"ballpark" poems
Down at the Shipyards people are *Waiting for their "Ship-to-come-in". At the Ballpark people are *waiting for the "Home-run-hit". At the Racetrack people are *Waiting for "Their winning horse". At the street corner people are *Waiting for the "Light -to-turn-green". At the office people are *Waiting for "That-Raise". At the restaurant people are *Waiting to be "Waited-on". At the bookstore people are *Waiting for *THAT "New-book". At the the Shoe store people are *Waiting to see if "The-Shoe-fits". at the Doctors office people are *Waiting in the "Waiting-Room". At the grocery store people are *Waiting to "Check-out". And it's been said, that folks today,have No-Patience ! WELL, Excuse me, just the few illustrations above, clearly demonstrate, THAT somebody is *Waiting for something ! What are their intentions of asking for Indulgence, Tolerance and Unity. AND,, don't dare Upset the Apple-Cart ! Down at the Coffee shop people are *Waiting for that "Java-with-Ummph". At the corner people are *Waiting to be "Taken-for-a-Ride". Downtown people are *Waiting for a place to "PARK & WAIT" ! "Pray Tell,,,WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR " ?
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 8:18 AM UTC
A sea of voices murmuring
At the ballpark in the afternoon.
Shouts of "Hot dogs! Foot-long hot dogs!"
And chanted hometown cheers
Fill the sweltering summer air.
Men with wooden sticks and leather gloves
Play a nation's beloved pastime.
And I watch enraptured by the rhythm,
Sounds and smells of this place.
Sometimes you just need a slowdown of life,
A weekend dedicated to the melding
Of past, present, and future,
A getaway into the wonderful world of
BASEBALL.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
i love that sound
a wind walks by and stirs the trees
that rushing breathing sound
the leaves make as the branches are swayed in the wind
i love the many voices of daylight
a lawnmower and childrens laughter
birds chattering
a small plane boiling overhead
pulling a sign for some event
i love the sound of summer
i love its taste
ice cold soda when your sitting on hot pavement
the texture of a overcooked hotdog at a ballpark
i love the taste of
your lips while you are sunbathing
sweat and sunscreen are an ****** mix
i love how summer tastes to my mind
it feels young
it tastes free
i reach up with incredible grace
****** the contrail from that jetliner far overhead
and tie it into a ribbon for your hair
there you go my lovely
you are a young french princess of the world
i love your taste most of all
you taste like love to me
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Going left a smile
green* bluesy* drift___
Getting out of debt
The heartedly so flowery
rosy ring around
Gifted box
Valentine Rosy
I box heads over
puppy tails
cozy firey
Love diary doing the
Cutesy
Bow Wow parade
Those red hot lips
cascades
she's... the... lie...
The hue (Anchor- Blue)
Gotcha "Eyes Baby blue
Clue"
To cross my red heart
And hope not to die
The Lady's
finger (Godiva)
I-spy finger*
Heartless Diva
The fork of the road
Lies of the
dead ringer
He points his finger
Face to two face
facelift?
Boom-Boom___
a car crash just a dash
Her beats and hearts
What a crush to her
___left
Tell me sweet lies
I box gift
Oh! Yes you're___ right
Like the scoundrel
The damsel in distress
sweet morsel
I sir box like spots spread
Like the (Chickenpox)
Hearing lies tons of
squirrels
Like Botox Plastic
Rascals
I-box ties
Hallmark, I love you lies
Superman Clark
Outfoxed the ballpark
Little lies blue
big shark
Smartphone I Sir bark
Red Valentine love walk
People are the luckiest
I- wish
Close your eyes sweet lies
Sweet I-Box in Trio
CEO Watching "TV FIO"
Podcast little lies turn
into big lies
Ballot Political list
Romantic cutout card lies
Tell me, Little Lies he trips
Electric lips music chair
Open eyes full shut lips
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
I don't know what Jonas has been preaching,
There's a pigmie on the roof
And claymores in the kitchen.
I never rejected nothing
Cept when I was dazed and dazed and confused and confused
If I wanted to leave
I would use the door I saved for later
That leads out into the void.
I need to take a day away
Or breakdown and watch Casablanca all day long...
Because I thought it was a forever song I was singing,
But I'm out of tune,
And my rheumy eyes are liars,
And I want to christen my great granddaughter
But I'll be dead...
I just wanted my declarations to resound,
But in a town of disrespect
Chain link fences make for noisy neighbors.
I have every bit of it on the line for YOU.
I'll drop it,
But it will stand on end,
Like a trick quarter.
Four in the morning
Forty five caliber bullets blasting
I found myself in the backseat
Of a burned up police car.
Every thing is rotten,
Except the infantine seamstress
Who doesn't come out anymore,
Because you scar(r)ed her.
I just wish I could eat a bag of salt brine soaked
Ballpark peanuts, shells and all without having a **** stroke.
I wish I could, smoke, without Jiminy Cricket, calling my doctor,
And the red squad arriving with the straight jackets,
And the bear mace.
I can't project the rigght radiation,
I get that, but its not for lack of dying.
So this is my death letter, to be read to my reincarnated infant self
Twenty three times, by twenty four different people,
I want a life size wax model of Eeivel Keneival
To throw rice at me thrice
Once for each marriage,
But on the third throw wild rice
Because that is what I think of when I think of you.
The burglar ate my begging strips
And the ravenous dog
Is getting impatient....
I've seen the truth in the darkness of the soldier core.
Why not open the gate to abracadabra land,
Give me a list of your one thousand forms
In code of course,
And I will pay the piper
So he can finally change this doggone song.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
Loading the bowl and packing it tight
Take a rip off this chronic delight
Let your mind soar, weave and wander
Relax, hold it in just a bit longer
Let the spirit of the bud fill your lungs
Ghost it, ballpark, have a little fun
Feel your eyes droop low, streaked with red
When suddenly your stuck, you can't get out of bed
Your tummy starts to grumble, your mouth grows dry
You stumble towards the kitchen and eat an entire pie
You move towards cabinets laden with sweets
You eat the saltines, canned corn and canned beets
You devour all the candy, you inhale all the fruits
You head towards the fridge and receive some bad news
The milks gone sour, and there's nothing to drink
Your mouth is so dry and you can't even think
Water is flavorless and wine is too strong
Getting so desperate, take a swig off the ****
Ew, that's too gross, I'm sure you'll survive
But next time this happens, keep a soda near by
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 11:37 AM UTC
Last year's version of the mind-body problem:
my mind gives orders that my body won’t obey.
It’s a problem.
The body’s warranty has expired and
spare parts are scarce. Plastic tubes
To help me drain have become part of my day.
So there’s still a will. But sometimes no way.
I am now my sister’s age when she died.
And some nights
as I lie down in darkness
there’s a moment of wondering
could this be the night
of the Great Reckoning
when everything I’ve said and done
goes mute and I am gone.
And crawling over me like a slow stain
is dread that everything important in life
has already happened. I remember some days
less than my dreams.
But friend, not this tone!
Let us write a history of now.
Body and soul, stand up and shout
“Baseball road trip!”
Car: check. Best friend: check. Nostalgia for a simpler
time. We can fake that one.
The red zigzags on our map turn into places:
Six ballparks in a week.
Detroit haze, gasping Chicago wind,
Milwaukee self-serve micro brew
Cincinnati chili and watering eyes,
Cleveland’s defiant self-love,
Pittsburgh’s Primanti brothers monstrosity sandwich—
Burger, coleslaw, and fries on toast.
The American dream tastes like fast food,
But the mystery lives between the lines.
Thwack of fastball into catcher’s glove,
Whock! of line drive into the gap,
Ball rolling free across the green
While the runner speeds for home.
Home.
Let’s keep going, friend.
There’s another bridge up ahead and
a ballpark’s lights shining somewhere in the dusk
of the upper Midwest and the open road
unrolls toward the setting sun.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 7:16 PM UTC
*I knock it out of the ballpark
by expressing myself with
just a few words.
I write poetry to show my emotions
that I have trouble expressing
through my actions.
I am autistic and my brain is wired differently than yours.
Emotions are like the ocean,
my tides might rise higher than yours.
I have learned how to ride the waves,
like a pro I surf as I ride with pride.
I am a poet not by choice but
by chance because I am an autistic poet and emotions are my tool.*
© 2017 By Amanda Shelton
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
“I thought you said that they would come. “Ray said it with a sigh.
Outside the ballpark Chaos reigned as another city died.
At Camden Yards a game was played; no fans were let inside.
Terry sadly eyed the scene and fought the urge to cry.
For baseball represents the best that America could be,
until hatred triumphed teamwork, forging chains of misery.
The inner harbor is in flames and they’ll not soon subside
The bitter angels of our nature ruled as another city died.
In time the final out was made and the players left the field.
The home team lost, no save was made
And no one’s wounds were healed.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
You won't have small problems
If you've got big dreams
There'll always be a roadblock
something pulling the loose strings
No one said it'd be easy
To achieve such a thing
But when you have plans
You always preserve
And succeed
You don't let the things
That are thrown at you leave a mark
You always take a swing
To knock them out of the ballpark
Right from the beginning
Right from the start
You fought for what you wanted
Gave it all your heart
It may seem like your getting no where soon
But add this to your smarts
A large fire always begins with a spark
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
they call me key man
I have keys to everything
need a door unlocked
be it the highest tower
or the deepest of dungeons
a secret garden
or a ballpark stadium
I can get you in
I have keys to everything
except a place in your heart
Del Maximo
(c) July 29, 2009
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:10 PM UTC
On that crisp September night
I heard the music play.
I will not hear those notes again
for Sandman’s gone away.
With one out still left in the ninth
Two men approached the mound.
Jeter said “It’s time to go.”
The ballpark roared with sound.
Was there a dry eye in the house
when even Hall of Famers weep?
That night, Mo’s opponents cheered,
for the man who spelled relief..
For when a game was on the line-
Foes threatening to score;
One man, one pitch was all it took
as Rivera barred the door.
On that crisp September night
I heard the music play.
They will not play his song again
for Sandman’s gone away.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
you took my ****** rags and smeared them with your spit-- taped naked pictures to the wall of that dungeon until all he could see was your body, and your body alone. you loaded the pistol and shot yourself in the foot, when I noticed the bleeding you said it was just a flesh-wound. he finally fizzled your toes from out of your shoe, a dark cinderella-meets-the-prince-in-the-dark, and I saw that the wound was so open and gangrenous that little spritz of dried blood had formed faces and tears on the soles of your torn-and-tumbled canvas shoes.
you tried to say sorry. you pleaded and pleaded and said you'd take pistol-to-head or pistol-to-heart to be rid of the pain of my gargled and gutted reaction. you cried and you cried, our hearts sunk to the bottom of plastic-now stomachs.. but forgiveness is no microwave. forgiveness is a ballpark in steep Illinois summer heat where you drink to stay hydrated, think to stay sane, and write to the titter of tears on your chest.
Now heal your wound, antibiotic the gangrene. Just better the soles of your feet.
I'm already walking and walking and walking 'til my face meets obliterate sun.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Hair in a pony tail, ball cap on.
Wearin’ my team colors, ready to rock on.
Husband agitated cause I’m makin’ him wait.
Hey, gotta have my face on, I gotta look great!
Finally at the ballpark, game already rockin’.
Peanut shells crunchin’ quickly walkin’.
“Excuse me, Pardon me”. Finally to our seats.
Hot dog and a beer. This is hard to beat.
Into the first inning and our team at the plate.
Ooh, it’s my favorite player and he is lookin’ great!
Strike one. Ball one. Strike two and then,
A crack as wood meets leather and that ball is gone forever.
As one, the crowd roars and on our feet we stand and grin,
We watch our hero round the bases and bring that first run in.
Back and forth the score goes; it’s the bottom of the ninth inning.
Two outs already, bases loaded, our last chance at winning.
Crowd silent, on our feet as my hero takes his stance.
Only down by one, we know this is his chance.
They’ve brought the “closer” in, the one with all the skills.
He’s throwin’ heat, he’s throwin’ low, he’s going for the ****
A nasty strike zooms o’er the plate and a collective gasp is heard.
My guy steps back, deep breath in, and not a single word.
Ball one is what the next pitch is and the crowd begins to whisper,
My batter glares toward the mound, “That all you got there, Mister?”
The pitcher shakes off two signals from the catcher,
Checks the runners on the bases, winds up the widow maker.
Like lightning that ball leaves his hand, and with a mighty swing,
He hits the best grand slam homerun that we have ever seen.
Our team has won, the crowd goes wild, the stadium is rockin’!
Our boys are roundin’ those bases and not a one of them is walkin’!
Hand slappin’ our seat mates and huggin on each other.
A long night of baseball ended. Don’t you just love those boys of summer?
Copyright, 9/8/09 Peggy Montgomery
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:38 AM UTC
Keep us out of the ballpark.
Keep fans out so no crowd.
Instead Steal Doritos and grab free beers
There's no stretch in the seventh
cause nobody's here!
Oh it's loot, loot, loot from the storefronts
If we get caught its a shame!
and its one, two, three cops knocked out
at the old brawl game.
Keep us out of the ballpark
ban the fans from the stands
The vendors laid off cause there's nobody here
he's out of a job cause no one's buying beer
Oh its loot, loot, loot from the storefronts-
that Freddie Grey's dead -it's a shame
and it's one, two, three cops knocked out
at the old brawl game
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
I called her tiger Lilly
As she favored clothes with stripes
But I did not back away in fear
when she flashed her pearly whites.
There’s a chapel on the campus
And we both so liked to sing
There was just one little problem
Lilly wore another’s ring.
She’d been six months separated
From her lawful wedded mate.
She’d suffered two miscarriages
Things between them weren't great.
It still of course was possible
That they might work it out
But I found myself falling
Every time she was about..
We started sharing moments
At the ballpark and the shore
As much as we were together
I found myself wanting more.
I told myself its over-
that her man’s not coming back.
She’s a pretty, gracious flower
and a tiger in the sack.
And then one day it ended
Her parents intervened
They forced them back together
We never had our farewell scene.
A year after we’d parted
There was a story in the news
Lilly died in a car accident
Her husband had been stewed.
So every year on that same date
The day I heard you’d died
I lay a Lilly on your grave
It’s from your other guy.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC
We are made of music
we call to storms by will alone
our kind are out of the ballpark
yes us, of the Gothic and Dark
Our banners are many
our loyalty confounding
it's a close community of beauty
as we scribe drinking after dark
So many intelligent writers out there
in that dark and gothic stance
my love for dark poetry
is truly my inky romance
Being burned to my grave
I perishish yet still will rave
being honest and stark
to my love of the gothic and dark
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
These are poems I had digital copy of which I brought over in one day!!!
I have just added notes and at least ballpark dates for now, I may have better info yet!!
So much love yes here from all on Hello Poetry!!!
We are an interactive community,
maybe some of this will add to my story and stories.
I don't know if I should apologize,
for my feeling of emptiness here.
It's simply me.
I have here and there paper and other,
digital poems or drafts or texts as some are stuck on old devices.
I have drafts here I don't, know if or how they will edit, various format and style types.
So any feedback would be most graciously welcomed!!
I am already indebted to all here for so many reasons!!!
Please accept my thank you's to and for all of you and this!!!!
Also here is a good place to share poetry pieces you want seen,
and or seen again, feedback love!!!
Share your dreams,
expose your fears!!!
We are here to make one come true,
laughing while the other disappears!!!!
Ty ALL!!!
Sa Sa Ra!!!
<3<3:)!!!
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
i found you one day
when i was only 15.
funny thing is,
you were only 15 too.
you were cut kinda funny,
so off they shipped you.
your color wasn't quite right either.
i tried you on for size
and you were perfect.
robin's egg blue.
since then we've done a lot,
and seen a lot too.
we've been coast to coast
and overseas.
spent summers at the ballpark.
handing out dip'n dots
and watching pop flies.
moshed, danced, drank, smoked, ran, biked, swam
together in fredonia.
climbed over mountains, deserts and everything in between.
one night we were in a three legged race
and that's when you got your first hole.
the lace pulled right through you.
since then you've gotten a few more
and your souls have worn thin.
i think of them as battle scars,
memories.
you tell my story better than i ever could.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
My poor brother is not doing to well
...and he is ******* as a martyr
He fears the inevitable end and the loose ends of his life...
yet I have vowed, I will sew all the threads for him
I stopped on a mark
as my brother is out of the ballpark
no cheering for my most endearing
I will be shattered when we part
My poor Peter
my kin and loved
if you die
let me send you above
My brother, you will never know
Peter you will not know
God, how I love you so
and I stop.... STOP, no flicker of finger
I stop my writes for you
and be commanded to do
my brother Peter
whatever you wanted me to
Just don't blow me out of the water
don't tell me I would not care
for where you are treading
I have been there EMC2
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
man emerges from this
darksome ether.
this: time suspended
in the ballpark, without fetters.
i have dreamt the truth
of my vicarious call.
is it not that my measures secure
these constitutions
of ineffable fruitions?
it is likened to our heartland's
acrimonies: dreaming in the
misty vale of sleep is the word
and its insistent void,
riddled by amorous intent
of barefaced realisms.
there is nothing here but
subservience of fantasy's burlesque fanfare
on broad vaudeville.
man sinks into the bottom
of this, rests in the
soft hands of this earth-woven
word - a poem's importunate nativity where all supremacies
are born ceaselessly!
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
I am a ballpark moth.
a buzzing light is made my home tonight
in time it dries my wings and takes my flight
but for now i live aloft a peacetime game all
shouts and metal.
If i could say,
i know i can’t,
Like a broken arm cast in sound aluminum,
Unmoveable
but highly mobile.
Soon enough you’ll hear a mother’s admiration,
pride by proxy someone taught me:
Aggression in sublimation.
What makes a mother fly i’ll never know.
I refuse to help mythmake America’s obsessions.
smoke or dirt or metal war
mythologize
and I’ll wait forever for these wings to dry.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
~
*The ballpark is on fire
And there's a man
In a hospital gown
Directing traffic*
~
Aug 24, 2024
Aug 24, 2024 at 2:17 PM UTC
from the boy
(on the soon to be
exact
date
our poverty
matures)
this ballpark
statement:
I did not ask to be born.
he wants the names
of those
I’ve told.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC