Sport

Here we have collected poems about sports and healthy lifestyles. A selection of poems about sports, health, and physical education for children. Being healthy does not mean making a muscle, proving to everyone around you that you are the strongest. It means to lead an active lifestyle, eat right, and take care of the regime of the day. Poems about sports and physical culture will help you to make sure that a healthy mind lives in a healthy body.

«A Boy Juggling a Soccer Ball» by Christopher Merrill

after practice: right foot

to left foot, stepping forward and back,

to right foot and left foot,

and left foot up to his thigh, holding

it on his thigh as he twists

around in a circle, until it rolls

down the inside of his leg,

like a tickle of sweat, not catching

and tapping on the soft

side of his foot, and juggling

once, twice, three times,

hopping on one foot like a jump-roper

in the gym, now trapping

and holding the ball in midair,

balancing it on the instep

of his weak left foot, stepping forward

and forward and back, then

lifting it overhead until it hangs there;

and squaring off his body,

he keeps the ball aloft with a nudge

of his neck, heading it

from side to side, softer and softer,

like a dying refrain,

until the ball, slowing, balances

itself on his hairline,

the hot sun and sweat filling his eyes

as he jiggles this way

and that, then flicking it up gently,

hunching his shoulders

and tilting his head back, he traps it

in the hollow of his neck,

and bending at the waist, sees his shadow,

his dangling T-shirt, the bent

blades of brown grass in summer heat;

and relaxing, the ball slipping

down his back. . .and missing his foot.

He wheels around, he marches

over the ball, as if it were a rock

he stumbled into, and pressing

his left foot against it, he pushes it

against the inside of his right

until it pops into the air, is heeled

over his head—the rainbow!—

and settles on his extended thigh before

rolling over his knee and down

his shin, so he can juggle it again

from his left foot to his right foot

—and right foot to left foot to thigh—

as he wanders, on the last day

of summer, around the empty field.

***

«After School, Street Football, Eighth Grade» by Dennis Cooper

Their jeans sparkled, cut off

way above the knee, and my

friends and I would watch them

from my porch, books of poems

lost in our laps, eyes wide as

tropical fish behind our glasses.

Their football flashed from hand

to hand, tennis shoes gripped

the asphalt, sweat’s spotlight on

their strong backs. We would

dream of hugging them, and crouch

later in weird rooms, and come.

Once their ball fell our way

so two of them came over, hands

on their hips, asking us to

throw it to them, which Arthur did,

badly, and they chased it back.

One turned to yell, “Thanks”

and we dreamed of his long

teeth in our necks. We

wanted them to wander over,

place deep wet underarms to

our lips, and then their white

asses, then those loud mouths.

One day one guy was very tired,

didn’t move fast enough,

so a car hit him and he sprawled

fifty feet away, sexy, but he was

dead, blood like lipstick, then

those great boys stood together

on the sidewalk and we joined them,

mixing in like one big friendship

to the cops, who asked if we were,

and those boys were too sad to counter.

We’d known his name, Tim, and how

he’d turned to thank us nicely

but now he was under a sheet

anonymous as God, the big boys crying,

spitting words, and we stunned

like intellectuals get, our high

voices soft as the tinkling of a

chandelier on a ceiling too high to see.

***

«An Athlete’s Prayer» by Sandy Dow Mapula

It was right before the big one and the football player said,
“Excuse me guys for just a sec while I go bow my head.”
And in the quiet of that room
The football player prayed,
“Oh God if nothing hear me now
I know that fate is made.”

“So help us Lord to win this game,
It’s the big one, man, you see,
If we lose this game that’s it for us,
Please do this, Lord, for me.”

And as his body knelt in prayer,
He looked up to the sky,
“And while I’m here, and have some time,
I need to ask you why?”

“They say you never help teams wind,
Just do it once I pray,
We will pay you back in kinder deeds
Or in another way,”

“The reason why I can’t help you win,”
The Lord just then replied,
“Is as you’re asking me to win,
So is the other side.”

“I’m everybody’s father and
I must not take one side,
So games are played all on your own
Or they would all be tied.”

“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pray,”
He answered him with care,
“You can pray that players don’t get hurt
And that all the calls are fair,”

And while the player heard this voice,
He bowed his head in prayer,
“I pray for fairness,” said the boy
“And for your tender care.”

“You shall be blessed,” the Lord replied,
“Your team and you the same,
And now will you excuse me boy,
I cannot miss this game.”

***

«At the Pool» by Glen Martin Fitch

“You’re wasting your time.”
so leers the jock.
And I glare back.
“My time is mine to waste.”
There’s what and when and how,
and where’s the clock,
and I don’t want
my towel and keys misplaced.
“Go on and play”
the anxious parents plead.
They fear the hesitation
of their child is fear.
Kids know instinctively
they need to watch and test
while data is compiled.
“Get down from there!”
surprised a parent screams.
Look who did what
while waiting out of sight!
Most kids will dare
a studied task,
it seems,
when confident
that now the time is right.
Today’s not ’bout
how fast or hard or more.
My hardest exercise
is my front door.

***

«Athlete» by Mellissa A Smith

It’s game time now, it’s time to win
we’ve worked so hard all year
We’ve made it past some tough game times
and now, the reward is near

Let’s bow our heads and ask the Lord for this last precious win
Let’s make sure he knows we’ve tried real hard and it’s all up to him
“Dear Lord our father, we need this bad, we did all we could do”
we continue on and ask again “Please Lord help us make it through”

A feeling comes from deep inside, it didn’t feel real good
I decided to try it once again, but asking the way I should
“Dear Lord I pray for a fun, safe game, may both teams be injury free,
we have tried real hard and should all feel proud whatever the outcome may be.”

So now we must go and do our best
it’s up to us to pass this test
Whatever the outcome, victory or defeat
I just thank you Lord for making me an ATHLETE!

***

«Basketball» by Erika Johnson

My heart races as I step on the court
Basketball my favorite sport
The whistle blows to start the game
It’s a feeling I can’t explain
My team is my family
When we work together there’s no boundaries

Pass, shoot, score
Everyone wants more
Time for defense no one gets by
Shot goes up the ball is mine
The half time buzzer blows
Into the locker room we go

Start at half it’s a tie
We need to give it our all to get by
Ten seconds left down by one
We can’t be done
I have the ball I shoot a three
The crowd stands up and cheers or me.

***

«Basketball Is Lots of Fun» by Kenn Nesbitt

Basketball is lots of fun.
It’s my favorite sport.
But I’m so bad that, when I play,
they throw me off the court.

Now hockey is my favorite sport.
The trouble is I stink.
So every time I hit the ice
they throw me off the rink.

Now soccer is the game I like.
There’s just one little hitch;
I kick and run too slow, and so
they throw me off the pitch.

At last I found some sports that I
can play and not get thrown.
I now play soccer, basketball,
and hockey on my phone.

***

«Come on Coach» by Aimee Vey

Come on coach I know I’m a little small;
Come on coach throw me the ball.
My eyes are on the ball I’m in my stance;
Come on coach I just need a chance.
I’m getting better every year;
With a little practice I no longer fear
So coach throw me one I can hit;
I bet I’ll even surprise the team a bit.
With my eyes on the ball and my hands on the bat tight;
The coach threw me one and I hit it hard into right.
The fans cheered as I ran round the bases;
I looked into the crowd to see all their faces.
But the two people who stood out
My mom and my dad and they said with a shout
“Hooray Bailey way to go!”
I hit the ball and now I know;
With a little confidence and some cheers
I’ll get better and better throughout the years.

***

«Dinamita Knocked “Pacman” Out» by Alon Calinao Dy

The world witnessed the year’s biggest bout
When “Dinamita” knocked “Pacman” out.
Marquez got his revenge and fought bravely.
This time around he won convincingly.

What’s next now to our pound-for-pound king?
Will he retire from the world of boxing?
Why did he become reckless in this slugfest?
Is the fight between “Money” versus “Pacman” still the subject?

This boxing match teaches us many lessons in life.
It’s not always about winning.
It’s not about how you lose in a game.
But it’s how you rise again after that painful loss.

I love Manny Pacquiao known as “Pacman.”
But if hanging up the gloves is a better option,
Why consider it now?
Why would you risk your life for a boxing show?

Nevertheless,
I congratulate the winner Juan Manuel Marquez!
He fought a very hard fight tonight.
Therefore, I give you all my respect.

***

«Fast Break» by Edward Hirsch

A hook shot kisses the rim and
hangs there, helplessly, but doesn’t drop,

and for once our gangly starting center
boxes out his man and times his jump

perfectly, gathering the orange leather
from the air like a cherished possession

and spinning around to throw a strike
to the outlet who is already shoveling

an underhand pass toward the other guard
scissoring past a flat-footed defender

who looks stunned and nailed to the floor
in the wrong direction, trying to catch sight

of a high, gliding dribble and a man
letting the play develop in front of him

in slow motion, almost exactly
like a coach’s drawing on the blackboard,

both forwards racing down the court
the way that forwards should, fanning out

and filling the lanes in tandem, moving
together as brothers passing the ball

between them without a dribble, without
a single bounce hitting the hardwood

until the guard finally lunges out
and commits to the wrong man

while the power-forward explodes past them
in a fury, taking the ball into the air

by himself now and laying it gently
against the glass for a lay-up,

but losing his balance in the process,
inexplicably falling, hitting the floor

with a wild, headlong motion
for the game he loved like a country

and swiveling back to see an orange blur
floating perfectly through the net.

***

«Football Mom» by Annissa Worobec

With mouth guard in, and ball in hand
A pass will be made and the crowd will stand.
They will cheer and scream for their home team
And the coach’s face will grin and beam.

The boys on the field will perform a great play
That will bring the team victory
And touchdowns will be made

Flips and slams, turns and fumbles
I see my mom cringe
When it’s me getting pummeled

She hates the violence and the aggression that occurs,
It eats at her stomach, and twitches her nerves
But she waits for me to score for my home team
Then her cheer is the loudest
AND IT’S ALL JUST FOR ME.

***

«Football Uniform» by Rhonda J. Becker

Football Uniform
I remember watching you out upon the field.
In the Seventh grade, you were with a helmet as your shield.
The uniform just hung upon your skinny frame.
The number on the jersey was your only name.

I washed and soaked those football pants time and time again.
I often said a little prayer for our team’s little men.
I hung the jersey out to dry with hopes of victory.
Watching how you were growing now for the entire world to see.

You grew in size physically, as well as character too.
I realized how the time has passed and the years they just flew.
For as I wash your uniform after this game that is your last,
I hope and pray you remember the lessons from seasons past.

Winning is very glorifying and is definitely the most fun.
Sometimes, however, you did everything there was to be done.
Yet the score didn’t’t reflect the hard work and preparation the team put in.
And you had to support each other with compassion without the win.

I stand here proudly staring at your number upon this shirt.
I am wishing for more days that it would be filled with dirt.
My mind will hold forever the picture of my son.
Waiting for his name to be called and on the field he’d run.

My little skinny boy has now become a man.
In life he will go now and do the best he can.
Football has taught him, teamwork and unity.
God, I pray, You help him become the best that he can be.

***

«Game Called» by Grantland Rice

Game Called. Across the field of play
the dusk has come, the hour is late.
The fight is done and lost or won; the player files out through the gate.
The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,
the stands are bare, the park is still.
But through the night, there shines the light,
home beyond the silent hill.

Game Called. Where in the golden light
the bugle rolled the reveille.
The shadows creep where night falls deep,
and taps has called the end of play.
The game is done, the score is in,
the final cheer and jeer have passed.
But in the night, beyond the fight,
the player finds his rest at last.

Game Called. Upon the field of life
the darkness gathers far and wide,
the dream is done, the score is spun
that stands forever in the guide.
Nor victory, nor yet defeat
is chalked against the players’ name.
But down the roll, the final scroll
shows only how he played the game.

***

«Golf» by Vicki Ryan

Golf is a game played by many,
Clubs, balls and tee’s are your enemy.
Stand at the tee ball up on a stick
bend your knee’s and give a big hit.
Down the fairway out of site don’t
hit the tree’s stay on the grass.
Hazards will find you, water and sand
bushes and tree’s and really long grass.
No time to be chasing a ball that’s
lost so get another and stay in the game.
18 greens to chase down most on a mound
with a flag to find that marks the hole
then putt your little ball into the cup.
Albatross, Eagles, Birdies and Pars get
some of these and they help you to score.
Bogies and bunkers and balls out of bounds
will test and tease you and ruin the round
So when you stand at the ball club in hand
remember that the short green stuff makes
for a great game and you will do it again.

***

«I am a Martial Artist» by Karen Eden

“I am a martial artist.” I see through different eyes.
I see a bigger picture when others see grey skies.
Though many can’t conceive it, I stand…facing the wind.
My bravery, not from fighting, but from my strength within.

I am a martial artist. I’ll walk the extra mile.
Not because I have to, but because it’s worth my while.
I know that I am different, when I stand on a crowded street.
I know the fullness of winning, I’ve tasted the cup of defeat.

I am a martial artist. They say I walk with ease.
Though trained for bodily harm, my intentions are for peace.
The world may come and go, but a different path I’ll choose.
A path I will not stray from, no matter, win or lose.

***

«My Hamster Has a Skateboard» by Kenn Nesbitt

My hamster has a skateboard.
When he rides it, though, he falls.
He takes off like a maniac
and crashes into walls.

He screams, “Geronimo!”
and then goes crashing down the stairs.
He’s good at knocking tables down
and slamming into chairs.

He’ll slalom through the living room
and then you’ll hear a, “Splat!”
which means that he’s collided with
my mother or the cat.

He plows right into cabinets,
and smashes into doors,
I think he’s wrecked on every bed
and every chest of drawers.

It’s fun to watch him ride
because you’re sure to hear a smash.
He doesn’t skate so well but, boy,
he sure knows how to crash.

***

«Not In Vain» by Luis Limon

If you can get an equalizer with 10 men,
If you can take the shot and forget your pain,
not all you went through was in vain,
If you can use the ground to your advantage in the hard rain,
If you can take a hit and smile back,
If you can be the one that leads the pack,
If you can keep your head cool,
while everyone is about to lose theirs.
Become the best out of those that came first,
Not all you went through was in vain,
If you can take defeat on the chin,
If you can celebrate without hurting a feeling,
If you can respond to the singing of the crowd,
If you can give them something to celebrate..
That’s what is all about,
If you can go that extra sprint, that jump, that save,
If you can keep your feet in the ground,
But strike in a flying path,
If you can make the sacred place roar,
and make the ground tremble in furor,
Then I can really tell you that..not all you went through…was in vain..

***

«Our Teacher’s a Football Fanatic» by Kenn Nesbitt

Our teacher’s a football fanatic.
It’s all that he has on his mind.
He listens to games on his headphones,
and frets when his team is behind.

He jumps up and down with they’re winning.
He screams when they fumble a pass.
We know we’re supposed to be reading,
but watching him’s simply a gas.

Our principal walked in on Friday,
and he was too angry to speak.
Our substitute started on Monday.
Our teacher’s been benched for a week.

***

«Perfect Form» by Kamilah Aisha Moon

Walter Scott must have been a track athlete
before serving his country, having children:

his knees were high, elbows bent
at 90 degrees as his arms pumped
close to his sides, back straight and head up
as each foot landed in front of the other.
Too much majesty in his last strides.

So much depends on instinct, ingrained
legacies and American pastimes.
Relays where everyone on the team wins
remain a dream. Olympic arrogance,
black men chased for sport—
heat after heat
of longstanding, savage races
that always finish the same way.

My guess is Walter Scott ran distances
and sprinted, whatever his life events
required. Years of training and technique
are not forgotten, even at 50. Even after being
tased out of his right mind. Even in peril
the body remembers what it has been
taught, keeping perfect form
during his final dash.

***

«Prayer of a sportsman» by Berton Braley 

Dear Lord, in the battle that goes on through life
I ask but a field that is fair,
A chance that is equal with all in the strife,
A courage to strive and to dare;

And if should win, let it be by the code
With my faith and my honor held high;
And if I should lose, let me stand by the road,
And cheer as the winners go by.

And Lord, may my shouts be ungrudging and clear,
A tribute that comes from the heart,
And let me not cherish a snarl or a sneer
Or play any sniveling part;

Let me say, “There they ride, on whom laurel’s bestowed
Since they played the game better than I.”
Let me stand with a smile by the side of the road,
And cheer as the winners go by.

So grant me to conquer, if conquer I can,
By proving my worth in the fray,
But teach me to lose like a regular man,
And not like a craven, I pray;

Let me take off my hat to the warriors who strode
To victory splendid and high,
Yea, teach me to stand by the side of the road
And cheer as the winners go by.

***

«Rainy Day in Baseballland» by Joe DeMarco

It was a rainy day in Baseballland
The players were home in bed
One rookie rolled over his eyelids a flutter
With dreams of a stand-up triple running through his head

The cleats and spikes were all on hooks
Along with mitts, bats, and caps
And even Cal Ripken Jr. had settled down
For a long summer’s nap

Outside the rain was pouring down
While puddles drenched the field
But little Eric Hopkins came to play
And his imagination refused to yield

His mitt lay soggy in a puddle
And his sleeves were drenched with rain
As his hands clenched a cold bat with a hope
“That springs eternal in the human brain.”

Little Eric threw the ball up swung and missed,
And the umpire bawked, “Strike one!”
He tapped his cleats, picked up the ball, and reminded the ghost crowd,
“This rain won’t ruin our fun.”

For little Eric loved the game
And he loved the feel of stitched leather in his hands
As he waved to his mom, who sat with his fabricated wife
And his invented kids up there in the fantasy stands

And now the imaginary pitcher holds the ball
And now he lets it go
But little Eric swung and missed again
Which made two strikes in a row

He metaphorically dusted himself off
And picked up the ball once more
For often he wished that instead of three strikes
The batter could get four

But today he realized, it was his day
His wishes were his commands
So as he squeezed the water from his jersey
He raised his finger toward the left-field stands

He was Babe Ruth, Mark McGwire, Ken Griffey Jr,
and Barry Bonds all together
And anything you said about lightning or thunder
Wouldn’t be getting him out of this weather

For in his head the sun was shining
And the grass was green and dry
And he sent that low and away 0-2 pitch
Like a rocket into the sky

And he arrogantly trotted around the bases
Stepped on third and headed toward home plate
While his mother yelled from down the street,
“Dinner’s cold and you are late!”

***

«Run Every Race as if It’s Your Last» by Lisa Olstein

as you round the bend
keep the steel and mouse-skinned
rabbit front left center
and the track and the crowd
and its cries are a blurred ovation
as you stumble and recover
and then fully fall even if
only onto the rough gravel
of your inside mind or outside
in what is called the real world
as how many drunken grandfathers
holding little girls’ hands
and broken peanut shells go
swirling by why are you racing
what are you racing from
from what fixed arm does this
moth-eaten rabbit run
captive is different than stupid
near dead is different than dead
they call it a decoy but we know
a mirror when we see ourselves
lurch and dive for one

***

«Surviving The Bull Ride» by Becky Reynolds

The bull is in the gate
You lower yourself to rest on his back
He moos a threatening sound full of hate
You nod your out there’s no turning back
He takes off you hold on for life
He twists you follow your body cracking
3 seconds in he’s winning
Your hand is weakening your fingers cramping
5 seconds in your full of pain
Your body says give up
Your mind says I can win
7 seconds in your almost done
Your hand starts slipping
8 seconds in you hear the buzzer
you let go, fall down, stand up
Your legs are weak your body quivering
But you won that silver buckle
On your belt it slides
Another trophy from your
8 second rides

***

«The Biker’s Road» by Daren L. Gardner

Raise the door or just take off the cover,
there she sits just waiting for us to hover.

Our first glance we know she waits,
just as our mind anticipates.

As we sit on the seat, a turn of the key,
we know for sure this is the way it should be.

Pull out the drive and head down the street,
whether we are alone or heading to a meet.

The direction that we take as the wind hits our face,
remember it’s about the joy, not about winning a race.

The curves, the hairpins, or just the straights,
with every lean, there’s just something about the path we take.

It’s the feeling we get as we straddle of course,
a passion and a love upon that steel horse.

So as we roll along and feel the ground,
with every throttle twist taking in the sound.

Be aware of the others as your mind clears the load,
hoping they remember this too is “The Bikers Road”.

***

«The Church of Michael Jordan» by Jeffrey McDaniel

The hoop is not metal, but a pair of outstretched arms,
God’s arms, joined at the fingers. And God is saying

throw it to me. It’s not a ball anymore. It’s an orange prayer
I’m offering with all four chambers. And the other players—

the Pollack of limbs, flashing hands and teeth—
are just temptations, obstacles between me and the Lord’s light.

Once during an interview I slipped, I didn’t pray well tonight,
and the reporter looked at me, the same one who’d called me

a baller of destiny, and said you mean play, right? Of course,
I nodded. Don’t misunderstand—I’m no reverend

of the flesh. Priests embarrass me. A real priest
wouldn’t put on that robe, wouldn’t need the public

affirmation. A real priest works in disguise, leads
by example, preaches with his feet. Yes, Jesus walked on water,

but how about a staircase of air? And when the clock
is down to its final ticks, I rise up and over the palms

of a nonbeliever—the whole world watching, thinking
it can’t be done—I let the faith roll off my fingertips, the ball

drunk with backspin, a whole stadium of people holding
the same breath simultaneously, the net flying up like a curtain,

the lord’s truth visible for an instant, converting nonbelievers
by the bushel, who will swear for years they’ve witnessed a miracle.

***

«The Football Game Is on TV» by Kenn Nesbitt

The football game is on TV.
The chips are in the bowl.
We’re totally excited and
about to lose control.

Our living room has turned into
a huge, chaotic scene.
We’re madly jumping up and down.
We’re screaming at the screen.

My mom and dad are yelling
while my baby brother wails.
My sister’s sitting on the sofa
chewing on her nails.

I’m running all around the room
as if I’ve lost my mind.
It’s not because our team’s ahead.
It’s not that they’re behind.

The reason that we’re shouting
and we’re running all about,
is that the game was tied and then
the Internet went out.

***

«The World’s Fastest Bicycle» by Kenn Nesbitt

My bicycle’s the fastest
that the world has ever seen;
it has supersonic engines
and a flame-retardant sheen.

My bicycle will travel
a gazillion miles an hour —
it has rockets on the handlebars
for supplemental power.

The pedals both are jet-propelled
to help you pedal faster,
and the shifter is equipped
with an electric turbo-blaster.

The fender has a parachute
in case you need to brake.
Yes, my bike is undeniably
the fastest one they make.

My bicycle’s incredible!
I love the way it feels,
and I’ll like it even more
when Dad removes the training wheels.

***

«Victory» by 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.

***

«You Can Argue with a Tennis Ball» by Kenn Nesbitt

You can argue with a tennis ball
or argue with your hat.
You can argue with bananas
or a broken baseball bat.

You can argue with your locker.
You can argue with your shoe.
You can argue all day long
until your face is turning blue.

You can argue with a pickle.
You can argue with a bee.
It’s a fact that you can argue
with most anything you see.

You can argue with the football field
or argue with the bleachers.
But I’ve found it isn’t very smart
to argue with the teachers.