#sleightofhand
Quiet are the fields
with ghosts
from pennants past
the aces
and cutters
set idly away
from the maple
spread fall
soft sounds
of Sunday
(chilling on the boneyard)
telling tales of
validated stars
and wheel house legends
the rally cap sluggers
with mahogany eyes
Mustard colors
in floating mists
give a hallowed glow
to sublime skies
scattered walkers
trip to the hole
their spit buckets
and spigots
pressed loosely into
pure life form
bikers and loners
and curious coffee goers
mill about the horn
whispering numbers
from an old
Keelman heaving
Alley lookers
and Mendoza lines
screachers, bleachers
from years gone by
dancing fingers
and cracks at the bat
moonshots
(from the big time Timmy Jim)
the 9th inning gunner
with sinker
and slider
and imposing
brush back ballz
the game day citizen
and dugout warrior
who lit it all up
in Rockwell fame
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
You know the feeling, dear
Lover of Words.
Sounds of syllables
rolling through your mind
like deliciousness itself.
Sometimes it's just the sound, then a glint
of meaning smiles at you, inviting you.
Lifting it gently, like a sleeping child
you listen for potential phrases,
sentences emerging from within her dreams.
Tuck the covers lightly
around your new poem child,
and may the Muse of Words
favor her, and you.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC