"superbowl" poems
Loyalty...what exactly does being loyal entail? Well that is hard to put into words.
Some may say that being loyal means "down to ride " or even "Iwill never cheat " . Its easy to be loyal when what your being loyal to is at lifes mountain top...
To me real true loyaltycomes when you see some one at there worst and/or lowest point. And you still stand tall by there side .loyalty is being there when no one else will or even wants to be .loyalty is seeing helplessness and hopelessness and embracing it as a oppurtunity to give a hand up instead of a kick down .
Its loving some one the same amount wether its the superbowl or the tolietbowl .loyalty to me just comes naturally and is the absolute right thing to do. It means no matter what happens they know they have you.
Loyalty is the foundation on which every relationship and friendship is built around . With out loyalty life is meaningless and feels as fake and lonely as it .
Loyalty at times can be hurting even withering but at that exact time be rewarding ..loyalty is shown at lifes highs n lows ,in all shapes and forms
..so in life if you can find another person that can be truely and honestly loyal back to you ..it gives you the sense that it was all worth it ..
We all need that one person. That no matter which of lifes path you journey either up or down wrong or right ..you know unquestionably will with out doubt be there for you and when you see that the road traveled leads you to a dead end you have them to point you in a new direction
Mar 20, 2020
Mar 20, 2020 at 7:51 AM UTC
It's that time of the Patriot's year
Postseason playoff games are in full gear
The road to the Superbowl, I cheer
But not for the big, bad grissly bear
That takes every opponent's fate without fear
That's right the big bad bear without peer
I'm snickering the Patriot's to cry a tear
Nothing would make me so happier, I swear
Fricken, dicken, bitchen Patriots beware
To see another Bostonian tea party, I glare
I do show respect at the Patriot's lair
Brady and Belicheck what a podded pair
Steady, stoic and simulcast, condescending I declare
You see a Patriots playoff loss is so rare
Their team profile is beyond compare
A well oiled machine that wear
Goliath close over David with regular fare
The road to this year's Superbowl Sunday, I say a prayer
That the other teams flag is flying patriotically in the air
Logan Robertson
1/11/2019
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
He watched his sons football game
with a set of binoculars
from the parking lot 300 feet away.
His ex-wife sat on the sidelines
texting her latest boyfriend
while making eyes at her sons coach.
She didn't care for football, or
for her son much for that matter.
She would go so far as to beat him on occasion
when she'd had a bad day, but he did care,
to him that boy was everything.
For her that was all the reason she needed
to file the falsified police report
which lead to the unnecessary restraining order.
He watched his sons football game with binoculars,
she didn't even know what number was on the back of his jersey.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
1. You could not wait til halftime to check your poem or add one.
2. You wrote a sonnet about pretty horses. (Broncos)
3.You wrote a poem about kittens.(Panthers)
4. As the ball soars through the air, you are reminded of a bird in flight.
5. A Superbowl commercial inspired a new poem.
6. You paused the game with your DVR to write a piece.
7. You think the referees look like majestic Zebra on the African plains.
8. You ponder the coin toss and wonder of chance and philosophical questions as to whether life is like a paradox, then write yourself a poem about it.
9. When a tackle is made, you think upon the animalistic nature of humanity and write a haiku about it.
10. There is a notebook and pen right next to your remote and munchies.
11. You have a neck ache due to looking at your hellopoetry site and then back up at the t.v.
12. You write Peyton Manning farewell poem.
13. The commentator of the game makes a poetical statement and you use it in your latest poem.
14. The crowd boos a player and you feel compelled to write the pain of number 94 in a poem.
15. Last but not least, you might be a poet if you are reading this and the game is on.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
The greatest player
I've ever seen
The heart of Raven nation
a Superbowl M.V.P
You'll be missed so much
when this season does end
So Baltimore win it all
win it for him.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
We were on a 2nd floor garden terrace. The three-quarter moon was doing its best to set a romantic, gin-mood, pouring a soft pastel-blue on the world, that softened hard edges.
A cool breeze wafted jasmine scents from a nearby tea-olive tree. We were alone, the only sounds were far off footsteps and my pounding heart. Wasn’t this romantic?
Fueled twice by desire I had dressed carefully and modestly, with just a subtle, but fancy, hint of sluttiness. My costume, carefully vetted by a company of five, calculating, non-virgins, was designed to be both alluring and as abstruse as Kleenex. I was a doll dressed, painted and scented to ****** Wasn’t I romantic?
We’d never kissed before, and I wanted him to kiss me with an almost moaning force of will. I brushed my skirt down and checked that my hair was in place with quick, fleeting hand motions that could have been butterflies in the reflected light.
We were sitting close together, I could feel his warmth, but nothing was happening and then, as nothing continued to happen, I began to fret, to sag, what was the glitch? Maybe..
I felt a warmth, his breath, I looked up and he kissed me, gently, then moved back a little. I smiled. I wanted to laugh, to shout, to jump around like my team had won the Superbowl, but I was very still, lest I scare him off. Oh, there were butterflies somewhere.
He’s smart. His mind probes the infinite but sometimes neglects the immediate. I wasn’t expecting a smooth move from someone who’s all knees, thumbs and elbows but, hey, I’m capable, and willing, to learn.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 2:15 PM UTC
This is Detroit
and we ignore
what the rest of the world
has to say about us,
we wear our stink
like a badge of honor
and we laugh
at the fear on your face
knowing where you are
and what youve heard.
This is Detroit
the motor-city
which means
you better own one
because our public transportation *****
our roads aren't much better
and our gas prices are high
which means
the speed limit is unacceptable in the fast lane
in fact,
anything thats not 10-15 over
is not acceptable
treat our highways like the autobahn
This is Detroit
and any Coney Island you go to
you shouldn't see any fries
underneath the chili and cheese
regardless how small It may be
This is Detroit
and its a city that refuses to die
because of its artistic output
from Motown
to Eminem
and our failures
that catch the eye of the world
yet we live on
through the hardship
that builds our character
as they scoff
This is Detroit
and every pothole
every decaying building
every makeshift
into a new business
is a character trait
where banks become pizza shops
and theaters parking lots
This is Detroit
where we still show up and party
for a football team that has never
won a Superbowl
This is Detroit
we are dangerous
we are lawless
we know our own
and we wouldn't want it any other way
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Grey-Green-Red-Brown Dawn
stains right through a.m. sky
so the atmosphere
looks weird today.
The forecast calls for heat again;
that silent, seething drum that beats
the blood-drenched dollar sky--
beats out a March of Ages--
beats us copper lumps to shape.
The shelf we Occupy on this drifting
westward continent, constructed from
the flesh that fell from our fathers' hands,
from the bones of distant lands
becomes a dusty storage closet
for the corpses of our days
Our days--aha.
That's supply and demand, kid.
What's a life but flesh-time?
And what's time if not money?
Nothing!
Nothing is anything
but money.
You. Are money.
Like time.
Sleep well tonight. And set your clock.
You gotta work to buy their robots
that **** Mid-Eastern skies
(and Midwestern ones alike)
Sink real slow beneath the surface
of that rising ocean of noise--
growing louder--hot air melting ice caps.
Watch that boiling, acid ocean
roll in on the tide and sink
beneath the waves of noise--
of monotone voices--
sawdust seasoning on cardboard--
crying, "These colors don't run!"
and, "Stand your ground!"
and for fun, when bored, answer the
Call of Duty.
It's that silent, seething drum
beating 'gainst THE TERRORISTS
while we deny the summer heat
as we sweat in SUPERBOWL SUNDAY dreams,
Like it beat against the COMMUNISTS
through all our TOP GUN weekends,
Like it drums up portraits of
vampire fanged IMMIGRANTS
and ILLEGALS
while we guzzle our BEER
and sweat beneath those acne-scarred skies
on the FOURTH OF JULY.
Sleep well tonight
And set your clock.
Don't wanna be late for work,
to buy their robots that **** Mid-Eastern skies
(and Midwestern ones alike).
What's that hum outside your window tonight,
whirring, buzzing
droning
beneath the blood-drenched dollar sky?
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
The streets today
were widow canyons,
wooed away, the normal traffic,
by something kin to black magic,
and so to supermarkets at five P.M.
emptied by a sorcerer's spell,
but I hear tell, on game days like this,
the tide will turn
as if the moon, by chance, had changed direction.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 3:57 PM UTC
Stay you
Stay true
Change not
Others has been in your shoes and got talked about and criticized too!
Be different.
Why be the same?
Even twins hates dressing the same way.
Others has faced comments for being different
Critiqued for drawing attention by those seeking control.
Muhammad Ali, totally tested authority of rules.
Got talked about by the same kinds crying about your sportsmanships of being different.
Stay being Cam.
When others cries about your ways.
Goe Rhett Butler and say, you don't give a ****
James Harris, Warren Moon and Jefferson Street Joe Gilliam all went before you.
And was questioned about being a quarterback too!
Notice if let to some you be playing a different position.
Doug Williams, changed all that when he became the first Superbowl winning quarterback.
Sure you could cave in and pretend the act of a Russel Wilson simply to be liked.
But being Cam is what you most in life should always be like?
Cause the press media doesn't pay your bills at night.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
I believe in myths.
Every naturel blonde was first someone else. By that I mean, she was known as Norma Jean, maybe Katy, in high school (see reincarnation below).
My teenage glory days, when I was the king of cool,
will revisit when I am 75 years old, the man-in-demand (wink), wearing his lucky wide cord corduroys and letting my man-bun,
all the way down, at the prom in the senior citizen home, getting lucky, say once a month...
God, yup, after all, ***** cometh to me regular-like,
when he needs a poet~father to take his confession,
and pays me most excellently for refusing him forgiveness,
with the most excellent poem suggestions or lesser valuable things.
Love at first sight, of course, happens to me all the time,
twenty, thirty times when I am walking home. I tell ya, it's exhausting, the stress of living in the big city
Not only will I win the lottery someday,
will take down both, Powerball and MegaMillions,
in the very same week the odds for which
there ain't enough zeroes in HP's servers. (See God, above).
Reincarnation. One time they Hale(d) and then hanged me (my "namesake") and I said: " I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country." Well, the selfies all show oh-boy-o-boy, was I ever grinning and winking.
Only boys are bullies, girls get off easy, by getting called
just mean.
One day my city's teams will win the World Series, the Stanley Cup, the NBA Finals and the Superbowl all in the same year but only after I die and me, well, only after they will have buried me in Wyoming or France, just for spite, and nobody will hear me screaming.
My children will speak fondly of me even after they find out I died broke, well maybe not fondly, but they will most definitely call out my name, regularly.
After my demise, all the typoes in my poems will magically disappear.
All these good things will come to fruition, because I am a believer, and walked the humble path. The autopsy will also show that my tongue was permanently stuck to my cheek.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
when we met, your eyes hardly met mine
and when they did, you quickly looked away
you made me want to know why
why didn't you talk, why didn't you just
take a deep breath
relax
just, talk to me
i'm nothing to be afraid of,
what's going on in that
fascinating mind of yours?
what do you think of me, of her, of them?
what keeps you awake at night, tossing and turning and
i wanted you to
let me in.
and of course, you did
and i did what i do best,
i got you to love me
but
it really wasn't me that you loved
it was this girl
who listened to you, and kissed you
and held your hand in front of your friends
we went ice skating and watched the superbowl
you made me a card for christmas and
kissed my cheek because you were too shy
to kiss my lips
but then you started to change.
it would happen at random moments,
but i started to really see
how when i wanted to show you my favorite movie
you rolled your eyes and said
"but i just wanna talk to you
spend time with you
i love you"
as your fingers brushed the hem of my shirt and you
leaned in to kiss me
but it wasn't sweet like before it was
purposeful and i
stopped seeing the boy who loved history, and who loved me, my thoughts, my words,
and i started seeing the boy who liked it better when i stopped talking
so he could touch the parts of me that he really loved
i remember when you got me flowers that i kept for so long
i gave them water and smelled them every day
and when they died
when winter turned to spring
i kept them anyway
i never threw them away
those dead, brown roses
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Counting the syllables to Doomsday
I’m falling to my knees
while fools are talking football.
Please…
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
Poetry is the direct cause of death of boredom.
Spoken words exist to excite the human soul
and to crown artistry with the nectar of wisdom
Poetry has more decibels than the Superbowl.
Poetry is the Ganga of the human soul.
It induces a beautiful feeling that stupefies
and leaves the mind dazed like a drunken fowl,
yet it delivers results that really satisfies.
Poetry flows from the fountain of Wakanda
and permeates the arid soil of Timbuktu.
Poetry is the vault to the treasures of Zamunda,
where Mammy Wata guards the Kane of Mobutu.
Poetry is the language used at the creation.
When earth was young and everything was dark,
The great arbiter called out light and put things in motion.
He used spoken words to tell Noah to build the ark.
Poetry is life and life is in coexistance with poetry.
Before ancient Africa and the pyramid of Egypt,
Poetry was cooked and stored in God's pantry.
Ready for use in the Garden of Eden's script.
#IvanBrookspoetry ©️
#Bassapoet✍️
5.24.2019
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Number 12 we trust
Lead us to the Superbowl
Yeah Aaron Rodgers
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 12:16 AM UTC
Blister packs and Auld Lang Syne,
the rain-dance in the rain-forests
where no one keeps time;
the maypole, the bar stool,
the sunstroke pilgrimage;
the Superbowl commercial,
the secret raiding of the fridge-
all conforming to some routine
of half-comfortable bliss;
we stumble blindly through
our blueprint futures-
we borrow our happiness.
The truth is out there
if you look within:
the circadian rhythm,
the central nervous system;
the clamour of your mind
in the face of chronic stress.
The Lenders are out
in the crowds now,
with their placards of high-interest
amongst the indifference
of the street-meat vendors,
the numbered tables at the bar;
we spoil ourselves in the reach
of the so near's;
that we forsake all of the so far's.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
The smell of tires and overheated air hits us like confetti pieces as if we've just won the Superbowl.
This is how I choose to remember you.
This was the beginning to our "adventures", hours lost aimlessly wandering down aisles. The list mom wrote, neatly tucked away in the bottom of one of our pockets, whoever she deemed more responsible that day.
Our bellied laughs would bellow clear over the bird feeders, past the flannel lined jeans, and beyond the orange slice candies.
We taught ourselves a new language. One when spoken, always accompanied with a flimsy tongue. One when spoken to anyone but you was just babble.
In this place, we found life without a limit. One where dancing among the Harley Davison vests was acceptable. One where testing the army surplus metal helmets only seemed logical.
We found a place where you didn't have to grow up, time stopped.
For us, we found a place that created equals of us.
These memories, like words stored in dictionaries, are stored in the pages of my mind. On lonely days I visit them, flipping pages, finding your voice, your smile and your silly dance. They echo off the walls of my memories.
and when I open my mouth to echo back it sounds like this :
Fli
Flove
Flou
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:25 PM UTC
You are a slam dunk
A fingertip catch
And all that exciting junk
You are a bone crushing tackle
A pulled groin muscle
So painful, I'm a blushing rascal
You are the Stanley Cup
A Superbowl ring
That's what's up
~
This hurts for a poet to admit, but sometimes the sentiment is more important than the eloquence.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Lingering above this desert the first rains of winter,
streets greasy with oil/water/rubber cocktail.
Vegas spruces for the tourist onslaught,
bettors eager to lay their Superbowl favorite.
For a weekend the nation marches to a singular drum,
hotels swelling with the faithful to this Neon City.
The Champion stealthily concealed behind the mirror
through which no tout, nor soothsayer may perceive.
The press have lain out every faceted interview,
now only the true believers need worry beads.
This poet shrugs: for him the game has little meaning,
he looks instead to the clouds overhanging the valley.
Bring on the sacks of Sunday, the pass of ******* objects,
there will be snow upon the Redrocks to chill that morn.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
It’s a chill and rainy Saturday night in New Haven - it’s Superbowl eve! My roommates Leong, Anna and Lisa and I were playing a game of Upwards - it’s a scrabble-like word game and we’re all strangely super competitive.
My phone went “dunk!” A happy ‘Water jug’ sound messages make when they're from one of my favorites. The message was from Charles. He was at the front gate with a package that came to the house where Charles and Mrs. Charles live (about 600 yards from the dorm). He passed me the package through the bars at the main gate, “Thanks,” I said, “ga-night,” and he was gone.
Back in my room, I ripped the box open like Christmas morning. The word game could wait - this package was from Paris. The light beige, Jacquemus, ‘Les Ballerines mary-jane pumps’ I’d ordered (forever ago) had arrived and they fit like soft leather gloves.
“Ooo! Glampse!” Lisa pronounced.
“Aren’t they?” I agreed, swiveling my hooves to show them off in the full length mirror.
When I rejoined the Upwards game, talk had shifted to tomorrow's Superbowl.
“I read yesterday that Taylor’s on her way (to the Superbowl)!” Leong declared.
“I like that she likes the NFL now,” I said.
“A lot of people hate her for it,” Anna countered.
“She was on camera twice, for 11 seconds total, in a 3-1/2 hour long game. If that upsets you, you’re bringing a lot of your own baggage to the plot.” I updogged.
Leong wants to order vegan “wings” for the SuperBowl.
“What, exactly, are those?” I asked, apprehensively.
“You’re the girl who talked me into trying buffalo-frog-legs in Paris - ney?” Leong enquired, sarcastically.
“Yeah,” I admitted, guiltily, “but they were delicious,” I said in self defense.
I’m picking the Chiefs 30-20 over the niners.
Feb 10, 2024
Feb 10, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
They came without vision
None questioned their skills
They took a big lead
Then promply got killed
New England was battered
New England was bruised
Atlanta was lunching
And quickly got schooled
The halftime explicits
They blistered the walls
The bigger the lead
The harder they fall
Tom Brady's the gravy
In Belichick's cup
Coach built a big fire
And heated him up
There were some deep passes
Some ***** and some dunks
The hell of it is
It was done without Gronk
That tightend of legend
Who sat in the wings
While wiley Tom Brady
Conducted the thing
It's all big in Texas
Including that game
The hype, the excitement
For Atlanta, the shame
We heard them complaining
We saw them give in
With Julio to lead them
They still couldn't win
But, there is good news
If it wasn't from chocking
They stumble this fall
Then it must be bad coaching
In twenty-eighteen, we'll fire the staff
And bring in some retread
For minimum cash
He'll get the ball rolling
We'll win it, for sure
Or, ole Mr Ryan
We're showing the door
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
The Superbowl
And everyone in America knows
But they don't know
I watched every single game of a 1 and 15 season
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
I am from
A yellow house and a little red bike
Bruises and Band-Aids on my knees
From learning every time I fall
I am from
The Band, The Beatles, Buddy Holly, and Bruce Springsteen
Our small kitchen table and Christmas cookies
From a family that almost fits on my Grandparent’s front porch
I am from
Summer memories and freckles and the Field of Dreams
The swimming hole, egg salad sandwiches, popsicles and pecan sandies
From Gramma and Fred and the Mill Road
I am from generations of tiny waists and dainty wrists
Of Marlise and Melissa and M’s
Brown eyes and pine needles and Big Rock
From denial and acceptance
I am from
Tea with my mom and driving with my dad
My beautiful Hazel
From the Harvest Party and my beloved barn
I am from soft white clouds of comforters
A room painted the shade of pink lemonade
Arizonas and cosmic brownies and Matt’s Honeydew melon Sorbet
From Quickway and the Gazebo and Cherry Valley
I am from a collection of keys with no locks
Chewed cuticles and paper cuts
A mouthful of words and a bad habit of tripping
From the love of glue and sharp scissors
I am from years of ***** bare feet
And freedom to be me
Getting the mail everyday except Sunday
From picnic tables and corn on the cob
I am from a love of language and words and poetry
A love of planes and tractors and the Superbowl
A big family as strong as the Brooklyn Bridge
And just as supportive too
I am from my dream catcher
Catching my fantasies of fast cars and shooting stars
A bottle full of memories and polaroids taped to my wall
From hip hop and coca cola and heart shaped sunglasses
I am from the baby freckles on my shoulders
A love of sun and freshly mowed green grass
Brave New World and Brandy Melville
From tweeting and handwritten letters
I am from the studio floor and my ballet slippers
My favorite black leotard and Fuentes
12 years of pointed feet and tutus
From the dressing room and the barre
I am from the Star of David and 8 burning candles
Suburban Philadelphia and Black Friday
Diners and Chinese Food and Fortunes
From my dad
I am from the cornfields and red barns
Chickens and cows, fresh eggs and warm milk
Valedictorians and Ivy leagues
From my mom
But most of all, I am from the puzzle pieces of myself
The dark, dusty, unexplored corners of my brain
The fear of death and rats and failure and loneliness
From the love of life and belief and hope
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
So baseball starts soon and pitchers and catchers reported today. This is the most excited i've been since the Kansas City Chiefs won the Superbowl. I know that's not long but baseball is just amazing and an awesome display. Baseball is that sport that you can't run the clock out and don't have total control. Anything can happen in baseball. It's amazing to see the comebacks that can happen. If your the Astros you'll just want to forestall. Baseball is always somebody's passion. Some people say is boring. Others say it is a smart person's game. How can it be boring and lame if all those fans are roaring. Baseball every season relights the same flame.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC