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The Poetry of Baseball

Grip the words firmly in your glove
Feel the stitching with your hand
Now suck in the pitched air
Focus on the space

Between the catcher and the plate

There is a shape of space
You must curve or slide or hurl
Emotion packed pitch of verb
Rhythm and control

Rock back and throw your leg
Feel the muscle of meaning
Unwind
As you trace a line through space
And connect with a place and time

Timing is everything.

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poem by Suxanne Popp
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Broken Rosalyn

Rosalyn is in misery, her heart is broken
writhing and wailing on her garden floor
watering the grasses with her pouring tears
crying mild and muttering wild - 'why me'
smacking and skelping the faultless grass
sniveling and cheering the harlequin-ed flowers

oh! this glory that shone before
is become the gloom of mourn
her flustered heart now cries tears of blood
her blissful life - woe betide
ever smiling face, wrung by hurting love
her days of leer are gone for good
and now she'll live ever in loving gloom

Rosalyn that glistered with the shining sun
is now married to the moonless night

her cry on the grass
it lingered a while

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poem by Mbanaso Samuel
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Bountiful Rain

Bountiful rain, we have yearned for you, prayed for you,
When, thro' the drought days, ill visions had scope;
Thankfulness vast in the past we displayed for you
When you have come at the end of our hope.
Now you have come, is our subsequent attitude
Smacking of gracelessness far from the mind.
Is there a tinge of reproach in our gratitude
If we suggest that you can be too kind?

Farmland and forest have known your munificence;
Sweet, tender green springs anew in the fields;
Meekly and meetly we hail your beneficence,
Dreaming again fresh, glorious yields.
Bountiful rain, of your bounty give ear to us,
Yet deem us not for your bounty unfit,
If we remark that just now you appear to us
Well - overdoing it just a wee bit.

The forest's aweep, but the rain is still falling;
The farmlands are soaking, the paddocks awash;

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Reverend Mullineux

I'd reckon his weight as eight-stun-eight,
And his height as five-foot-two,
With a face as plain as an eight-day clock
And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock --
Game as a bantam, too,
Hard and wiry and full of steam,
That's the boss of the English Team,
Reverend Mullineux!

Makes no row when the game gets rough --
None of your "Strike me blue!"
"Yous wants smacking across the snout!"
Plays like a gentleman out-and-out --
Same as he ought to do.
"Kindly remove from off my face!"
That's the way that he states his case,
Reverend Mullineux.

Kick! He can kick like an army mule --
Run like a kangaroo!

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Oh! Oh! ...The Speed Increases

I want to touch.
I wish,
That you did too!
I get a 'rush'.
Thinking 'bout what we two,
Can do!

Smacking butts naked in the sack.
You say I say don't stop that!

Getting what we give right back.
And doing what we please...
Without the need for teasin'.

Oh! Oh! ...the speed increases.
Oh! Oh! ...the sighs release.
Oh! Oh! ...the sweat is sweetened.
Oh! Oh! ...the screams decrease to moans.

I want to touch.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Abu Ghraib Prison

Pictures flit across the screen,
Vile pictures ~ Truly obscene,
Bodies entangled and wound so tight,
Multiple bodies stacked for height,
Some of the subjects wore bags as masks,
One wore undies and was displayed to bask,
In the pictures were soldiers that smiled,
Proud of the art that they styled,
Laughing at the tormented men,
Slapping and smacking ~ Discipline,
American soldiers ~ Prison guards,
Sent to protect Iraq’s yards,
Protect and fight for Iraq to be free,
Sent to do good ~ Not to impede,
America proud to extend her hand,
To this country in the desert sand,
Seeing what Saddam had done,
To his people and their sons,
Murder happened everyday,
The lost were found in mass graves,

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poem by JerriFaye Thomason
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Mmm...I Like Those Low Things!

I like those low things!
Those distractions that attract.
The ones glimpsed when passed...
That capture and grasp,
When looking back.
With a smacking of the lips,
And receiving a tease for 'that'.

I like those low things...
That satisfy as a snack.
Those things one gives up,
To stay on a diet.
The ones that puts pounds,
On one's back.

Those things when eaten...
Convinces until I'm trapped!
Telling my mind...
Just a taste will not make me,
Or anyone

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To Uphold a Facilitation of Rhetoric

Too many had made a case,
Too make haste much too late.
And now they scatter...
To escape from crevices hidden,
To shield embarrassment...
Shown on their faces.

Snacking like mice...
And smacking on the remnants,
Of free cheese once liked.
With few pieces left to feed,
Those in abundant need.
And in speeches those who leech...
Has chosen one amongst them,
To move forward to speak:

'My fellow crumb snatchers...
To uphold a facilitation of rhetoric so enjoyed,
In a sustaining ongoing deceit we employed.
We must sneak away from those we leave in darkness.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Forgive Me O, Friend

Forgive me o, my dearest friend
For pushing you to the corner or dead end
You were taken to smoking
And then to hashish and smacking

What kind of harm did me to you?
You were to pass all ordeals through
Was it intentional on my part?
Or was a just thought with wrong start?

I must blame my self first
As your parent had put enough of trust
That I shall help him till the last
I took him to deep and dark valley very fast

Was it an ignorance or fine show?
We wanted to be with time and grow
We never knew its ill effects
Just followed bad ways with acts

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Whenever I Scream in the Car

Whenever I scream in the car,
I turn down the radio,
And roll up my windows,
So that no one will know or hear me
Trying to raise whatever catharsis I can
From the someday scar tissue
Of my larynx.
Sometimes I get frustrated.
I don't know why,
But it feels good
Just to try
To exorcise the demons
That swell in my head
And to expunge their evils
Before they consume me.

Whenever I scream in the car,
I make sure to grip the wheel
Because I could lose control.
My wheels could slip on a shrouded patch

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poem by Tim Stensloff
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