i've been
reading poetry
ee cummings and--
sylvia plath
pretty pools of words filled with color

--and ducks

charles bukowski is a
***** old man
lots of ***** old
words
and images
but real dirt, not pretend
real's so hard to find
these days

they talk about love like it's
broken--painful--deadly--
always wonderfully beautiful
(like the beautiful snake whose
poison's killing you)

that's not
love

because it's falling asleep with warm breath on the back of your neck and your bed a little too small
because it's laughing so hard that you almost snort macaroni and cheese out your nose
because it's doing laundry and pausing just to notice how your clothes smell like her
because it's waiting alone, imagining how big you'll smile when she comes back - it's always bigger than you think.
because it's knowing that the pain's not part of love, it's part of being human

they don't know
nearly as much as they
think--
they do

i love--
baseball in the park when it's not too hot
(I play shortstop)
chocolate ice cream cones in the hot sun
(dripping down my hand)
flying kites in autumn winds
(the falling leaves make the difference)
sledding through the snow
(and crashing into snowbanks)

i love--
coca-cola
(in the glass bottles)
root beer
(with vanilla ice cream)
7-up
(it's better than sprite)
mountain dew
(caffeine!)

i love--
you
(and the soapy smell after you shower)
you
(making me laugh more)
you
(how much you care about people)
you
(and you let me, too)

that's my proof they
don't know
(what
they're talking about
that is)
so--
i think poetry
is overrated

We were well enough the first time
she admitted casually that
she would watch me die if someone
else would take the shot.

                                              We got to
second base (or shortstop)
way before we started counting
and recorded our accomplishments
on napkins, but forgot
to wash our hands before we ate,
before we fought,
before we cried.

                              Her name was
"who cares," mine was "I might,"
her approach to mathematics
was a parrot in a snowstorm:
plain to see, but out of place and
hard as hell to understand for those
who cared enough to try.

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.

first woke up 8:23
went back to bed
                              (oh so hungover)
woke again 9:30, rubbed my eyes then
drank 2 ½ glasses water/puked. felt slightly better
but not perfect so
sat down on the couch in the dark
                                                            ­blinds closed
and read a book
                            (desolation angels - kerouac)
until my headache [sorta] cleared.
drank ¾ cup orange juice to take w/medication, antibiotics
(just got my wisdom teeth pulled)
and one tab oxycodone.
stopped reading (couldn't say why ... )
then sat lotus on the table by the window
writing/picked up jon's banjo n thought up
a neat (simple) roll, played classical guitar too
                                                             ­                     ---watching girls.
did that til i got bored, or the girls stopped
walkin' by (1 of the 2)
so i washed dishes for the fellas
grabbed a longboard from by the door
rode over to the LCBO for some beers,
passed the ShortStop on the way back and got an Arizona
to have w/my Romeo y Giulietta on the tour home.

when i got back jon was up
(wearing a blanket)
making scrambled eggs --- heavy on the onions,
using all the dishes i just washed..

The first game of spring
It was the first game of the year.
The go lump ducks vs the hot rugrats.
On 1st base for the hot rugrats is: Tiny judy mad cat
On 2nd is Flash betty furball
At shortstop is lucky slip maybell
On 3rd three leg piggy polecat
Rt field Cassy cool cat
Cfield Tiffy Mudcat
Lt field Vicky short pants Field cat.
Pitching Wild arm Jayne legcat
Catching Junk Cat Kitty
The game is cancel due to Rats on the field  the team is hard to control
A real mess the lump ducks left after the first rat was tore apart.
But that's your line up for tomorrow's game.

it's great centerfield defense
and a shortstop that hits for average and power
flamethrowers that can strike out Thor
and a smart decisive strong armed catcher
it's the world series
it becomes the showcase of the best two
and the showdown
like it used to be
in the middle of the street
now a diamond
still dusty
and long awaited for
by both cities:
may the best team win!

I love me
I'm no tree
There's a fee for that
not including me
Shortstop the poetry
Prevent it from being more
about a tree
Be it a studly guy
Or something to buy
at Christmas time
3 women come to mind-
one a grouch, one decadent,
and one loose
Return to the blues
and this trilogy
with care
extra
will surely be
to the tune
of reading
Morning Becomes Electra

A pine tarred bat,  
that greets a frayed and soiled baseball.
Grass stained shortstop,
he leaps to pilfer your grin.
Anticipation from a crowd,
chants of lets go home team,
that echo through the sultry summer eve.
Bottom of the ninth, two outs and one run down,
it's now up to you to battle...........
to win.

The madman is the man
Who has lost everything except his reason
Chesterton was right.
The heart has its reasons:
Emily's dress was white

Grey day blues in Maryland
Ordinary ugly
But basketball with my boys
Tonight two green lights

Barnes and Noble bookstore
Billy Crystal knows a hassle
Barnes is alright
But that Noble is a real ******* :)

I read a biology book
The evolution of the mammals
I remember Lou Whitaker
And shortstop Allen Trammell

9th grade biology
Mr. Crabtree's Florida class
Judi and I lab partners
Sometimes saw her at Mass

      She was a grand wee lass.

The madman is the man
Who has lost everything except his reason
Chesterton was right
The heart has its reasons:
Emily's dress was white

Grey day blues in Maryland
Ordinary ugly
But basketball with my boys
Tonight two green lights

Barnes and Noble bookstore
Billy Crystal knows a hassle
Barnes is alright
But that Noble is a real ******* :)

I read a biology book
The evolution of the mammals
I remember Lou Whitaker
And shortstop Allen Trammell

9th grade biology
Mr. Crabtree's Florida class
Judi and I lab partners
Sometimes saw her at Mass

      She was a grand wee lass.

EXTRA INNINGS

I have outlived my mother
and my father. But I am getting
older, not younger, each inning.
Could I steal bases running
backwards? My poems scatter
the outfield. Some have been
home runs. Iambic pentameter
is playing shortstop. I sit now
in the dugout writing my novel.
The words I throw are strikes.
But I am playing in extra innings,
and I do not know when this
game will end.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks