It's a game supreme, this Beautiful Game. Defeating the goalie, is a mutual mission. Right now there's some exciting baseball evolving as I'm writing this. The goalies job will always be the same. Cause a new hero was up in his teens, To score screamers and live up his dreams. Forget about it, it's completely gone.
That sound, dull, empty, metallic. Among those who have elected to write poems rather than call in to radio chat shows, few have done it better than , , and. Basketball Poem Here's a basketball poem for all you basketball fanatics out there. A personality with tactical onus is the one and only expectation. Neither you, nor the coeditors you shared it with will be able to recover it again. I have an older brother, whom I love dearly.
The doctor came out, and realized for sure. Outstanding performances don't go unnoticed. But became the man with all of my fans. I love you more than winning that world cup, That we have yet to reclaim. Its swift manoeuvre captured a thousand eyes. We were challenged by The Dingoes—they're the pride of Squatter's Gap— To a friendly game of football on the flat by Devil's Trap.
Calista Carol Leanne when moms mad. I'm in my old room. It was an one of those moments to say I wasn't broken. As a celebration of a glorious goal--and with its very classical, homoerotic ending--it reaches directly back to the odic spirit of Pindar: That's him sat down, not like the other clowns, performing acrobatics on the bar, or press-ups in the box, or running on the spot, togged out in turtleneck pyjama-suits with hands as stunted as a bunch of thumbs, hands that are bandaged or swaddled with gloves, laughable, frying-pan, sausage-man gloves. His verses, tinged with melancholy and filled with compassion for the world's misery, are expressed in a language characterized by a sophisticated simplicity: light and rich of everyday words, yet musical and profound in poetic effect. It's an obsession that both professionals and lay people including kids possess.
What else can I say! This is game seven, the loser is done. Children also need to be given the opportunity to try different sports. I hope to work the wheels again, to end these meetings and to live for once, in the midst of motion and pause. . The spectators scream in frenzy And the fans ape their heroes While the arena is ablaze With a kaleidoscope of painted faces.
The player beware the love of the game, Loss of education only brings shame. This is a poem that just might kill a reader, too--unless the reader is willing and able to accept that it is also extremely funny--in a painfully bleak way. Much of the work posted on the wonderful and wonderfully democratic website footballpoets. His Journey He dribbles quickly, up to half court, A shot from this distance, would be definitely short. There's things that I don't say In between kisses And bowls of ramen noodles On weeknights There's a quiet sadness settled behind the couch and on the inside of my ribcage during our twilight marathons On the weekends Things left To hopefully be forgotten under the bleachers at your soccer games I go to whenever I can It hangs with your hoodies in my closet In the pit of my stomach It's small but I can't stop it And it takes me out for days at a time I see you every day But sometimes I am distant In a different way It's been done to me And I'm sorry I'm doing it to you I'm trying to phase the disappointment that has nothing to do with you Out of my life like cycles of the moon. I always feel like a selfish child.
I don't want to brush my teeth. On the fields of green, where dreams live and die, They soar to the sky, or drop and just cry. We had conversations of Bon Iver and soccer as we laid on the sandy bay. And the lesser accolades, the participation trophies, for these, Mom hands me a pocket knife and tells me to pry off the nameplates and she'll donate them to Goodwill. Football Football is a sport, for those who are tough. .
I took you to a bay on the outskirts of town. My favorite sport is basketball, which I play in the winterI have been playing basketball ever since I was a second graderBasketball is my favorite sport because I love the way the game is constructed. And Mom's telling me what all we need to pack up and organize. Cries of 'goal' fill the air It's a month of living soccer While, at last, the winners hold the Cup high The losers gasp in disbelief and horror. But we've written out a paper, with good Father Feeley's aid, Breathing brotherly affection; and the challenge is conveyed To the Dingo Club at Squatter's, and another friendly game Will eventuate at this end, on the flat below the claim. I love you more than the cheering crowds, The stands made out of plaster. Baseball, soccer, and basketball are fun, Let's grab some friends, and play in the sun.