Sports poems freeze moments in time like a player scoring a winning goal or a team celebrating a championship. It’s a way to remember and savour those thrilling instances.
These poems capture the pride and glory that come with success in the world of sports. People write sports poems to share their intense love for a sport.
It’s a way to let others feel the same excitement and connection they have with the game.
Sports poems inspire and motivate both players and fans. They remind everyone of the dedication, hard work, and determination needed to excel in sports.
They remind everyone of the dedication, hard work, and determination needed to excel in sports.
At Lords
By Francis Thompson
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near a shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro:
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago …
Vitai Lampada
There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night –
Ten to make and the match to win –
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,
But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote –
‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’
Twice A Week The Winter thorough
By A. E. Housman
Twice a week the winter thorough
Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
For the young man’s soul.
Now in Maytime to the wicket
Out I march with bat and pad:
See the son of grief at cricket
Trying to be glad.
Try I will; no harm in trying:
Wonder ’tis how little mirth
Keeps the bones of man from lying
On the bed of earth.
The Run
I’m running to cleanse my soul.
“From what? To where?”
At this moment I do not care.
Rain drops beat against my face.
I run on faster, into its embrace.
“But why?”
To leave my cares behind.
To scream, to cry, to defy.
My feet hammering the ground.
In search of peace not yet found
I race on, clothes drenched in sweat.
To just let go, and forget.
“Had enough?”
Not yet, I scream at him silently.
As I feel my heart beating violently.
Against the wind and blustery showers.
I run on for what seems like hours.
“How much longer?”
Through the fury, past the past, and the pain.
So by this rain I’m washed and purified again.
So the breeze blows away the thoughts inside.
Until another hill, without running I can abide.
“When will you reach this goal?”
Until you my annoying friend stay quiet.
So I can be free from my life’s disquiet.
After a while “anything else?” Not a sound…
I slow to a jog, and in my mind I prod around.
All silent, I relish the elements with a clear mind.
I turn around, and revel in the journey home.
With worries, and stress left behind.
Victory
Sherman Alexie
When I was twelve, I shoplifted a pair
Of basketball shoes. We could not afford
Them otherwise. But when I tied them on,
I found that I couldn’t hit a shot.
When the ball clanked off the rim, I felt
Only guilt, guilt, guilt. O, immoral shoes!
O, kicks made of paranoia and rue!
Distraught but unwilling to get caught
Or confess, I threw those cursed Nikes
Into the river and hoped that was good
Enough for God. I played that season
In supermarket tennis shoes that felt
The same as playing in bare feet.
O, torn skin! O, bloody heels and toes!
O, twisted ankles! O, blisters the size
Of dimes and quarters! Finally, after
I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I told
My father what I had done. He wasn’t angry.
He wept out of shame. Then he cradled
And rocked me and called me his Little
Basketball Jesus. He told me that every cry
Of pain was part of the hoops sonata.
Then he laughed and bandaged my wounds—
My Indian Boy Poverty Basketball Stigmata.
How Can You Say It’s Just A Game?
By Samuel Ward
How can you say it’s just a game
When I’ve been pushed all my life to reach goals
Told to work harder than my opponent
All along being shaped and molded
How can you say it’s just a game
When I’ve given blood, sweat, and tears
Learned so many valuable lessons
Like developing a work ethic and conquering my fears
How can you say it’s just a game
When I’ve developed relationships that will last a lifetime
Learned about self-discipline
And how toughness is really defined
How can you say it’s just a game
When it can bring all ethnic races together
Working as one unit
While pushing each other to get better
How can you say it’s just a game
When winning and losing can determine how one feels
Teams jerseys and colors can be seen everywhere
And fans come to support from far and near
How can you say it’s just a game
When it turns so many into leaders
As well as helping to develop integrity and discipline
And puts more attention on education and being a better reader
How can you say it’s just a game
When coaches have to answer to alumni and bosses
To them it’s not just a game
Because their fate is determined by wins and losses
How can you say it’s just a game
Teams sit in the locker room and cry at the end of the season
I guess you wouldn’t understand
Comradery would be the reason
How can you say it’s just a game
When it can be one’s passion and drive
This thing you call just a game
Has shaped and changed so many lives
Swimming
Water pounds within my ears,
my stomach twists with all my fears.
The race begins with the sound of a gun;
it will not end until I have won.
Doing anything but my best cannot happen,
especially if I want to be swim team captain.
A new best time is what I need,
so the other swimmers I will heed.
The pulsing water and roar of fans
gets driven out by the voice of a man.
It’s familiar and comfortable telling me to go,
pushing me onward, not letting me slow.
The wall is approaching,
I’m relying only on his coaching.
My coach’s words thud like a drum in my brain,
matching the beat of my arms: no pain no gain.
Fifteen yards away, now ten, now five.
For that wall I duck my head and drive.
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