"ballplayer" poems
Jackie Robinson is exalted
as the first Black man to play,
but far fewer fans remember Glenn Burke,
the first ballplayer openly gay.
Like Jackie, he played for the Dodgers-
(different coast and a different time.)
Glenn came up to the Majors
In the summer of 79’
Burke was strong and tall and fast
And some teammates called him “ King Kong”
Though he roomed with Reggie Smith on the road
most nights Reggie Smith slept alone.
Burke befriended Young Tommy Lasorda
which was why he was traded away.
Old Lasorda couldn’t deal with the rumors,
Nor acknowledge his own son was gay.
Glenn Burke rode the pines while in Oakland
Billy Martin never gave him much chance
When Burke injured his leg in Spring Training
That ended his time at the dance.
He drifted, his playing days over,
He used, he stole and did time.
An accident left him a *******
Unprotected *** ended his line.
No shock was the A.I.D.s diagnosis-
His sister had long known he was gay.
When she took him in he was dying
when all others turned him away.
Sandy Alderson, with the Athletics,
took pity on Burke in despair.
The team paid for his A.I.D.S. medication
and covered the cost of his care.
Sad is the fate of the Athlete unsung,
dying apart from his team.
Glenn Burke showed that a gay man could play,
That a Gay Athlete also can dream.
Glenn Burke passed a long time ago
But his story deserves to be told.
He said when your suffering, dying of A.I.D.S.
Even days in the summer are cold.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
LET it go on; let the love of this hour be poured out till all the answers are made, the last dollar spent and the last blood gone.
Time runs with an ax and a hammer, time slides down the hallways with a pass-key and a master-key, and time gets by, time wins.
Let the love of this hour go on; let all the oaths and children and people of this love be clean as a washed stone under a waterfall in the sun.
Time is a young man with ballplayer legs, time runs a winning race against life and the clocks, time tickles with rust and spots.
Let love go on; the heartbeats are measured out with a measuring glass, so many apiece to gamble with, to use and spend and reckon; let love go on.
1.7k
There's a room somewhere,
locked fast behind an unassuming door
looming grey-brown at the end of a
misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time
to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature
of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell,
smelling of adolescent sweat,
still dusted with sandlot crumbs,
a reminder of those ground *****
that sped by too fast to field,
those fly ***** just out of reach,
suspended in a June twilight
lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates,
signed by leaders of puny regimes
paved and repaved over,
proof of a world before this,
an era of (now) perceived achievement,
legitimized, glorified by Old English type
printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops,
receipts of a linear plotline:
Drama, comedy, a budding romance -
Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen
but ultimately unfulfilling;
the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out
with no one left to answer but the man
who, as quietly as he entered it,
exits the room,
as always, leaving the door just ajar,
enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy
chasing an invisible horizon.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
get yourself hired
being sad
for my wife.
that you’ll report
to no one
is our
secret.
I’m horrible with nicknames.
I’m horrible with a mammoth
white dog
not called
snow-fort.
send balled-up
paper
animals and planes
into a felled
by father
flooded
treehouse.
get yourself on video
being sad, or taking
a ball
from a ballplayer.
be my wife
in spirit, be
grief and the cloak
grief
is not.
get thee to silent
fireworks
above a tipped
canoe.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
“If I could only paint,” the despondent poet said,
“If I could only paint, I would surely knock’em dead.
Like Rembrandt or Picasso, like Whistler or Van Gogh.
I’d open up a gallery, and everyone would see
The pictures that I’d painted and they would envy me!”
“If I could write a novel,” the painter empathized.
“If I could write a novel, then I’d have realized,
My dream to be like Hemingway, Faulkner or Thoreau.
I’d be in all the book stores, my books would be top shelf,
And I would finally know that I’d made something of myself.”
“If I could hit a baseball,” the author next agreed,
“If I could hit a baseball, I’d be in the major league.
I’d hit home runs like Willie Mays, and run like Shoeless Joe.
The fans would come to all the parks to see me lead the team,
The kids would want my autograph, and all the crowd would scream.”
“If I was smart,” the ballplayer said, “And studied law in school,”
“Then I could be the President, and I’d make all the rules.
I’d be as great as Washington, FDR, and Honest Abe.
I would meet with foreign diplomats, and help the world find peace,
All America would know my name; Play ‘Hail to the Chief’”
“If I could write a poem,” the President bowed his head,
“If I could write a poem, my ego would be fed.
I’d describe the beauty of a flower, and the winds that softly blow;
I’d keep my poems in a journal, let no one ever see,
And be content in knowing that I had done it just for me.”
pwl 3/7/03
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC