Thread: August Prize Poetry Challenge - "Sports"

Every few months WF is giving an additional prize to the challenge winner. As well as the Laureate title and the free month FoWF subscription, The winner of this months challenge will receive a $25.00 Amazon voucher. Please read the challenge posting guidelines because it's never pleasant to have to disqualify entries.

Prof, the winner of the last challenge, has suggested "Sports" as the prompt for this month. As usual, entrants are free to offer their own interpretation of the theme.

Please post entries in this thread.

No comments, please. If you have anything to say about the challenge then please use the Bards' Bistro.

The closing date for this challenge will be 10th September.

Rookie in the House

A rookie should be seen but never heard;
It is, and always was, the baseball way.
He goes about his job without a word,
And makes his only statement with his play.

The rookie's fingers call what will be thrown,
Inviting every pitch into his mitt.
He seeks to make the pitcher's game his own,
Then wonders why so many balls are hit.

The rookie's fastball is his calling card;
He tries to blow it by each batter faced.
They always seem to hit it fair and hard--
And with more hits than outs he gets replaced.

The rookie leaves the circle for the box;
Too confident he's ready for The Show.
He's eager for a turn to get his knocks,
So much so that he swings at every throw.

With speedy feet and arms that touch the sky
The rookie reaches far above his head
He thinks that he can bring down every fly
But most balls seem to find the ground instead.

His every on-field action speaking loud
The rookie shows he's eager for his turn.
He wants to be impressive for the crowd;
Instead he proves that he has much to learn.

Life being wed is surely grand
shackled by a dull gold band.
Half my life spent
preparing feasts
to sate the stomach
of a sports freak.

Platter after platter,
I grudgingly serve
while the blasting TV
shreds my last nerve.

I don't give a crap
about the Mets' stats
but I know what I'd hit
if I were at bat.
The Rangers won't see
another Cup,
he should shelve the dream
and wake the heck up.
It's apt the Jets dress
in the shade of puke,
for he barfs in a bucket
in between rebukes.
The squeaking sneakers
of the Knicks
entice me to stone him
with a cube of bricks.
Five hundred foul shots,
betcha I won't miss.

Stinking golf
bores me to tears
tennis grunts
have deafened my ears.
Years of curling, bowling,
soccer and cricket
made me dig him a grave
in the Little League thicket.

If he's lucky
sports channels
will all go on strike
'fore I find a new use
for my carving knife.

Now, where was I?
Ah, yes.

Life being wed is surely grand,
just make sure you marry
a sports hating man.

About A Sports Car

It never meant to board one
although it is the broad Juan
that really traced the full Mans
the seats are pranked and proped well
the windows cryls are shined lines
the tyres plonks are crude safe
the oil slicks are plied bells
the rears and fronts are braced plain
the gears and throbs are promped right
the clanks and metals are price led
the lead and board are brass felt
the meter's flung at all lengths
the pedals sides are fast click
the grooves and plates are gold haze
the roads ahead are steered clear
the rooms and views are fit width
the probes of wins are pleased Sirs
the joys of speeds are tinged free
that is the style of sports pree.

Sonnet on the Death of a Little League Ball Player


I walked into my shed last night, and there
against the wall, half hidden in the dark
forgotten, were the two old folding chairs,
the ones my wife and I took to the park.

It's not been really all that many years
since summer baseball took up all our time.
We sat and watched the kids. We heard the cheers.
The cheers, the kids, the game, subtle design.

And in those chairs we watched, and way down deep
a wish, no, less than that, a hope, at best
a dream, that maybe somehow we could keep
the cheers. Our son a star above the rest

There must be other dreams and other chairs.
but not right now, tonight there's only tears.

The Olympian

A brazen cage belies the heart inside
Its chambers near erupt with every beat
As years of pain come focused into pride
Motionless, then rise on tiny feet

Salute the crowd, but they’re no longer there
A field of blue is all there is to see
One fleeting breath then soul is brought to bear
So fly, my child, this moment sets you free

Two suppl’d oaken bands now drive her forth
A set then soar before the thrawling mass
The zenith reached all fear inside is dwarfed
Poise on outstretched arms my little lass

A pike, a fall to earth, a rigid stick
Her worth from bronze to gold … no judge can pick

Soccer Girl

Her mother was surprised when she came home
With dirt on her shirt, and shin guards on
She’s a shy girl, a quiet girl
Never had much to tell the world
Until they turned those bright lights on


She could run like the wind and kick like a mule
And though she’d never done much in school
No one could say she didn’t have drive
And it made her feel alive
When on the field, she was the rule


She would show them that she mattered
Even if her jersey was tattered
Never would she back down
She’d always stand her ground
And her spirit could never be shattered

Stripper

On the stage
our little angel
draws them to rise.
Her roots are dragged
through strobe blows
and their mist;
their lust.
Shame
I recall a time when a boy
held her hand, giggled with a
high voice and offered her daisies.
Now her flower stoops to hide its blush;
the freckled petal splashes of pink smeared
with shameless masks and glass-eyed gazes.
Dogs litter her feet, lapping her ankles,
stealing the bracelet her mother gave
with teeth she knows too well.
Steamy nights in shady cars
promised her more from
her encore. Her dirty
blonde hair suited her
once, now burning under lights.
They don’t seem to notice swollen cheeks
or when she ushers them, the red of rivers
traced along her wrist, her beggar’s palms.
Maybe when she closes her child-eyes to the
pleasures and pains and maniacal, rabid
pants of the hungry dogs, she smells
cedars in spring, and the feel of
daisy petals torn and naked
in her trembling hand.

The black panther emerges

majestically

from his lair.

An anticipated thrill,

promise of good hunt

fills the air.

Danger lurks in the darkness

while the victim sleeps,

unaware.

The hawk viciously circles,

sadistically

comes to play.

The shark’s brutal jaws assault.

The scent of terror.

Helpless prey.

The surge of power enthralls,

and the blood is left

to decay.

Tomorrow he’ll hunt again,

another woman

for his sport.

This challenge is now closed.