"hitters" poems
Brian was the perfect teammate. We were team parents and out numbered 3-2. But he was a strong enough player to hold a level playing field. When bases were loaded, he was the catcher and tagged our children before they could score a run. His commitment to our team made us strong and we did the best that we could to hold them on base during the teenage years. But their team was stacked. Three heavy hitters ready to stand up to the championship team… Wow! What an amazing game we all played together. And I had an outstanding coach.
But one day, one of their player’s was injured and could no longer play the game. It was a sad day, the day we realized that we were one team and that one of our star players would not be there to help bring our team back to victory! We suffered a few bases, but even though we did, we still came out winners….
Krystalyn married the man of her dreams. She brought 2 new players to the game, Joel and Zoey. 3 runs there. Sean has gotten sober and is in school to be an oral assistant. Score 3 more. I have moved on to be G-Ma and the proudest parent I can be… I scored 3. Brian fell in love, remarried and shared our family victories. 4 more runs.
What an awesome team. We are sad that Brian was injured and cannot play anymore. We will miss our coach. . But, we are happy he and Jay are together now in the bleachers and keeping score. We are still winning…. 13-0.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
On wheels
On the road
Off our heads
City bound
Let's go bro
Let the adrenalin flow
In search of narcotics
On Devilment Row
Where the good don't go
Here dealers compete
In a threatening way
And if you're not bold
You better not stay
Young joeys surround you
On the carpark
But you ignore them
And head inside
The deals are better in there
Though the risks are higher
Amidst the heavy hitters
Thirty or forty
To pick and choose from
What ya sellin'?
What ya deals like?
Everyone's suspicious
And everyone's armed
There are people murdered
In this part of town
And nobody blinks an eye
And you know that when
You're that close to death
You feel so very much alive
By Phil Roberts
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
she paints her smile on
and turns her weary thoughts to the
sunlight streaming weakly through the open door
she hesitates on the cusp of her movement
and carefully considers stepping out there
but is instead captured by
the motel balcony's chipped concrete features
it powder's the mind with years it has seen
the nineteen sixties frat boys
and the seventy's hard hitters
but that train of thought evaporates into the
open sound of his shouts from the parking lot below
she lays a trembling hand on her bag
and casts an attempt of deep gaze around the soiled room
for lingering pieces of their adventure
before stepping into the light furnace of day
the sudden appearance of the highway near at
hand tumbles into her field of perception
tonight they will be hundreds of miles north is her thought
she checks the doors lock and half stumbles to the stair
she dreads the events to unfold
dreads the hours of engine noise and his muttering
the mindnumbing noise of the radio
and the etched features of roadway benith wheel
somewhere up the road this will end
that knowledge is secure
all things change
but enduring is the cuckold of thouse who
thrive on the grieving of the unbearable
she leans her frame into the car
its japanese pleather is sticky
and she by pulling the door shut acknowledges
her departure
they move to the road
with seeming intent
a backward glance of longing is her only consolation
they are travelling once more
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Betty Botter bravely brought her
best out putting pen to paper
built a book both brave and brittle
based it on the bitter battle
she had fought to beat the bottle
blossomed bigger, better, brighter
got the right to be a writer
Brought the book to Bertie Baxter
Baxter's Bookstore's biggest buyer
but the buyer was no biter
he thought vampire books were better
Tried to bate her and berate her
and belittle Betty Botter
bad benighted ******* bade her
"Be more like the bigger hitters!"
Better bet your bottom dollar
Betty Botter's ****** bitter.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
My elephants body is
Yellow and black
He has a pumpkin orange head
Be careful when you hit his
White striped trunk
It'll knock you dead
He has flopped out ears
And glass tusks instead
And i fill him with only
The tastiest flowers
I myself have bred
My elephant is a bubbler
The hitters on the back of his dome
So when you hear that bubbling crue
You'll know
Theres an elephant in the room
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
#
*--never goes away
when forgiveness is forever an option.
Intensity, passion, and conviction..
each have a volatility all their own.
In other words.. **** happens sometimes
when two Heavy hitters become close.
If there is heartfelt value,
and enough honesty..
nothing close and good
within the Realms of Love
is ever truly over.
You make a wonderful conduit*
#
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 1:57 PM UTC
Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch
We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy “boo-boo!,” only two.
We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We just don’t want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion.
O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries . . .
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, “It’s me I see. Just me.”
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures,
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
But hack him down and still he’ll always rise,
lifting his smile to the sun or the star-filled skies.
Published by Lucid Rhythms, The Eclectic Muse and Victorian Violet Press, then nominated by the latter for the Pushcart Prize
Keywords/Tags: Angels, baseball, ****** reconstruction, surgery, operation, God, scars, tears, courage, mirror, smile, date, dating, dog, attack, dogs, happy ending
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 3:24 AM UTC
Confounded by the notion-
tough calls made by high hitters
holy rollers
pushing perps towards methods
needles and thread
heart of lead
logs split the stems of the reasons,
sob stories, trust issues
daddy problems
it's all the same
to some
the proletariat
guilty and prestigious
what a winning combo
lacked freeness, full of this knowledge
can't write worth a ****
**** poor,
not anymore
since passion was absorbed
a dried up, muddy ******
spring is coming! spring is coming!
One if by land
you if by me.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
Trip Sitter Poem by Rob Sandman
We’ve all got a friend like this of course,
Istabraq, Seabiscuit the ould warhorse,
Snortin like a whale inhaling at the surface,
Smokes til just lookin’ at them makes your lungs hurt its-
Amazing grace while you’re off your face messed up,
They’re in the corner laughin' - not a hair mussed up,
**Not out of place in the place to be,
The opposite in fact a life saver to see,
Always at your back with a friendly shoulder,
A spliff, skins smokes-well timed glass of water**
Not immune or a ****** just seasoned,
When you’re lost-beyond all reason,
Lost the end of your sentence?-they’ve got it,
a well tuned part in the heart of the party chaotic,
The calm center of the whirlpool, Deadpool-
Quick with a line, not too cuttin’ but nobodies fool,
trip sitter, designated brain at the sesh,
A little OCD maybe, but nonetheless,
We’re all thankful with a full tankful
Its gas havin' a laugh knowin' you can bank full-
Confidence in your mates if you trip,
*But no mercy with the quips, quick! zip your lips
If you’re not in full control of the tongue,
They’ll be followin’ the slips and zip down your lungs
You’re a wounded gazelle on the plains and they’ll lunge,
Like a cheetah once you’ve taken the plunge*
I’m not talkin of only one person of course,
We all take turns as the tour de force-
goes round
**Like a Merry go round sound friends abound
While you’re bewildered the wildebeest takes the crown,
Don’t know about you, but I’m blessed with a few true-
Trip sitters babysitters life fitters diametrically opposed to bullshitters**
*Sideplitters with one liners that leave you gaspin’
For air beyond compare got the grasp and flavor
Best savour the moments-they’re all too few ,
Best friends are saviours who help you pull through,
So lets all give thanks to the big hitters,
Thanks lads and lasses I’m always grateful for me trip sitters!*
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:37 AM UTC
(Children chasing, people screaming)
Good American fun
At a baseball game (pee-wee)
I sat on the top row of a twelve-seater
Bleacher, clustered between strangers
Declaring war on second graders.
To the right, a blank score board
Screamed the depression of a
Poor town's last winter, while
In contrast
The smell of concession stand
Popcorn enticed the eager middle
Schoolers with loose quarters.
All people were eager to lose their
Own frustrations in a children's game;
They would traumatize the left-hand hitters.
I looked left, to the other end of the field,
Opposite the obvious winners.
Beside the cluster of flowers where
I got stung by the yellow jacket,
Behind the fence where my brother
Kissed his first crush,
You stood there.
Your ***** blonde hair was ruffled
Wild. Your eyes, hungry.
All stared, frozen.
You stumbled forward.
(Children chasing, people screaming)
No more fun.
Nothing ruins a mid-Atlantic spring day like a zombie infestation.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
There is so much
I need to apologize for
Even though
I already know
you'll tell me not to be sorry
I'll always feel bad
for the little things
like my smart *** comments
or my loss of control
every time I see a Volkswagen
But then there are the hard hitters,
matter on a larger scale
Such as my perpetual depressive state
or my impaired sense of
proper intimacy
My largest fear is you
one day realizing how difficult
I am;
I don't want you to learn to despise me
like all those preceding you
I'm sorry for being
so very broken
You don't need to pick up my pieces
But if you'd like to,
I might not argue
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
I pay my ticket to enter the giant
concrete staircase on the periphery
of the bay of San Francisco.
***** Mays and other boyhood
heroes would do their magic
along this shore for so many years.
Now that I no longer feel the
baseball enthrallment–
because my body cannot see
itself moving with such speed and grace–
I dream of a different crowd.
Homer pitching the ball,
as someone must start the play;
Lao Tsu striking with wood
at what moves so fast it
can barely be seen.
Such hollow sound as ball
is soul-bound into the ether
of the Psalms. Emily
Dickinson snags the high hit.
The onomatopoeiac crowd
lifts its unified heart to
the resounding cheer of
Walt Whitman on grassy
outfield of bliss.
This warm day in the concrete
hang-out, I see in the concrete
dug-out such heavy hitters
lined up for a quick swat at glory.
Maybe something soothing
in between the innings–
an oriole or an Indian foot dance,
while I dream of dancing in my sox.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
I know I've said I hate it but I love it at the same time
Two heavy hitters jockeyin' for position in the same mind
It'd be a high noon showdown in a different timeline
I'm fine,
You ever hear that slip my lip just know that I'm lyin'
©2024
Jun 12, 2024
Jun 12, 2024 at 1:18 PM UTC
The rains came.
No matter.
The Irish kids with Hebrew names
still took to the lot behind the redbrick
apartments to play a close-quarters
game of baseball.
From home plate to first base
the distance was ten yards.
From first to second, fifteen.
Runners placed one hand
on a rusted iron pole, once
used as one half of a clothesline,
a makeshift third.
Their frequency of play
rendered the space between
bases grassless.
And in the rain on that September
day, the lines became sludge.
The muck claimed shoes
of earnest feet, badged the
legs of the best hitters.
Hey batta. Hey batta.
Thunder overhead and
all around.
A lean, blonde-haired
boy, all legs and arms,
got a piece of the ball
on his first pitch.
Upward into the clouds,
upward into the invisible.
He took first, started for
second.
The others kept waiting
for the ball to come back
down.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
I know the pitcher got
A
Hell of a fastball
And one mean curve
But we got 1000 hitters
Crowding the on deck circle.......
SOMEBODY!
Get up there and try to hit the ball
WILLYA!
••
("I can't
Me good **** gone and me be sad!
Boo Hoo")
••
••
RAIN
Is the name of the song
In the shadows?
Is it you I see?!!
Standing TALL
heroically
TELL ME YOUR NAME AND I'LL TELL IT TO GOD
for on you
All trust is placed
••
A
Little child
is
Lost on the Street
Won't you help me find him
Please?
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
There is a muted conversation
In broken english from the recesses of the dark room but the intent is clear
Overnighters all eyes and hands
grasping at the tattered remains of
reason they struggle against
the methods of maddness
this world makes custom
for each of us
Her smiles
are near to my heart
but her fingets too close to my wallet
The heavy hitters
step to the plate but
remain mute when they given
a chance to save the day for
this set of innocence
The crippled man limps
slowly to his last meal
while vultures pick his pockets clean
Im in trouble here
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
Our Father,
who art in heaven
Mother Earth,
who art in Hell.
Burnt to ash,
ready Armageddon
Watch the sky
where angels fell
Zipper-mouths pulled tight
as the Cross passes the way
Carnal masks shimmer light
As sludge engulfs the day.
Vicious, vicarious crows of blackened ember
Cawing and moaning; devilishly romantic
The touch of fingertips on lips I remember
Left her womanhood wet and frantic.
Unchained desires that surely are satanic.
Those hours in confessional amongst lying sycophants
Console weeping eyes and tarnished souls
Elected “Saints” stand tall with hypocritical blather
Condemning children with eyes like burning coals
“But virgins taste sweeter,” as the angels say
With sins like spices which season raw meat
But innocence-takers hide beneath crimson beds
Sitting atop thrones as stewards to God’s seat
Will those that fall, eventually rise?
All creatures tempted by tangible discord
Would we disobey the Grand one’s design,
If we follow the path that derives from the Lord?
Samaritans run extinct in the iron fire roads
And jukebox ****** priests play The Doors
Demon-eye coffee, dark like oily foes
I sip and read about the murders in the Moors
Devil executions fuel the jungles outside
Angels Abandoning service to kids like me
Fixers and hitters of the skid south side
Shouts from the shadows, “Hey, Nothing to see!”
Violent red dresses accompanying long limb girls
Spreading legs for daddy and **** daddy do’s
Magic hallucinogens showing circles and swirls
In faces under hoods and sky-crying moods
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
No notes but imprints in the dirt. My raw emotion shrouded my fear.
Kicking at rocks along the way.
I knew what the world could to an innocent. Not that im anything of the sort.
I took roads like this before.
A day when purity had been robbed of.
The last thriving light about me.
But that isn't what I come to reveal. The kind of beings I bare in mind would become dime a dozen due to the bulls hitters.
Gone in seconds. Slipping away quietly. I just walk out of lives.
And to those I was bound by blood I'd love to forget.
I know I made lasting impressions in lives. But to who extent should I stay. No other than mine.
Just remain as a habit. Maybe the its the pain of not saying goodbye. I need it more than you
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Fledgings playing against the Big Stars
hard hitters pummelled
just for their supposed being
Headliners durability chiseled
the chips are down
and the Fender spreads
a hard rain
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 4:23 PM UTC
On wheels
On the road
Off our heads
City bound
Let's go bro
Let the adrenalin flow
In search of narcotics
On Devilment Row
Where the good don't go
Here dealers compete
In a threatening way
And if you're not bold
You better not stay
Young joeys surround you
On the carpark
But you ignore them
And head inside
The deals are better in there
Though the risks are higher
Amidst the heavy hitters
Thirty or forty
To pick and choose from
What ya sellin'?
What ya deals like?
Everyone's suspicious
And everyone's armed
There are people murdered
In this part of town
And nobody blinks an eye
And you know that when
You're that close to death
You feel so very much alive
By Phil Roberts
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 9:29 AM UTC
most instances when i initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly,
and madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby a generic home
er run (hitting) mill
(on the floss sing false teeth)
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy Joe,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
(Egg heads, merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst of tangential thread populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate
coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. **
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining tour de force
whereat fingers of the lefthand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expended leaves (of grass)
finds me Walt sing whit man nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
I'm bored.
I want to hit up
people I don't
care about
and go have a beer
and loads of cigarettes
hold each other's shoulders
in a group in some bar
and laugh like
we are real friends
even though
I've quit
that life.
I'm just bored
and that's
what bored man do.
They go out
and pretend that life
is better than it actually is
and we intoxicate
our selves with drink
and smoke
and plenty of other things.
But instead
I lay in bed
reading a book
I'm half way through
it's good
but it's not enough.
My feet stink
I refuse to get up
and shower
I'll just change socks,
my teeth feel off
from the coke I drank
and I haven't brushed them
since yesterday,
and my poems
hit like heavy hitters
would back in the day
where boxing wasn't
rigged
or ran by punks
with YouTube channels.
God ****
What boredom
makes a man do
in times of need.
Maybe
I should take
a walk
but I'll sit here
marinate on my own
fight against addiction
lack of connection
and poor hygiene.
I'll invite my dog up to bed
and let him lay on me
while he stares at the wall
and I'll stay bored
and write a poem
that won't hit like the rest
but as least
will serve
a purpose
as my girl
waxes her legs
and waits for me
to say something.
Mar 30, 2025
Mar 30, 2025 at 3:46 PM UTC