I pay my ticket to enter the giant
concrete staircase on the periphery
of the bay of San Francisco.

***** Mays and other boyhood
heroes would do their magic
along this shore for so many years.

Now that I no longer feel the
baseball enthrallment–
because my body cannot see
itself moving with such speed and grace–
I dream of a different crowd.

Homer pitching the ball,
as someone must start the play;
Lao Tsu striking with wood
at what moves so fast it
can barely be seen.

Such hollow sound as ball
is soul-bound into the ether
of the Psalms. Emily
Dickinson snags the high hit.

The onomatopoeiac crowd
lifts its unified heart to
the resounding cheer of
Walt Whitman on grassy
outfield of bliss.

This warm day in the concrete
hang-out, I see in the concrete
dug-out such heavy hitters
lined up for a quick swat at glory.

Maybe something soothing
in between the innings–
an oriole or an Indian foot dance,
while I dream of dancing in my sox.

The world doesn't understand
Poetry isn't for eyes to see-
It's not to be deciphered by the masses
But for the heart to feel
Don't pick it apart like a puzzle
Because in pieces there's nothing to be
You need to view it as a while
Because the emotions packed between the pieces
Are just as painfully real

To make, a

p r a i r i e,

it takes

a clover

and

one

bee, one

clover and,

a bee

and revery,

the revery -- alone

will do if bees,

are few…

Emily Dickinson