
"Whoever in writing a modern history, shall follow truth too near the heels, it may haply strike out his teeth" Walter Raleigh's preface to his 1614 'History of the World'
We had all been told via emergency transmission (how annoying is that intro alarm!) to drop everything and get in the busses that were arriving on the street. Already weak from months of food, fuel and other shortages, compliance was a forgone result. Exiting our homes was shocking, no one could prepare themselves to see such abhorrent desolation everywhere taken place since lockdowns had begun weeks earlier. Many had already died gruesome, asphyxiating deaths, those of us left had no choice but to submit. Trust? that became a non-factor long ago... resistance was futile, massive UN troop deployments had secured all major cities, with avenues of escape futile. Enormous military and civil equipment and resources had already destroyed and cleared large swaths of territory, seemingly funnelling humans towards most-likely, extinction. What everyone thought were life saving vaccines actually were injections of 'striker-cells' targeting our respiratory and immune systems. Aboard the busses, rumors were, aliens had orchestrated this entirely, intent on occupying our oxygen-rich planet for their own purposes...my conclusion...
we were screwed
.
sumpthink fantastical
iz happening
i feel it
fromg mine big toe
up
sumpthink like
thuh
'high striker'
at uh carnival
(((bam)))
y'all know that
quintessential
((ding))
yup
up
mine goosez are
bump'n
they might az well
stay bump'd
'cauze
eve'z just gonna kiss me
again
There is a new home I have found
A place where even I am renowned.
So many new friends that helped me
Know who and what I am meant to be.
Blythe, Lady,Poison, Rob, Cheri,
Mart, Striker, Charles and Ms D,
To just name a precious few
Who were able to help me through.
They helped see what was inside
All I am and all I was denied.
They all gave graciously time to me,
To talk, to learn, to see and to just be.
This new place is my new haven
It surely keeps me from the craven.
This new home is my new found joy
A place where I know no one will annoy
A place that lets me explore my desires
My new found wants and all that fires.
A place that sings to me like a song
My home is none other than Babylon
There’s an aborted child at the gate in heaven;
WHO AM I
He’s just been murdered because the woman and government has the RIGHT
Now…
Just
WHO AM I
Knowingly, justifiably
Fulling unrighteous choices
And where are all those aborted voices
Here standing under the tree;
Here beside God and Jesus in
Heaven
Fifty child molester, murderer;
Whom am I to judge?
The final judgement, the final call was
Did he repent did God forgive him
Though his victim was young
One thing for certain he’s gone..
The child has been recited by the master
He’s standing beside Jesus and the Master
WHOSE AM I
Knowingly, justifiably
Fulling unrighteous choices
And where are all those aborted voices
Here standing under the tree;
Here beside God and Jesus in
Heaven
Wife abuser, striker;
Hit her once to often;
Now she’s in a coma;
You said you loved her;
But love, true love doesn’t hurt;
She finally died;
You’re a murder, wife abuser unrighteous man;
An adulterer, your new woman you’ve burned;
So the authorities after you;
You too need repentance and forgiveness too;
He you stand on death roll
On your dying breath you were told
You heard a still small voice in the air;
As you cried and ask God for, forgiveness….
It’s not up to me to judge?
Maybe, just maybe. Like the thief on the cross
Next to Jesus his last dying words we’re lost
In paradise he too shall be
He repented gracefully
Knowingly, justifiably
Fulling unrighteous choices
And where are all those aborted voices
Here standing under the tree;
Here beside God and Jesus you and me in. . .
Heaven
6/19/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Blue memoirs fall from her sky eyes
As blue memoire fall from her eyes
right down where I slept, I picked it up.
My memories, they tingle me,
like flashes of a cinema screenplay, I see;
A field, goalkeeper in orange, a striker
dress in red jerseys, and
a blue soccer ball shot up into thin air
by the striker after raising and bouncing
It incessantly on the green field, tosses it.
though it didn't seem broken outward,
yet wailing inside in silence as it falls
at least for goalkeeper to pick it up
am that goalkeeper, I did caught all
droplet with my eyes--you go on ahead and
guess who the striker be, no not Maradona
or Pele Cos my momma is the blue ball.
I see a red rose, I see my momma
having many thorns on her petals,
Some few bruised weakling spots,
Yet she blossoms singing "silent nights".
I picture her embattled face, a
brownie nightingale, with a bleeding beak
Singing lullaby in broken tones, and though
non can write down her lyrics yet tending
to her nestling---with iced dank brown
camera eyes, painted in the horrors of an
African nativity, in the claws a taboo.
if a woman crosses another man the
gods are left to strike off her doom. But
the man, a moonlit journey walker on other
blank sheets, striding other lawns as he chooses,
but the gods ain't strike no mane So his taboo is but
an illegal legal practice on nativity.
Below a Link 2 watch it on my YouTube channel
https://youtu.be/EVnF_Zusyf4