THE SADNESS OF OUTFIELDERS
i never want to grow old
like Willie Mays
i hope his age never shows
Willie Mays jogs toward centerfield
and doesn't see the reality
that it is 1972 and he is playing for the NYMets
and that he is no longer young
that he is not 'The Say-Hey Kid' anymore
And I watch him move without grace
Willie Mays the most nimble of outfielders
bends down to field an easy single
a nothing ground ball to the outfield
in a game that doesn't matter
and a base hit that turns into tragedy
as the ball rolls past his outstretched gloved hand
And for a moment he can not believe
the ball rolling behind him
not entrapped in the leather glove
that made a mockery
of so many sure hits
in that 'basket style sweeping' catch
And I begin to cry
remembering the Mays of 1957
the Giant who
swatted three homers
against the Cubs
as I watched
from my outfield seat at the Polo Grounds
marveling at how the white baseballs
seemed to leap out of the stadium
when Willie snapped that perfect swing
Willi is always the ‘Say-Hey Kid’
while Mr. Leo smiles acknowledging perfection
Watching ‘the kid’ spinning throwing tumbling
like some continuously twirling top
only to lose inertia and fall returning to earth
the way he did in the World Series of ‘54
to rob Cleveland’s Vic Wertz in black-and-white footage
of another yet amazing over-the-shoulder catch
Just proving he could do the impossible
Sprinting turning his back to the infield
Running into our youthful memories
And I weep not just for Willie
but for myself as I want never
to grow old to grow old as Willie Mays
looked this day and how embarrassed
finally to be relegated
to play first base for the Mets
Because first basemen are always ‘butter-fingered’ or ‘has-beens’
especially when they join ‘the mahvelous Mets’
A freakish attraction of what once was
And I never want to fumble
reaching for something
that isn't there anymore
And I still cry as I can remember
how old he and I became
when that easy ground ball
rolled by Willie and me forever.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Overcome by Cool
Overcome by Cool
Into bleachers of
bright Florida sun…Rookies
hit each aimed fastball.
Veteran pitchers, enjoy
dug—out shade, smirk at
youth... knowing how to hide curves.
Into bleachers of
bright Florida sun…Rookies
hit each aimed fastball.
Veteran pitchers, enjoy
dug—out shade, smirk at
youth... knowing how to hide curves.
A partner to play catch with the sky’s lightning
A partner to play catch with the sky’s lightning
A tribe of primitive throwbacks crouches
solitary and silent beneath
blazing ceremonial poles that light
purple summer nights
Catchers dressed in ceremonial attire
squat and assume a sacred position
Sneaking quick glances at
Thick-ribbed batters
Who take practice swings
that cleave the air
Leaving cool breezes of false confidence
These catchers grab rough dirt
with stubby fingers awaiting
hitters in apparent unhurried ease
Tapping on cleated shoes
Rubbing a hardwood club with dark pinetar
As if they could stickily summon
friendly spirits which would guarantee
Reaching a white pillowed base of safety
And at last this would—be slugger
enters the box of sacred white lines
For it is then that the fairness
or foulness of life spreads outward
from this starting place
Like a curtain slowly parting
to observe a passion play
As thousands in this concrete cavern roar
Calling on heroes to begin the game
Yelling at an all seeing umpire
Hidden behind an impartial mask
But all must wait each inning
and between every pitch
For a catcher to offer up a sign
Just as the first man must have done
Squatting as buttocks bounce against heels
Waiting and hoping for a partner
To play catch with the sky’s lightning
Because catchers are a tribe of throwbacks
Flashing secrets with their fingers,
Broken by seasons of foul tips
Because catchers are always imagined to be there
And it is only after they allow
a throw to get by them we notice their existence
Much like G-d we view them as indispensable
but ignored until we call on them
to throw out or block evil
Catchers kneeling as if in prayer
again and again
Before a magical mound to summon offerings
Barbaric breath stopping 3rdstrike sliders
Knee high and impossible to hit
Which cut corners of a meaty plate
sharper than a honed gutting knife
Drawing blood and something
much more precious
From embarrassed batters
Who hunker slowly back
through cursing shadows
To hide in dug out caves.
Author's Notes:
beisbol my one true love...
A tribe of primitive throwbacks crouches
solitary and silent beneath
blazing ceremonial poles that light
purple summer nights
Catchers dressed in ceremonial attire
squat and assume a sacred position
Sneaking quick glances at
Thick-ribbed batters
Who take practice swings
that cleave the air
Leaving cool breezes of false confidence
These catchers grab rough dirt
with stubby fingers awaiting
hitters in apparent unhurried ease
Tapping on cleated shoes
Rubbing a hardwood club with dark pinetar
As if they could stickily summon
friendly spirits which would guarantee
Reaching a white pillowed base of safety
And at last this would—be slugger
enters the box of sacred white lines
For it is then that the fairness
or foulness of life spreads outward
from this starting place
Like a curtain slowly parting
to observe a passion play
As thousands in this concrete cavern roar
Calling on heroes to begin the game
Yelling at an all seeing umpire
Hidden behind an impartial mask
But all must wait each inning
and between every pitch
For a catcher to offer up a sign
Just as the first man must have done
Squatting as buttocks bounce against heels
Waiting and hoping for a partner
To play catch with the sky’s lightning
Because catchers are a tribe of throwbacks
Flashing secrets with their fingers,
Broken by seasons of foul tips
Because catchers are always imagined to be there
And it is only after they allow
a throw to get by them we notice their existence
Much like G-d we view them as indispensable
but ignored until we call on them
to throw out or block evil
Catchers kneeling as if in prayer
again and again
Before a magical mound to summon offerings
Barbaric breath stopping 3rdstrike sliders
Knee high and impossible to hit
Which cut corners of a meaty plate
sharper than a honed gutting knife
Drawing blood and something
much more precious
From embarrassed batters
Who hunker slowly back
through cursing shadows
To hide in dug out caves.
Author's Notes:
beisbol my one true love...
baseball cards traded
baseball cards traded
baseball cards traded
year after year games replayed
faces forever young
players always just the same
change of teams the only trade
baseball cards traded
year after year games replayed
faces forever young
players always just the same
change of teams the only trade
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
the newest LIE of 'the OBAMA'!!!
'the OBAMA' has stated he only did some tangential work as a lawyer in his practice for the 'fraudsters' at ACORN. Now there are videotapes of how then candidate 'the OBAMA' worked extensively and led ACORN's attempts to influence voter registration and the shake-down of contributors for monies for this criminal enterprise for years!!! 'the OBAMA' more LIES for the BLACK-PUNK-FLY-SWATTER-n-CHIEF!!!
BATHED BY THE MOON'S PRECIOUS MOMENT
BATHED BY THE MOON'S PRECIOUS MOMENT*
I have heard the whispers
and I have seen the looks and nods
Private among yourselves
Private looks and rhythms
among you who have born children
Your bodies brimming full
like the seductive arches of waves
You whisper among yourselves
You whisper among those
who disappear into fathoms
At night when the moon is complete
a spirit gently folds with swells
like the naturalness of a dolphin
That calls all of you each one of you
to cast off your clothes and inhibitions
Women and their children
bound with true cords of memory
heartbeats attuned to steady surf
Naked flesh smooth and round
as pebbles washed by unending amniotic tides
No man may understand this unveiling
No man may watch this communion
No man may feel this gentle pull
Because the sea satisfies entirely
in ripples that caress
the curve of a woman's back
which leads to buttocks cleft with ripeness
opening to a reservoir of dreams where
patches of salty kelp dance
And nipples are bathed
with wet kisses as if
from a thousand tender mouths
murmuring secrets of love through
luminous water which flows
between spread thighs
Where children swim naturally
pulling themselves through
tunnels of delight
And then up laughing in the warm air
of pearl-like exquisite stars
Because children know instinctively
this is where they came from
Because this is where fluid dreams become life
Because this is where men grow
And once separated in froth and foam
desire to be taken back
stored inside shared flesh
Returned toward the mystery of women
As the moon sinks within them
Lowering itself to wombs of precious moment.
*this was written for a mother and her son 'Fathom' who i met at the shore
I have heard the whispers
and I have seen the looks and nods
Private among yourselves
Private looks and rhythms
among you who have born children
Your bodies brimming full
like the seductive arches of waves
You whisper among yourselves
You whisper among those
who disappear into fathoms
At night when the moon is complete
a spirit gently folds with swells
like the naturalness of a dolphin
That calls all of you each one of you
to cast off your clothes and inhibitions
Women and their children
bound with true cords of memory
heartbeats attuned to steady surf
Naked flesh smooth and round
as pebbles washed by unending amniotic tides
No man may understand this unveiling
No man may watch this communion
No man may feel this gentle pull
Because the sea satisfies entirely
in ripples that caress
the curve of a woman's back
which leads to buttocks cleft with ripeness
opening to a reservoir of dreams where
patches of salty kelp dance
And nipples are bathed
with wet kisses as if
from a thousand tender mouths
murmuring secrets of love through
luminous water which flows
between spread thighs
Where children swim naturally
pulling themselves through
tunnels of delight
And then up laughing in the warm air
of pearl-like exquisite stars
Because children know instinctively
this is where they came from
Because this is where fluid dreams become life
Because this is where men grow
And once separated in froth and foam
desire to be taken back
stored inside shared flesh
Returned toward the mystery of women
As the moon sinks within them
Lowering itself to wombs of precious moment.
*this was written for a mother and her son 'Fathom' who i met at the shore
sorry CHICAGO - like 'the OBAMA' both your BEISBOL TEAMS SUCK!!!
CHICAGO - CHICAGO that toddlin town -- both the CHICAGO WHITE SOX AND CHICAGO CUBBIES will suck this year - just like 'the OBAMA' and his corrupt crew your beisbol futures this season are bleak!!! Oh yeah OZZIE and LOU talk a good game about how you'll be contenders - DONTCHA BET ON IT! Your gonna get better odds betting on the DUMB-DOUCHESBAG-DEMBHOLES 'Climate Change Bullshit Bill' going through the US SENATURDS!!! ha! in short the 2 CHI teams are as feckless as 'the OBAMA's first year agenda...
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