"outfield" poems
We chase the ghosts of youth,
with glove and bat and ball;
running down the base-paths,
hoping we don't fall.
Like honey in slow motion,
we make our way to first;
panting... out of breath,
we hope our lungs don't burst.
If we're in the outfield,
we've "lost" the legs to run;
but it's the game we treasure,
it's mostly to have fun.
We laugh at our mistakes,
strikeouts and dropped flies;
it's but play... that we seek,
not self -regretted sighs.
Long gone, the grace of youth,
we muddle through the game;
and rest upon the off days,
tired... happy... lame.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
You're my storm cloud disguised as sunshine
but your masquerade never stops the rain.
Laughs like lightning flashing across your face
sharp and dangerous, followed by the thunder of
my ignorance, cluing you in on how far your lies
stretch into my desperation to be wanted.
Lightning.
Thunder.
Oh I never thought
I was that funny
Your electric strings
Pull the punch lines out of my mouth.
Thunder.
The lightning's best friend.
Thunder.
You must really like me
You must have told your friends about me too.
Because that cackles coming out of their
throats when I tell a joke sound just like
the storm, the zigzags of fire that tear through the clouds.
telling me how funny I am, how much they love having me around.
How you need me.
Time for my response… its my job right?
Thunder.
Thunder.
Why is it now that the way you curl your lips
when I make my jokes
looking
less
and less
like a smile?
Your friends know that shape
and they know how to make their lips look the same way.
Is it some contagious thing that they all have, and disease
passed around the room every time that lightning escapes.
But they all think I am funny
It must just be a friend thing…
I should learn how to do it too.
Thunder.
Thunder.
Streaming pixels
Blurry faces of “friends”
it must have been a mistake
The love me
next time,
I’ll make sure to clear it up with them
why wouldn't they want me to attend?
Thunder.
Thunder.
Glances like knives
Darting through the air like flies
and infestation of insects that
carry messages that
I don’t understand.
But they do.
Like a major league team
catch after catch
never missing those eyes that
seem a little bit darker
and a little bit colder.
Passing the ball around the bases
returning the favor.
Why can’t I grip ball that seems to bind
them all together
leaving trails of
text messages
and parties
that I was not invited to
this ball that seems to always
keep me on the outfield.
And how come everytime that ball goes
around
and
around….
its feels like
a punch to the stomach
never ceasing to knock me
down
and
leave me
breathless.
This must be what friendship feels like…
Thunder.
Is it?
because I look around
these hallways
where I always walk to fast
trying to keep up
yet I am always
one
step
behind.
I see that
these other girls
walk in straight lines
arms joined so that no one
falls
too
far behind
yet I’m always walking in
dizzy circles
wondering when they will
turn around to see if I am
still following,
still standing,
still funny.
Thunder, the lightning's best friend…
but that is never who I was to you.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
I have a problem, you see.
I own objects like blankets
I cannot sleep without,
Headphones 4 inches thick
To cancel the noises that
Wake up every nerve in my body
That make me shake and bite my nails
I own stubs for fingers
With cuts and chewed skin.
They run across my forehead
To stop the thoughts from occurring.
I count,
Correct the other side
When someone touches my skin.
I make sure every first letter
In the next line of poetry
Is capitalized,
Cause that's a rule.
I agonize over small things
Because as a kid,
No one helped me.
I was too nervous to play in the hose
Or turn on the shower
Because my family would drown.
The ritual began even then.
At 6 I could not play baseball
Because in the outfield
I would tic and make my nose bleed.
I can't even breathe without
Bothering this disease.
One lung does not fill up like the other,
And I get dizzy.
I have a scar on my forehead
From completing this ritual for years.
I fear
And feel.
Why do I fall victim to this disease?
God, I would pray but my hands can hardly
Touch each other without the horrible feeling.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
Did you see it?
That brother can do it
oh yes indeed he can,
like a young trout at dusk,
in a sweet still lake,
like a pouncing cheetah,
from many yards out,
like Wille May in the outfield,
for a soaring high ball,
like the most monstrous of great whites
rising from the dark depths & exploding
out of the ocean seal prey all clenched
in its merciless jaws,
like a cobra after transfixing its quietened mark,
like the most glorious of lithe pole vaulters,
like the most dandy of sweet young gymnasts,
like the great bull Magic Johnson springing over all & slam
dunkin' that rocketed ball as the whole court is helpless & the
people rock & its more points on that board,
that brother did it
just tore that Southern Hate right on out
of their White Pride hands,
brother just plain did it.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
i wandered for a long time
among thorns, disease and death
no glimmer to see
feel the walls, feel the cave,it leads you out
i found many Christian doors
locked with big heavy chains
you preach "come Ye weary"
to locked door?!
Christian followers preach beautiful
words divinely chosen for impact
no temperature ever checked
walk among bibles, oil and cloths
dance in praise
blow the battle horn
But But But
who sees those wandering in the dark standing before closed doors for help
closed doors mean" banishment to the Barron out field
red sin covered land
mercy irrelevant
demanding cruel deity
pleased with nothing
pushes self destruction
cries are stamp on
more pain more glory
damage soul the goal
your pleadings are laughed and spit upon
the glorious hellish Barron outfield
do you allow this dear reader?
do you have closed doors?
i lived in the outfields now i'm home thank God
my Guardian through prayer opened a door for me
now i know, now i know
follow the true Christ
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
she plants her lipstick
on my cheek
or forehead daily;
her stamp,
she says
leaving her puckered claim,
she says
in case some young *****
with game
throws a slow hanging curve ball
over my plate
and I'm tempted to hit it
like a-rod,
hgh and all,
up and over the outfield wall
then slide into home base
later
like it's batting practice
or
a double-header...
~ P (Pablo)
(8/7/2013)
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
opening up an eclectic ruddy random selection of books to the sound of classical concerto dimmed to 'whelming' (neither under nor overwhelming), is like entering point after point to perspective to new brain after old brain after subject to object to alluvit, the few, the many-- 'on July 21st, 1936, Lockheed test pilot Elmer C. McLeod, with Amelia as copilot, took the new Electra up for its first official flight..' 'This is the picture of the Djinn making the beginnings of the Magic that brought the Humph to the Camel..' 'A block away from the museum doors, the guards still follow us, until a new group of guards from the next building has us under surveillance..' 'More and more, I suspect that Buddhists and shamans are correct..' 'I liked Bloodworth and in the spring we were going to play outfield together on that Lowell team, he whose name for years had mystified me when I saw it in Lowell High and Lowell Twi League boxscores-' 'if the world at large found it impossible to believe the truth of the Holocaust, even when provided with incontrovertible proof, Berliners presented with piecemeal evidence, rumour and hearsay were bound to dismiss such talk as enemy propaganda, or perverted fantasy. As Ursula Von Kardoff recalled after the war: 'we were realistic and pessimistic. But Auschwitz?'- '"Twenty-five centavos."
"Twenty-five centavos," repeated the Syrian in a firm voice with almost no accent.'--
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
the other day
I filled up my tank
and got the cost to a clean dollar amount
right on the dot.
seeing that .00,
I thought it would feel great.
it really wasn't all that exciting.
I just figured it was all too expensive anyway
and so I just left.
somebody once told me,
"we fell in love with each other's words,
not each other's hearts."
well, I don't get it.
don't words come from your heart?
you're lucky you even got them.
I mean, we are what we say, right?
like, what would we be
if we had the sweetest hearts
but said the meanest things?
would we be liars?
who's to say?
if you were showered in flower petals of sweet nothing's,
then that person's heart must at least believe
what the mouth is spilling,
right?
I don't know.
maybe I'm just confused.
but ignoring somebody.
when ignoring happens,
the heart doesn't "think" about anything at all.
and it probably hasn't for a while.
so, thanks.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
it is a REGAL RHAPSODY to my EAR
to hear
that you'll be GIVEN SEVEN years
for what you did to me
while you AIM your
prison darts at my face
tremoring with hate
eating POTATO in a TUBE
I'll be YAWNING in an OUTFIELD somewhere
doing YOGA and JUDO in the sun
I, hardly concealing my GLEE
will vacate this
EXECUTIVE state
the commonwealth of massachusetts
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
They always placed me here:
In the outfield,
With the dandelions
And the cartwheels.
Spinning round and round,
Until Rachel shouted,
"Hannah, kick it! Kick it!"
The ball was huge,
Ginormous—
A little Pluto.
I kicked it with all my might
Straight towards the grey city
With the tall skyscrapers
And pins and needles
Shooting towards the sky.
I promise you,
I didn't mean to.
But little Pluto came crashing down
On your city
And with the weight,
I killed you.
A little dandelion kick
And you were gone.
In your will,
You bought me a ticket to Paris
And $1,000 to spend on cheese.
But I couldn't leave.
I tried to confess
How much I forgive you
For using your words
When you were alive,
To exploit me.
But the sounds are caught in my throat
Clenched by my unruly fists,
Unable to unravel themselves
Into spoken word.
My lips mutter,
“I’M SO SORRY”
In big letters—
But the sound does not escape.
I crushed you with a dandelion kick,
And after all of this—
You still remembered my dream
And held onto me,
Placed me in your will.
Then I awoke—
Not in Paris,
Not shoving Brie in my face
Not wearing the heels I packed.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 8:40 PM 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
When I was little,
We would play kickball
In the cul-de-sac.
You would scold me
While I was in the outfield,
Told me not to puppy-guard
The bases.
I told you to run faster.
Last night,
You wouldn’t let me
Leave, wouldn’t let
Me sleep alone.
I told you not to puppy guard
My heart,
To have faith in yourself,
In me, in us.
I told you not to puppy guard my heart.
You told me to love faster.
I told you I couldn’t.
You seemed broken, frozen.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Baseball caps remind me of you.
Not because you used to stand in the outfield with your mitted palm facing upward, patiently waiting for the ball to hit your glove.
Nor because that ball once hit your face, causing your nerves to jumble. And now when I stroke your cheek,
I coincidentally tickle your lip instead.
Not because you went to a Yankee game on the same day that you ****** her.
Or because I hide when I think you are near, with the same success of a celebrity avoiding paparazzi on a crowded manhattan street corner.
But because his birthday fell on the day that I thought I might love you.
I called to say I was outside.
You opened the backdoor of your building wearing a tattered hand-me-down baseball cap that darkened your eyes.
As I got closer your eyes emerged and met mine from the side of the brim.
I sat up and we both reached for my blouse.
But I kissed you goodbye,
And I ran home to him.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
I was standing there so cold and heartless
Bitter till the better end of it
And you'd mistake me to be shallow
But I wasn't quite the girl you'd thought I'd be
I was consequently hurting, the shell of me had left me wounded
You were amused at something similar within yourself
But you swore you'd never tell
We had effortlessly scabbed our cuts with innocence
We had seemingly drifted far from discontent and selfishness
You understood me when I spoke about the damaged things that made me choke
You understood me when I laughed out loud at nothingness
I understood that little smirk of yours when you had nothing else to say
Your laugh gave it all away
I was trying to align the moon with the stars in the universe
Hoping that it would come together in time
I thought I needed more time
But then a rush of rain poured heavy floods of all the things I wish I had the courage to say
I made an effort to recollect it all so I did what I said I'd never do
And then I threw it back at you like a fast pitch from the outfield
I had asked for guidance, I had prayed for comfort
I had over analyzed, but that's what I'm good at
And so I swallowed my pride, and gave it up to fate
Then you smiled again
And I smiled back
And so for the first time in a while
I was able to admit
Sometimes its so necessary to live in foolishness
I was cautious to all, trusting of few
Suited in armor and
And ready to try it all brand new
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
If there's nothing left in the world
Where would I be?
If there's not even love in the world
How would I feel?
If I can't love him because I don't know he exists anymore
How can I live?
How do I know the way others do.
I want to be normal
But that's not me.
My job for my heart at the moment is to be myself.
Not to blend in.
Just to be the only player in the outfield.
If there's a ***** loose
How do I tighten it?
If my feelings are hurt
Where can I go to get them healed?
Where are my feelings put after I die?
If death is the new beginning the is living the end?
Is it all an unending swirl of nothing that just makes this world, Earth?
Is there anything to be excited about?
What are emotions?
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
The Shepherds
There’s a lot of standing about
and shouting at dogs.
Meg and I tried it once
with **** young and impetuous,
though trained since a puppy.
December
in the pale sunshine of
Carrig’s fields,
One shepherd, two dogs,
sort and partition
their multi-coloured flock.
**** can’t help himself.
He knows his role
and plays it way back
in the outfield.
Deep extra cover.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:09 AM UTC
She's a mystery
our little vase.
just sitting out there
in the cosmos
all alone
with her hour glass
figure. It's time
to wake up and don
the 'morrow...
oh, such a powerful
p
r
e
t
t
y
new dress!
Einstein visits my bathroom
walls spouting bright ideas
about (ILL)uminati nation,
and it's coffee drinking
friends.
I'm sorry sir, but I don't subscribe,
I sleep very well, thank you.
I've lost half a front tooth to winter
already, tripped over laundry
baskets and almost broke my neck doing
the limbo...and the makers of Beano can't
keep enough stocked on the shelf,
oh no,
not I.
It's crazy how clumsy
i'm becoming of late.
tumbling into shell,
little green pistachios
tender meat
fledgling tuition's
not this sweet thing,
I'm not buying what you
ladies and gents want to sell,
I'll keep my wings,
my hearts and flowers,
no disrespect,
Thank you just the same.
I was never into Halloween
or the things that bump
into the night, or cackle
like mad hens in my half wake.
I prefer love, not the half light,
not the lime stand where Mr. Todd and I
have had quite the conversation yesterday,
who does he think he's fooling?
Ill advised, I might say, to play with
such things, such as the sweetness of
the naive flock, let's just say I've
been properly introduced
and my eyes are open,
and leave it there
on the ***** step
with the musical instruments
and the rainbows, I prefer
to be colorless like the page.
No trade darlings, nice try,
but I love you...
and anytime you'd like
to take a ride into the outfield
and watch the ballgame,
from the sidelines of a
couple of overheated stars,
remember, beautiful rays am I,
in which you may trust,
an accidental supernova,
see how the star's tracks
are blinking, winking, and
tapping out love letters
in Morris code...all for you
baby, all for you,
I intend to blow this pop stand
walk off into the fog, whole,
in love, with or without you.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
Let’s begin
When you left you were shaking off resentment from your skin like
what's creeping up the wrong sill like worms deciding too many things
Left footed thoughts, swinging right in the outfield, me
you up to
bat and ready to
swing but
let’s rearrange, compose, like a symphony
no like
geometry, because there must be proof in sides
so
Falling to time,
a narrative begins between peeling walls and moldy carpets
here, this is
where, we fell into the hole you hide in the back of your closet
us, American kids, falling in love over fuzz free tv
and candy
coating our clean tongues with ****
playing with our time in-between friction and when time
comes for our tongues to throw pitches against the midfield of your mouth
Fast Forward
you’re carving out your tonsils in the kitchen
with plastic spoons cause us,
poor and unready, for grow up things except diners
silver stained spoons, when all we needed was a god
**** knife,
for two years we get at it like kids do
loving the can opener that rides our back, twisting our spine
Rewind
up to the neck, wring like a rodeo
but all in good fun,
cause you only saw it on the television set
and there’s no harm in that television set for now,
no harm in "for now", but only
for right now for
us,
Purchase kids, writhing for the championship
of the some sea that
diminishes the second we ride the ground
spun, no longer won anything
Pause
sythentically sealed
and hemming like led
us, babies of the land stretching
his back waiting to wash us up to a home,
our silken thoughts snag on the line
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
Let me write these words pushing mental boulders
Throwing more pencils to the ceiling than Fox Molder
Keep believing in warmer days, it's getting colder
You couldn't freeze these gears, I came to play
Slay these demons without a sword to wield
Don't teach me the game, toss me into that outfield
Out of the cast but stuck remembering my name
Focus, on that single lane life but that satisfaction won't last
So you're trained to live for a dollar sign and that's fine
But me, I live for myself, I live for my family,
I live for those I don't even know and that's why this society can't stand me
I'll never be righteous enough to judge my peers
But when those lights go out, what do you really fear?
I fear that we entered a war against ourselves and losing
Looking at humans as a race, a gender, a label.
This table is not stable, it's leaking
I'm not speaking as a whole but in general, small lights
Shining to each other breaking stereotypes
This is my life, so dull, I created my own hype.
If you want to pull an ounce of my energy
Become an entity hell bent on greatness
You could be greatness, create it.
You've been waiting your whole life for a spotlight
Unable to see anything in sight because all you created was darkness
Every action, transaction, was watched by someone.
Make like a split power line, sparks shooting out a live wire
All it takes is one flame to become a bonfire.
It's all success if you throw your all into that blaze
They will believe you're crazed but shadows emerge and admire
The only reason your dreams are unrealistic
Is because most don't have the strength to risk it
But few fans would buy stock in your story,
With front row seats, they'd never miss it.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
blonde rays of sun over
popcorn teeth, baseball lover
who sits on the outfield and waits for the game
to come to them. slow, easy, drunk, and nonplussed.
the Man who smells like tobacco and Indiana
tells you that the earth never started warming up
until you were born.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
Sunrise
A light mist diffuses its rays
Rabbits lap at the morning dew
Eagles circle overhead
Morning
Kids walking to school
Rabbits flee to the bushes
Eagles circle overhead
Women in designer sneakers
Walk designer dogs
Dogs stare intently at the bushes
Eagles circle overhead
Students in PE uniforms
Run here and there
Yelling, chasing *****
Eagles circle overhead
Riding mower screams near bushes
Spraying grass and debris
Terrified rabbits flee the mower’s roar
Eagles plunge downward
Aerie rests upon outfield lightstand
Eaglets screech, mouths agape
Mother rips warm meat from a tiny carcass
Her children will live another day
Noon
Students sit here and there
Eating, laughing, smoking
They leave trash in their wake
The rats are lucky the eagles have eaten
The sky is bright blue overhead
Students in PE uniforms
Run here and there
Yelling, chasing *****
The sky is bright blue overhead
Kids walking home
Individually and in small groups
They ignore the trash
They do not see the rats
Puffy clouds float by overhead
An old Mexican man with a sad demeanor
Walks the field
He picks up the trash with gloved hands
The sun beats down upon his head
Boys in cleats occupy the field
Mouths full of seeds
Moving in choreographed actions
The sky is filled with grayish white spheres
For awhile
Dusk
The field’s lights blink on
Accompanied by a faint fluorescent hum
The eagles are not disturbed
The bright bulbs warm their nest
The sky is cobalt and pink
Groups of uniformed boys run on and off of the field
Spectators’ cheers punctuate their actions
The eagles sleep peacefully
The sky is obscured by bright lights
Night
A trim Caucasian man moves a heavy switch downward
One by one the lights go dim, silent, off
The last lights are his truck’s headlights beaming across the infield
A crescent moon is visible overhead
Deer and coyotes play deadly hide and seek during the night
The deer seeking sweet flowers and grass
The coyotes seeking the deer
The moon and stars glow brightly overhead
Sunrise
The sun peeks above the horizon
Warm hues of yellow and orange
Songbirds wake to announce the day
Eagles circle overhead
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
There are people I love more than you
And many I love less
But not all loves are equal
And yours was always best
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC