"inning" poems
I came only to watch one person eyes open and peeled.
The Blonde Bombshell was her name and O, what power did she wield!
One look and the explosion of her beauty could soften any heart of steel.
I knew nothing of softball besides the name,
but the blonde pitcher inspired me to change my game.
As I watched she seemed nervous on the softball mound.
Her first few pitches practically never left the ground.
The game continued and she pitched better in each inning.
Each throw as beautiful as she was and secured her team in winning.
She looked more confident as she began to smile.
Sending each batter back to the bench crying like a child.
As I prepared to leave I waved my farewell.
To a blonde beauty who looked and pitched exceptionally and gracefully well.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
With the start of the first inning
as the wind whistled through the tree's
Our short stop had his shoulder broke
and the fates blew in on the breeze
This team was a thorn in the side
of the Harding Presidents Club
It was on this night my son Tate
was scheduled to play as a sub
The kid pitching for North Union
hurled a cooking heater down field
You could hear that freight train coming
as it's hide was 'bout to be peeled
Their coach then rallied his talent
pressing their shoulders to the wheel
like natives dancing 'round a fire
driving devils who'd struck a deal
A death defying mid-air, catch
the bounding, ball tossed on the run
The Devil was in town this night
riding in on the setting sun
They dove and slid then nearly flew
as if the angels rode their backs
While running bases half possessed
plowing the field with cleated tracks
No one remembered the last time
that our team had beaten this bunch
That night they took the field in style
serving them all up for their lunch
,
The dice kept coming up seven
and oh prophetically so
When the sun had finally set
the score was seven to zero
Come ye father's follow your child
through the tough times every one
For the oft chance will someday come
when they will have finally won
Tate
© 2012 Tate Morgan
Written
April 12, 2014
Americans love the underdogs.
original
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1342622/
Original video poem of the same
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1354978/
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
I hate the beach
I'm eighty six and I hate the beach
Hate the sand, not a fan of the surf
Face it, I hate the beach
Last time I went there
I had just turned 18 years old
June sixth, Nineteen Hundred Forty Four
God, I hate the beach
I was in the 5th Regiment
Régiment de Maisonneuve
and I've never been to a beach since
I'm from Verdun, Quebec, Canada
Not many beaches around there
Thank the lord for that I say
We'd been training for six months
Operation Overlord it was called
We were coming in on troop carriers
It was to be a beach head landing
I'd never seen a beach before
At least not for real
Never want to see another
We arrived early June 6, 1944
I think I said that already
You must forgive me,
I'm 86 years old and I hate the beach
fourteen thousand Canadian Troops
Bursting out of armoured troop ships
Like, the young, virile, brahma bulls we were
Coming in, all I could hear was the waves
I was in front, well...close to the front
I remember, there were no birds
who ever heard of that?
A beach with no birds
At least not at this beach
I could smell the salt in the air
And I knew I could hear the surf
And my heart, I could **** well hear that
But, no birds, I couldn't hear the birds
Gunfire, nope...cannons and mortars
But birds and guns, not a sound
Weird huh?
I remember running forward
Always forward, past blocks
Wood barricades and barbed wire
And bodies, lots of bodies
I knew that I knew some of them
I just didn't have time to stop
And say goodbye,
I just ran
Emptied my weapon at least once
I only know this, because it was empty
when I hit the beach
God, I hate the beach
You know in the movies
or in those flowery books
where they talk about someone being shot
and how "there was a bloom or
they're chest flowered red where they were hit"
I never saw that, never looked back
Just ran forward, saw the "bloom" in their backs
Don't like red, or flowers or the beach
I don't remember much after that
Could still hear my heart
That's a good thing, I guess
I got tore up good with the wire
but I never got shot
Never, "bloomed" for anyone
A few of my buddies were lost
I toast them every year
Never at the beach though
I hate the beach
Wife and kids used to go
I never did, never will
I remember the 50th anniversary though
Wife and kids went back
Not me,
Went into Montreal to see a ball game
Montreal Expos 10, Houston Astros 5
I remember Will Cordero hitting a homer
It was the sixth inning, I toasted the hit
I thought about that day 50 years before
And went back to watching the game
I hate the beach
My name is Gilles Roquefort
I'm eight six years old
And I can still feel the sand and taste the salt
On a bad day.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
It’s time to discover your roots
Your heritage from the very beginning
History in the making being an inning
Being surprised in what you will find out
You mighty have somebody famous that you want to know more about
Now gather your research and see what you find out
Perhaps your roots date back to a craftsman who designed something unique
Maybe a celebrity figure who has reached their peak
Then later you find out they also tweet
Maybe a slave who was part of the plantation war
Ancestry eye heritage into another
Physical portrait of the other
Heritage that gave you a start
Your life was creation being a new mark
Heritage from yesterday
Destiny being your journey
Your future prepared from the very beginning
Your past too help you preserver on
A moment of reflection, “Knowing how to get along and knowing in life in where you belong”
A distance journey ever after with tomorrow having a defined meaning, and with the conquest of information too what has been longing.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
She laughs as I tell her how
The way she devours her stadium dog
Is so *******
I can’t concentrate
Only we are interrupted by
The crack of gunshot over an open plain
It is followed by a hoorah hurricane
So unison I stop trying to make her laugh
Think about the car ride later
And being stuck in traffic
And sliding gently into home
I want to tell her about years from now
Ninth inning deathbed passion
When my red seems finally begin to burst their cotton
About the splinters living inside of my hands
I was living with them inside of my hands
That’s why I was so rough sometimes
How the scotch guard kept the **** off of my knees
I loved to trace the outline of her ***** diamond
Until there were grooves in there
And my initials in her catchers mound
We are so much hoarse voices
Lost in the noise of ***** hands clapping
How I imagine
As I am sliding into home
In our shower
The soft patter of water on the curtain is stadium applause
Let me run grooves in your shapely pattern
Your laughter is a full circle homerun from heartache
Save me again sweet music
Open plain gunshot buildup
And then a noise so booming it is silence
And us
Ninth inning deathbed lovers
Gently sliding into home
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes
Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds
The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide
Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull
Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall
I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity
Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull
Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide
Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams
Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis
With glee…
I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
Sulking back grinding my teeth is useless
Taking out my ire on boneheaded people is ridiculous
Asking the world to stop using the 'F-word' is pointless as well
Yelling at the top of my voice against the vice is not worthy either
Involving not in policing activities without being authorized
Not caring for you jealous people is best in these circumstances
Gunning them down is impossible any day anyway
Lowly words are your virtue commonly crude language people
Ostentatious skills of yours are no use against the new born rage
Winning your hearts over is better than whining over your malpractice of teaching your kids the F-word earlier than either Papa or Mama.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
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
would be easy to bemoan blue Monday
but for me the downer is usually Sunday
for I am incapable of not peering ahead
drearily anticipating Monday’s dread
and knowing the day we name for the moon
will be here eye-blinkingly soon
perhaps since earth took seven days to create
Monday will arrive ignorantly intestate
left for all of us to build upon perfection
ripe for us to engage in insurrection
with the simple picking of fruit from a tree
and the loss of blind bliss for all of thee (and me)
so Sunday marks the end of a white beginning
and Monday is only the first black inning
of a game where we all run from base to base
but always return to the same selfish place
Sunday before blasphemous blue Monday
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 12:10 PM UTC
I thank you for moving out of my life.
Nowhere else is my own happiness,
Or rather it is my self-satisfaction,
Winning the 7 Minutes of pleasure.
Greatness I see in me after she departed,
Red-faced she seemed purple with shame,
Equipped with a pump I see myself,
A pump of self-satisfaction and relief,
Tasked I am with my own happiness,
Looks interesting this lonely pursuit,
Yet I know that I can be easily happy.
Advancing alone on the road of love,
Demands of my own body I listen to,
Minding not that I require a female,
If I wanted to make strong kids, 'coz
Ravishing my body has always been,
Even before I ever requested you to stay.
Maybe you can get a better husband,
Yet I am going to be really very satisfied.
This is the life I have always been loving,
Hindsight is never going to be pleasing,
I am so aware of this fact I have known,
Checked fully is that one best gift to self,
Kingly is this feeling of self-satisfaction.
Enjoy information I do in my life alone,
Just like before you or the others came,
And I now realise that before all I came,
Chiseled is my muscly pump after pumping,
Up & down, round & round, up & down,
Laid before I did in Agra like a clown,
Awesome is the feeling self-satisfied,
Tremendous is my relief each time,
Ever happier I have been pumping.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
Hand keys
To my heart
What a start
To another fatal
Chapter
After
The utter shatter
And the picking up again
Love’s abusive
Friend
Sadist archer
With fiery arrows
And a gate I can’t defend
Keys missing
This may be my
End
Before I’m even beginning
Key tucked safely
In your hands
And my stupid mind
Thinks I’m winning
Final inning
And I’m coming
Up
Short
No retort
Here I am again
The ubb
And dubb
Of a key
Made of me
I’m in love
I’m lacking
I pierce
Shattering
Smattering together
The same chorus
Forever
In offering of lovers
Like livers
That keep growing
Back
Back to the rock
And in offering
I lack
Maybe it’s me
But in order
To be free
I must offer my key
Heartbreaking and entering
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 7:54 AM UTC
The roller coaster ride
I never got on
Spinning and twirling
Wish so badly to be withdrawn
Feels like the world's crashing
I'm screaming and turning
As we spin downward
My head's thrashing and burning
As the train rises upward
The crowd is ecstatic
We turn to the left, wrong exit
All turn more dramatic
As we're racing our wheels
Sharp turns, narrow corners
We leave some behind
Emotionless mourners
This ride is strictly
For ones seeking adventure
Willing to make difference
Not nine-inning benchers
So as the ride empties
And all fade away
I notice this trip was a lifetime
As some would say
You lived yours quite wisely
Did not take for granted
A perfect example
Of a hip-hooray chanted
You didn't sign up for this
But this all meant so much
Even when your hope sank low
Your destiny was a personal crutch
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ball players grappling the Rock Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness.
And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown.
And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling ***** and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.
1.7k
My friend has stage four Hodgkin’s Lymphoma
and is barely three decades old.
He is part of my generation.
He updates everybody about his cancer
on Facebook.
He posts pictures on his blog
of the sterile beige plastic machines
that take pictures of him
and scorch his insides with radiation
and burn all but the strongest of his cells
with chemotherapy.
I haven’t actually heard his voice in eight years
but it was just nine years ago
that he and I both sat in a booth in a ***** Greek restaurant
in Downers Grove, Illinois, just off of Ogden Avenue,
and smoked cigarette after cigarette
and talked about god knows what—
stupid **** probably. Shit that only young, invincible people
would concern themselves with.
The truth is, I don’t know what we’d talk about if I saw him today.
Maybe we’d talk about how he is dying of cancer
and I am not, in spite of the fact
that I have smoked more than he has,
exercised less than he has,
eaten worse than he has,
and made all the wrong decisions,
while he’s made all the right ones.
We could talk about the cruel irony
or the cold indifference of life
or how plans never go according to plan,
but my guess is that he wouldn’t care.
He is in another place. A focused place:
He is in the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs,
and is one run behind the opposition.
The treatments haven’t worked yet, but he knows the stakes of giving up.
“I am Kirk Gibson,” he writes to everybody online.
“I am Kirk Gibson.”
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
2AM. Anxiety rings
Insomnia with it, it brings
I wish to sleep, close my beaten
Eyes. My thoughts quieten, Retreat in
To the place where I no longer have to think
All the experiences of today and my past interlink
My subconscious taking over with pictures they slink
down into dreamworld I hope I'd go This time I think
But unfortunately, That's not the way it is.
So I lie awake in my bed.
Thoughts
Rushing
around
in my
head
inst
ea
d
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 10:22 AM UTC
Weight back, son, back -- now! Pivoting in air, I felt wood crack
and sent one screaming over first. My three mates whirled
around the sacks and fierce joy burst past, or through...
First inning, Father. Bags full. And all for you,
who, miles off, listened hard beneath a static sky.
The radio crowed: "Grand slam!" -- and "You'll be next to die."
Once, you showed me something about the stance,
how the weight came through, and how the dance
of foot in dirt was beautiful and clean --
I don't recall the point -- not now, I mean.
But I still can see your hands, the coiled way
they worked the wood, and how your wrists turned,
mirrored snakes, twin roots, and how the simple day
was shaken by... what was it?... by all I'd never learned?
Your fingers were stubby, grimed with grease, coarse hairs
tangled over bulge of blood. My youth still fares
its way from lost to lost. I move my dancing feet
to match the steps you traced with yours -- and life's complete.
Yet as I gape and gasp in desperate dark,
a voice returns, riding warm winds from that park.
These forty years, I've been turning into you.
I have your hands, your heart -- and these will fail me too.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 12:57 PM UTC
it's 10:42,
and all i want is you.
this room keeps spinning and spinning,
and i don't know what to do.
there's eighteen different voices
demanding i make these choices
because, girl. it's the bottom of the inning.
stop. there are too many noises.
it's okay. it's all in my head.
still my veins are dripping blood red.
oh, how i wish i could go back to the beginning,
but i sit here hoping that i'll just drop dead.
so here's to a stroke of luck,
to life not being able to ****
to having you back because then i'll be winning
instead of crying my eyes out like a pathetic ****
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
Fall would bring down the
leaves and reveal the
entrances to their secret
tree forts.
They would wave two fingers
in their faces and pretend that
the early morning steam
of their breath was cigarette smoke.
They would laugh like maniacs
when the teacher wasn’t looking,
and be as quiet and innocent
as babies when he was.
The sun gone down, the last
inning played and the first
street lamps came on they could
be found under blankets,
reading scary stories by flash light.
When the winter arrived
they slept near the cold
glow of televisions.
Tomorrow screamed of
Baseball, and school books,
and notes passed in class
to the girls they pretended
to hate.
It would beg them to throw
off their shoes and feel
the sun warm blacktop
on their bare feet.
It would whisper secrets
of life, new things discovered.
When spring came around they
would chase through the
tall grass, looking for Pokemon.
They would accuse each other
of contracting cooties from
their spring fever addled crushes.
They would send away UPCs
from the backs of their comics
for the prizes, treasures untold.
In the evenings they would study,
and write and miss the summer.
As summer finally came they
would gather together, their
days at long last free for planning.
They would make additions to their
tree houses, tell fictional stories
about how far their old crushes
had let them get.
They would wrap on the side
of the old TV every Saturday morning,
when the static interrupted the cartoons.
Tennis ***** were made for bouncing
off the sides of houses.
When the air grew cold at night
they would string a clothes line
between their beds and the wall.
A sheet hung on it made an excellent
tent, a flash light a fine camp fire.
They would tell each other
what they would do when they
grew up.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 9:51 PM UTC
All of a Sudden
I was on my way to work, standing on the corner
waiting for the walk like to flash before crossing
I glanced over my left shoulder to check the traffic
before proceeding forward, when all of a sudden
there you were, a double-take if ever there was
eye-grabbing, breath-taking golden-haired goddess
I could not help but stare at her, even though I audibly
told myself do not stare at her you bumbling fool ...
Ir was 2 am when I awoke in a chilling sweat. The sheets
were soaked as my body was drenched. I had been having
this horrible dream, no nightmare. I was trying to evade
these South Equdorian rebels, who though I was some
sort of spy for the CIA, the FBI, NSC or something.
I had ducked in some heavy brush, when all of a sudden
there you were, the golden goddess I had seen this
morning while waiting to cross the street. You were
signaling to me to stay down, with your finger over
your lips telling me to stay quiet...
Ah Friday night, two tickets to see the Boston Red Sox
at Fenway park. What a way to spend an evening.
A co-worker who I had dated several times had scored
two box seat tickets from her boss at the Bank.
At the end of the 3rd inning, I told Emma I was going
to get us a couple of dogs and beers and strecth my legs
I walked up the ramp to the concession stand and got
in line. I looked over at the next line, when all of a sudden
there you were, this was the third time in 3 days that
we had crossed paths. Coincidence? What's the odds?
Something was going on and I needed to find out
what that something was. I decided I was going to
stop her and ask what was going on. I took my eyes
off of her for only a brief couple of seconds, but when
I looked back, she was nowhere in sight. I mean nowhere...
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 4:45 PM UTC
She had never said it first,
and it is doubtful she ever will.
Maybe it was the first disappointment...
She danced with her Dad,
a four year old toe head
standing on top of his feet,
uncoordinated,
hanging on for dear life!
A simple, child's mind
could never comprehend
why little a girl
could not marry her Daddy.
Maybe it was The First.
He never said it,
neither did she.
They were never in love,
nor did they pretend to be.
Maybe it was The Taker,
The Worker, or The Money Maker,
on a cold Christmas
or a snowy New Year's Eve.
Maybe it was pieces,
parts of all of these.
Each one who came,
soon went,
another brick in her
tower of solitude.
A fortress built,
no man could penetrate.
You could have her,
sure...
But you could never
have her.
You could take her out
for seafood and wine,
and hold her hair back
when she puked.
You could take her to a Cubs game,
hot dogs, beer, and Harry Caray
in the seventh inning stretch...
But still, you could never
have her.
In the morning,
you, or you, or you
had to go.
You, or you, or you
could never get too close.
All the while
she was waiting,
watching and waiting...
Riding time,
longing for, and craving
the one to bring the fire,
the one who could wrap
her in his flame.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 9:30 PM UTC
Home is where the heart is
This, we all have heard
But, as a die hard baseball fan
Home is ninety feet from third
You're told you're always safe there
But know this much is true
You may not always be that safe
If the ball's there before you
You're parents say you are welcome
To come home any time
But, to diminish complications
Reach home before the end of inning nine
Home is where the heart is
It's the best place that you can be
But, it only counts if you get there
Before the outs reach three
Home is fixed it never wavers
It's where you start and will end too
But, how you make it back home safely
That last ninety feet is up to you
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
half living...half dead
(something like that)
touching both sides
weighing them well
up and against eachother
as LOVE-ITSELF
i really have nothing to say
i try to convey some wisdom, that 's all
we are really not quite simply
as narscistic as we pretend
to be
so hidden
(usually by false exageration
of filial or "attractive" love)
a hidding place offering
false security
these are but opiates and are
the same
as all the other ones
we talk about
oh well
heading into the
"final inning"
who shall win?
WE DON'T YET KNOW
THE NAME OF THE GAME
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
In this point in life it’s time for change,
sure at first it will feel sort of strange.
Sit through the bad and stay a while,
and you’re sure to find a reason to make you smile.
Try not to dwell too much on the past,
because the present is here and will go by fast.
Or is it the future? It was but not now. Wow.
On this journey called life, hold on for the ride.
The one game you cannot win, although many have tried.
Let go, and live for now you see;
this is your time to simply be free.
A hot summer’s day, cold drink in hand.
Hold on to the youth as long as you can.
There are times where life isn’t so pretty,
who am I kidding, it can be ******
Take a deep breath and just keep swimming;
this chapter’s closing, it’s the last inning.
One door closes and another appears;
it’ll keep happening all through the years.
Never lose the way that you laugh and smile;
everything gets better, it just takes a while.
What’s to come next simply can’t be known,
that doesn’t change just because you’re grown.
Eighteen, twenty-one, even thirty-four;
surprises are plenty and there will always be more.
At the end of the ride you can look back and say
Hey, I’ve sure come a long way.
Through the tears, the drama and all the ****
it still gets better...just never forget.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC