"fielder" poems
Always____**
Days
Months
Up to our loved ones
necks
Getting callbacks
and lookbacks
Will I be
most likely rejected?
Until dusk to Dawn
The full moon turned
What will be expected?
Shoved mouth to mouth
brewed into the
Starbucks
With any luck
It's hard to make
a buck $
The Dawn Lightning
Striking again wetter
Ridiculous remarks
and kicks
in the pants
He shoved
me into a romance
But we never
ended up where
I wanted to go
France
The editorial the
Mediterranean
Slim chance rainbow diet
The villas of the exotic
flowers riot
Vacationer in vineyards
Grassy bear
Mr. Griswald
Vacation despair
Party pushovers
The sour cherries OOh!
La Wee Vacation,
The push and shove
What's up
Doc_____*
The jilted Jump always
a stump
What-what
about the
President
Trump
Shoved me right
into
this poem
sonnet
Documents of
Vacations places
of memories
The Jack ***
Surrounded by
screwdriver
Or meeting the
screwballs_______
Or goofballs
Sesame Street parade
Big bird feast
His face climbed
Mount Everest
Dry mouth lips
((Frenchie Vermouth))
He's the
right fielder
The field Mr. Costner
on her left dreams
The toast all shoved
around the town
chauffeur
Don't shove me
inside
your world
vacation
Big problems not
like ordering
the best pizza
in Brooklyn
Memorial day
shoved into a soiree'
Unbelievable traffic
American Major
problem leagues
Upscale love signs
and graphics
To resolve this
Vacation big shots
The London
Hotshots
Society
At the worst time,
I had to do
Political speech
Don't shove
me or leave me
If you're not
going to please me
And not your
payroll to
tease me
He's next on the move
pushed to be shoved
I rose
I suppose
He shoved me
He gazed upon me
Like another ticket
to his vacation
He dazed with
his eyes
not to be loved
But all yummy
To take a bite
Apple strudel
pie
But dark ends
of petal
flowered bright
The last word
struggling to
feel shot
My payroll got me a raise
My own vacation
to myself big praise
to love me
Not to be pushed to
love someone
A vacation is to be
with someone that
treats you
on a pedestal
Don't shove me this
is my portal
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
Slide to Unlock
When inspiration is imprisoned,
insight,
a crime-of-no-passion victim,
strangled by codification,
clothed in a prison uniform,
where uniform be another word for a
poet's death sentence.
When dream interruptus,
is a nightly altercation,
a hellacious sensation,,
rolling of the dice,
rewarding the dreamer
with an not-so-good ending to his
falling sensation,
or, for an old school type (me),
the nightmare worst:
A world sans punctuation!
The truth about what haunts you,
in the valley of dried bones grows whiter,
even Vishvaksena and his armies
helpless, cannot eradicate.
Then, your iPad reminds:
"Sir, sometimes you have to
Slide to Unlock!"
Slide to unlock the aggravations,
Let it out with disregard,
Let us know how you feel
When the constriction in the throat
From the things you can't say
Stops making you choke.
Truth is out of style,
common decency is a phrase
unused
or just abused.
The only difference between liar and fair,
a single letter and a
rearrangement of the facts
to suit yourself.
So I like you fine,
I like you better even,
now that it's ok to slide
beneath the fielder's tag
and get in your face and
unlock what rumbling around
in the ruins of my psyche,
ruminations about this and that,
released with a flourish and a rich
***** you!
But I like it, like you best
when in the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness,
it's ok for me to politely inform you
to fk off!
So,
I do declare myself
unlocked
and in your face
booked!
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
I love baseball.
The smell of the grass, the crack of the bat, the pop of ball hitting mitt.
I love baseball.
The friendship, the camaraderie, the seed shells littering the ground.
I love baseball.
From behind home plate, to the on deck circle, to the bullpen in right center field.
I love the fist bumps I recieve, entering the dug out after a well placed sac-bunt.
I love the hollers and cheers when the ball flies over the fence.
I love seeing the other players and knowing they love the same things as me.
Standing on the top step of the dug out, impatiently waiting for my spot in the lineup.
I love watching my shortstop tag out runner after runner.
I love my pitcher hitting his spots and I love our left fielder diving for pop flies.
I love catching and blocking ***** in the dirt.
I love the bruises I find on my body after every game.
I love keeping my foot on home plate before throwing over to first on a double play.
I love seeing the lights and hearing the cheers, knowing they're for me, my team, my sport.
I love baseball.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
When the soul seeks
the song frozen in time,
Divinity obliges by
sending a few echoes down my path.
They reverberate across
the blue champagne
waves of inertia
to awaken reminiscences
of our harmonic rhythm.
Moments flow syllable like
to find a meaning
between the lines etched
on destiny's canvas as
a presence converges into resonance.
Every word is amplified together into
honest understanding breaking apart
the rational mind icebergs
that predominate love.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
Maggie was my mother, my emotional mother.
She came into my life when I was in third grade.
She and her husband, Floyd, lived in the apartment
on the third floor of our house. My biological
mother was too depressed to be my emotional mother.
She spent every afternoon taking a nap from 1 to
4:30 and watched TV by herself in the living room
from 7 p.m. to 1 a.m., then went upstairs to her own
bedroom and read detective paperbacks until about
3 a.m. So Maggie always fixed breakfast--two poached
eggs, grits, and two toasted and buttered slices of
wholewheat bread--for me every morning as I grew up.
Maggie also washed my ***** clothes, spanked me
when I need a spanking, and hugged me when I
needed a huge. I have never forgotten the time when
Maggie (I have no memory of my biological mother
ever being in my bedroom when I was in it) brought
me lunch when I was sick in bed with a cold, along with
an ice-cold bottle of Squirt. I remember loving the taste
of Squirt, which, for some unknown reason, I had never
tasted it before, nor was I ever going to taste it again.
Many, many times I would go up to the apartment around
dinner time when Floyd had gotten home from working
at the Santa Fe shops, knock on their door, and invariably
Maggie would say "Come in," even as she was cooking
dinner for Floyd and herself, because she knew it was
Tod. I sat with Floyd at their small kitchen table and
talked to him about, among other things, who we each
thought was the better center fielder, Willie Mays or
Mickey Mantle. I felt at home with Maggie and Floyd.
The two took my two sisters and me on occasion to
the drive-in to see a movie in their old car. What fun!
Maggie, a Black who had grown up in racist southern
Texas, was illiterate, but I was not conscious of it when
I was so young, and when I got older and knew Maggie
couldn't read or write, it didn't matter to me at all.
Maggie could love! That was the important thing.
I always felt loved when I was with Maggie. And Floyd,
even though he thought Mays was better than Mantle,
remained my friend for along time after Maggie had
passed away.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 24, 2023
Apr 24, 2023 at 12:28 AM UTC
I started at the edge of my seat.
Subconsciously found my way to my feet.
I look at the mound, and then at the plate.
This is our chance.
Our one last hope.
He steps in the box with a glare at the mound.
First with the right,
And then with the left.
Bottom of the 9th with two men out.
Come on, batter, just relax.
Down by one with a man on first.
A tingle runs up and down my spine.
There goes a strike.
Now there's two.
Down to our last...
Then a ball comes through.
The count one and two.
Here comes another.
Now two and two.
A strike or a ball?
Only the pitcher knows for sure.
He winds his body up
And then follows through.
THWACK
This one's headed for the wall.
The crowd stares in awe as we look at the ball.
The fielder runs back, but stops at the track.
Before I knew it, he was touching em' all!
A fist in the air as he rounds first base.
He claps his hands as he rounds second.
When he reaches third he shakes someone's hand.
He touches home plate and I take off my hat.
And that's how we won with one swing of the bat.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
no let up from the scorching bat
the flogging is a bit too thick
where the fielder gets laid out flat
due to its fervent canning stick
the flogging is a bit too thick
we've been struck by the boiling heat
due to its fervent canning stick
every day this is on the beat
we've been struck by the boiling heat
downed in a sixer's knocking hit
every day this is on the beat
which drains our energetic pit
downed in a sixer's knocking hit
due to its fervent canning stick
which drains our energetic pit
the flogging is a bit too thick
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC