#bluejays
The Boys of Summer were all named "David"
that year,
But "George" and "Ernie" and "Davis" and "Vladimir."
An overpriced clan of underachieving also-rans,
Last place dishwater, poured into tin pans
But stories are made of such sinewy stuff,
the connective tissue--the gristle--that only chews tough
and never goes down. Of infield dirt on dark blue jerseys,
Of bright red on white pants, from bleeding, skinned knees and wide smiles shining under 7th inning light.
And what is The Great Game?
A story.
The Great Game is a poem.
It whispers and surges and wanes and then screams.
A child of fickle fate, following parental footsteps,
selling beer and hot dogs to the Norns as they weave,
(team sweaters in the 8th inning roar)
A city, a province a country had guessed, in swing-and-miss dreams,
and blown-call cogitating, of .500 finishes and lukewarm bathwater--Of room temperature chow at the kids' table, and calling it "strides."
But Goliath was sleeping after twelve peals of the bell,
and the first round was over like a pinch-hit homer.
The Boys of Summer were all named "David"
that year,
But "Kirky," and "Davis" and "Gausy" and "Bo,"
"The Hound," and "Isaiah," "The Savage" and "Mad Max."
_"words that are heavy with nothing but trouble..."_
_Our_ Tinkers. _Our_ Evers. _Our Chance._
The giants played on their ground and from on high they fell,
by grand walls, by glass towers, by the frothing seas.
A City's Chosen Sons spent their summer slaying titans.
What is The Great Game?
It is a poem.
And our teams are protagonists.
What is the ballpark?
It is a cathedral.
We kneel at the Altar of Grass-Stained Knees,
and with infield dirt whispers of oiled mitt leather do we pray:
_"Let's play two." "Say hey."_
Play ball.
Nov 3, 2025
Nov 3, 2025 at 6:21 PM UTC
Ah, I remember her well.
She used to roam the woods brandishing her scepter of sticks
Commanding the creatures of the forest
The blue jays loved her, all the animals loved her, but, especially those blue jays
They brought her gifts.
And accompanied her on all her adventures
And watched her from the branches
In return
She gave offerings of bread and warm milk
And wore their feathers in her hair
Oh my,
her hair was a wild mess
Sticks
Pebbles
Feathers
And Braids
And somehow
That wild tangled mess
Made me smile
She made everyone smile
She took a particular liking to me
I watched over her
but
in reality
she watched over me
Imagine that
a little girl
pep in her step
and sparkle in her eye
taking care of a scarred man like me
We had a trade
a weekly occurrence
A story for a story
A tale for a tale
She would whisper a story filled to the brim with
fairies and trolls
and trees with purple blossoms
and golden roots
I would hand her knowledge about the world
She saw the truth in people
called them flavors
said mine was a cup of hot chocolate
spiked
with peppermint
I once asked her what her truth is
asked her about her flavor
Frosting and moondust
she said
with a smile
Now don't look at me like that,
She had her flaws
Even the most magnificent paintings faded with time.
What happened you ask?
She grew up
And everything changed
The winds didn't carry the scent of honeysuckle
And the crickets never sang.
She cut her hair.
And her smile was guarded
Weighted down by a heavy stone.
The Bluejays observed solemnly from the dead tree branches
As she withered away
The forest no longer hummed
And the town never felt so lonely
Even I lost a piece of me
When she got on that train
Without a wave goodbye
Maybe one day
The creek will chuckle again
And she will come back and
Finish that story
About the king and his butterflies
And I will tell the tale
About the origin of the moon.
But, perhaps that is just an old man's wishful thinking.
~
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
Under a blue sky,
Bluejays eating blueberries
Then away they fly
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC