Sports Prose Poems | Examples
These Sports Prose poems are examples of Prose poems about Sports. These are the best examples of Prose Sports poems written by international poets.
A 'pre' fight rhymed quote couplet atypical of the sporting 'g o a t '(greatestofalltime) of the 70's boxing era .
A phenomena of the 60's& 70's not only for his boxing skill but uniquely at the time coupled with his ' off the cuff' rhyming verbalised 'happenings ' at 'weigh ins' & interviews etc.This verse (less memorable ) than those earlier poetics is a sample from his later 'spoken word ' style & thus gives a more rounded view to this most famous of the modern 'popular ' reciting poets of the 20th century.
Displease Custodian Cowboy
Anchor Through Paralyze
Bullring Chute Fallback
Floppy Faultlessly Eye
Cauldron Brandy Marinara
Nightshade Always Tragedy
Youthful Guard Hearse
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 13–19, 2026)
A cool Autumn morning we caught the bus,off at eleven without much fuss.One
and half return from Croft to Leigh a birthday treat from Dad to me.Hopped on a tram to Burden park to see Stan Mathews make his mark.Through the turnstile into the town end,crushed and crammed like cattle penned.
Mathews, Mortenson versus Nathaniel Lofthouse,a match for connoisseurs to watch. Wembly star Stan playing on at thirty eight still making inch perfect
crosses on a plate. Shimmy,side-step,feint and dazzle,leaving the defenders in a
right frazzle. Our ageing hero displayed all his twinkling skills,the complete pro
without modern-day frills.Most pundits considered Stan an aged has-been but no better talent had ever been seen.
Love, nurture – abandon, disown...
Love, nurture – beat, rape, murder...
Love, nurture – build cities, blow them apart...
Love, nurture – despise, hate...
Love, nurture – rip young from their own wombs
for convenience and saleable body-parts....
Love, nurture – pray to a god that will forgive any snafu...
Love, nurture – God started with smaller creatures, and continued
to fail upwards....
Love, nurture – make a hell of one's world, then hide in politics, sports
music, theater, and poetry.
Small wonder many prefer dogs, cats, and stamp collecting....
Let’s win the racquetball tournament Carlie said.
What she meant was “let ME win the racquetball tournament”.
My girl-next-door-charms usually hides my super competitive spirit.
This time was like all of the others.
When I won she stopped speaking to me.
No big loss.
She heard the screeching of the tires
And she knew she had pulled right in front of this car.
She shut her eyes, waiting for the crash.
Her next thought was her best friend.
It was her birthday.
I am dying on Marianne’s birthday! Crap!
The crash never came.
She looked to her right.
The sports car had left his tires all over the road.
Smoke was coming out from under his car.
She could not see the driver.
His windows were too darkly tinted.
She continued through the intersection.
This was her fifth car wreck where she expected to be dead.
Her heart was beating fast.
Just like the other times.
Why can’t I die? She asked God.
I deserved to.
But the answer is yet to come.
Is it pure greed that motivates them
Or could it be that they're insecure
That they are lost without it...
Do they really think anyone cares
about them 'going back to work'
Do they value publicity, fame
adulation and little boys' games
so highly that they're willing
to risk their very lives...
All these filthy-rich sports stars
can disappear tomorrow and I,
a former sports fan fanatic,
would cheer that development
Let them get real for a change
The people in this country are
fighting for our lives. We
don't give a hoot about
professional sports anymore
Goodbye, Labron James!
Goodbye, James Harden!
Goodbye, Tom Brady!
Goodbye, Bryce Harper
Farewell and good riddance!
It was a sad day, when I had to toss them;
my favorite pair of sports shoes.
Like an old, comfy friend,
we walked and played together;
until the linings were worn clean through, to the leather.
Still, I held onto them; my precious foot cradles.
When the day came to toss them,
cracked soles, leaking rain water onto my feet;
I worked hard to muster up the courage,
to place them in the trash
and my feet mourned their loss.
April and the clocks forward spring,our cricket practice gets in full swing.Nets to
untangle from their poles,players to call and enrol.Gang mowers to grease and
oil,the team kit-bag to disembroil.Green stained pads to whiten bright,fixture lists
to expedite.Mend the sight screen's rickety panels,coax another season from my
flannels.Wash and iron the umpire's coats,the score-box to creosote.Tea urns to
scour,crockery to rinse and clean..a team captain's tasks routine,and
unseen.Cricketers good,indifferent,unsung,across this land in a timeless sport
played for fun.
On manicured outfields seeded and sown,the middle rolled and closely
mown.End to end,wicket to wicket the languid tempo of village cricket.By fields
enclosed with sheep in flocks,wooden pavilions and rickety score-box.Around the
boundary rope,ambitions ,high living in hope.Runs came from cut and glide as
players flag in the fielding side.The rivals taking guard after tea,a run a
minute,with inhibitions free.Hit wicket,lbw and run-out the wickets fell as the fast
bowler ended the match in his second spell.
Out of the yard,daughter Bev and me,on a hot summer day of Eighty-three.Hastoe
to Cadsden,there and back,eight hours in the saddle..for our first all-day
hack.Onto the canter path,down to Paines End,through Fox Lane our route did
wend.Into a copse ,missing branches low,keeping the pace to an even flow.Up to
Dunsmore,past the Black Horse,via Little Hampden we followed the course.Past
Chequers and into Pondswood,down the hill to reach the pub.
Tethered the horses to the garden trees,ordered a ploughmans,with pickle and
cheese.Feet up awhile for a long rest,enjoying a pint of the landlord's best.
Into the saddle,no time to laze,off at a canter in the heat haze.Back in Hastoe as
the clock struck four,to stack the tack on the stable door.