A fresh sweet scent
of last gardenia
on yesterday's linen sheets
A cherry bud
in your backyard orchard
showing first pink shades
in once upon a soft blown kiss
An early summer
sharing your beach towel
and coconut butter
A roaring log fire
on a stormy night
in the hallway
to your bedroom door
a short~lived star
that fallen into your arms
then faded to nothingness
upon the empty shore.
Remember me ...
The blissful moment
The saddest song
in your forevermore
To be called ..
~ Grandma is a Honor ~
I have been blessed with 4 Grandchildren
~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb " He is God's Angel ~
~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~
For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
Time passed another gift to see
we are " Mickes" and Loved
Our Dad held the title in Baseball
~ that's how we roll ~
those children are Grandmas hero's
The Irish they love big and Family is everything
The brothers will protect the beautiful sister
~ as many lads will be calling ~
Every time my Grandson hits a home run
There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand
It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs
~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
either baseball or Art ~ you shall find your gift given
These children have been blessed~
~ a beauty to hard to describe
If you think not ~~ Take a look at the Mom
That girl can stop Traffic
after raising three and still~
"Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "
May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell
My room at the Hyatt
Smelled like my ex-wife
She didn't have oodles of class
Or wasn't overly fancy
So, it must be that aroma of
Almost masking what had
Taken place the night before
We greeted each other with
A welcoming suspicion
The bathroom lighting flawless
Standing in the mirror with
Perfect tan and bright white A
Khaki slacks pulled high and
Wise guy hair cut
I wonder if Capone ever went to see
The Cubbies play
Beautiful sunny day, not too warm
Plenty of room on the mezzanine
A pleasantly safe distance from the
Big middle aged guys with
Some other man's name on their back ' s
Exhaling brat breath
And beer farts
the Windy City loves their team
Dancing all around
Frolicking through fields
Just like you!
The winds of March have tried their best,
To prepare the field for play,
But the ground has not yet dried,
of the melted snows of winter.
Puddles wait where runners slide,
And where the batter stands,
No grass grows where the infield plays,
And sparse is the turf where the outfield roams.
No lines or poles to relate fair to foul,
Or screens to block missed throws,
Nor walls to cause a caromed ball,
Or to impede a home run’s flight.
No groundskeepers to make things neat,
Or bleachers from which to cheer,
Nor umps to shout their balls and strikes,
Or dugouts from which to taunt.
But when the mud is dried and cracked,
And the grass has turned to green,
Players return to recover skills,
Held captive by winter’s cold.
Nothing fancy, not major league,
Just a game of ball to be played,
And the field, now ready, responds to all,
With fun and hits and errors.
It is cold out now
but don't you worry
Spring is right around the corner
and will be here soon
The sun will be bright and we might burn
but it is better to be hot
and to sweat
than to freeze your toes
Two months from now it all will start
the crack of the bat the cheer of the crowd
Every little boys dream
to watch their heroes play
So let's all have a some patience
and the days will pass
and before you know
that season will be here
Off to the ballfield
Where I once used to roam
From sun up to sundown
I'd call my home
Left all my troubles
Great times were had
By all those who played
I remember each moment
Like it was yesterday
Now I'm taking my son
And a group of his friends
To hit a few balls
And bask in the sun
I hope he remembers
This time that he'll have
Playing in ballfields
Putting troubles behind
In the dirt of the diamond, my son’s eyes
Burn below the rim of his red hat
And he pulls his hand back,
looks at the score yet again,
digs his small toe in as his chest rises.
From my place in the stands
Every muscle has become tense
And my heart is pounding in my chest
As he draws his arm back and then forward
Releasing his breath and the tiny spinning ball,
A wild pitch bouncing off the wire fence.
And I finally exhale, wonder if he knows
I am throwing with him and that was my wild pitch
because I forgot to breath when we released the ball
And I was trying to throw it slow.
And I should just let him throw the ball
Because I am not a good pitcher
Because how can I possibly throw with him
When he is a lefty and I am a right.
But all of me grows tense, as he has the ball yet again,
And then we are winding up again
Because I cannot let go
Because his dreams are now my dreams
Because I don’t know how to love him
Any other way. So I will wear his little hat and
Must remember to exhale when we release the ball.
And I can play with him for a few more years
So we wind up, and we pitch, and that fast ball down the middle,
It wasn’t even trying to be avoided,
And so I know he threw that one
Because he is ready for the fast ball
And I would prefer we pitch it slow,
Just for a little while longer.
Long enough for him to know I am out there with him.
Long enough for me to learn how to let a fast ball fly.
Baseball bats will soon be quiet.
As football season takes a kick
Golf ball will be put away so a president can go to work.
Hockey sticks will soon hit the puck
And baseballs will go in the net.
The summer season is scheduled to end.
Hello winter let it begin.
A subject of sweetest softness
Cats can be loved too
One feels so alive
at baseball games
You are a part
of something there
As a Mets fan
I feel myself as
a piece in the urban puzzle
A member of the urban tribe
Joining in the
cheering for the
helps the masses to release
which has been created
by urban life - even if last season the team
didn't fare well
The loyal fans
stuck with them
till the end
Loyal fans such as myself
see the Mets
as the descendants
New York Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers
a team all New Yorkers
can embrace wholly
A team you can yell yourself hoarse for
Through the cold winter
there are no green diamonds
to gaze upon
But we New Yorkers know
that the sound of "Play Ball" will
soon usher in
another 162 games
for the New York Metropolitans
Our hometown heroes
I can watch them again,
grown men at a children's game,
the glory of the Show
on the TV screen.
For a while
I couldn’t watch,
I’d been close.
Double A at 18
but it didn’t move.
And in Triple A
and spring training
for the Show
they ate it up.
When I tried harder
my arm blew up
rotator cuff - tendinitis
physio, drugs, steroids.
Hope springs eternal
but nothing helped
Now I sit in this bar,
mush for brains
just like my arm.
Don’t care that
drugs and alcohol
as I watch them
is worse than
This was posted last year but then removed for personal reasons. Here it is again..
Graig Nettles as a Yankee wore the number nine
the New York Yankees in the seventies very fine
I’m Red Sox fan but a baseball fan first
as you can tell baseball is my first thirst
ever since the seventies I was a baseball fan
Lou Brock and Yaz and Yaz the main man
baseball my sport of choice it’s my only game
and the Boston Red Sox have plenty of fame
I’ve been to Boston a few times what a city
Mr. Cub, take me out to the ballgame!
A Chicago Cubs-Fan Prayer!
In nomine patri et fili spiritu of Ron Santo
Let us all give thanks for Ernie Banks!
Let us play, TWO!
Our Father, who art in Wrigley Field Hallowed be thy name on those ivy covered Brick-house walls
Thy new stadium will come, the owners will be done
On earth, as it is in heaven to sit in the sun with the bleacher-bums
Give us this day our daily dread, but remove those lights that some say offend
And forgive us our trespasses for trading our best hitters and aces
As we forgive those same players who then come back, and rub it in our faces
Lead us not, into tenth inning disgraces, and worst of all, with men left on bases
Deliver us from evil and finishing in last place
And Caray us on to win the pennant race
All's we're ask ‘in for is a couple a more runs with three men on base
Bring us oh Lord a world series trophy, or it won't be long before were all dopey!
Our faith be rich, but our pockets are poor, because most of us can't afford a dog or a couple a beers in here!
Our spirit lives on and we know no fear, so whaddya say we lose the, "wait till next year"!
Mr. Cub is rounding third and headed for home, one more time on this hallowed ground, but we still need a closer for a Cubs World Series win!
Ronny made the call to one of their friends, "send in the saver, Ernie can't do it all"!
Now the "LORD's" in the line-up, and Mr. Cub just handed him the ball!
Let us all give thanks for Ernie Banks! AMEN!
I’m lost in an unknown world where I am not a stranger
Citizen of love recognize and value by all
People adore my knowledge about my country
As several relationships has been fabricate and re-established
‘Master of love’ I was called
All these is claim until I met her
She is the perfection of beauty
Angel amidst humanity
Her skin tone complements my dark complexion
Her hair kiss ass
Her dove eyes laid in between her pointed noise harmonized with long face and
Her breast flow the ocean of life in fulfillment of the holy book
She is supernaturally endowed below
Dream of living in her palace below and drink from milk of life above
I call her End of discussion
She is my desire yet confused of certainty
My heart fails not to confront with golden words
I’m scared of response
I’m not scared of No but Yes
Presently in the net of two relationship in the name of love
My golden word for her shall be never to cheat on her
Previous word contradict contemporary words for her
Confused heart, let go of previous love and regain my country?
Two trains coming from different directions
Two friends are coming together
Two lives again intertwined
Two tickets to a grand old time
I board my train at half past five
The fun we'll have is worth the drive
He gets on at half past four
Apart we will be no more
When together we will have a blast
A night I'm sure will forever last
We'll watch the game with a pint or two
I look forward to my favorite brew
We must be careful, we must behave
Last time together we were close to our grave
We drank too much and didn't care
That bus came so close, just missed by a hair
The game is the first of many we'll see
We hope they win we both agree
We promise to make good decisions
And hope to avoid any collisions
What I Gave?
Time, and patience, and
a love of “The Game’.
She gave everything,
heart, strength, resolve,
to play “The Game”.
She is special,
and six years old.
Me, not so special,
did not wish to see,
her handicaps, keep her
from “The Game”.
She stood, bat in hand,
to hit the ball.
I stood, confused,
befuddled when she said:
“you have to sing the song.”
“What song” I asked.
“The Baseball Song” she answered.
I looked around
seeking help when
her mother shouted
“Take Me Out to The Ball Game.”
I sang! She Hit!
The love of “The Game”
etched itself upon another heart.
“The Game” will always be grateful
to her, for her, for
What She Gave.
John G. Lawless
When she lays down
Body to jaded
Spirit long since faded
But, Her restless mind
Who she is
What she will be
The nights that
Will soon follow
How it will end
With a gun in hand
She sees a woman
To scared to stand
To timid to speak
In her mind always
A lioness ready to fight
But in actual fact
A cub weary
She sees a scared
Burning in the eyes
Of the beholder
The personal foe
Where will it end
This laying bare
This bleeding trend
Where will it end
In a glint of stainless
A sudden timelapse
Of a future of use
Of many men Served
As her body is shook
One by one
One by one
They leave her
Staring up into oblivion
Hoping the pain will end
Praying for amends
Screams in her eyes
Begging for forgiveness
Her face stays blank
Waiting for the next
To ruin her rank
A snap back to reality
She hugs her knees
Afraid of what will be
She is set back quick
She is standing above
What seems to be
Her not much younger self
Sitting on her feet
Hands manically clawing
At the sides of her head
She suddenly rises
Through her pale skin
The frenzied search begins
A timelapse again
She sees herself
Ferociously scratching with a pen
The anger in a book
Soon to be hidden again
A creak of a door
Sends her spiralling back
Into the now
Into the black
Will her prediction
Be her end?
The only thing left
A gun in shaking hand
“yeah man, call out
‘aye laddie’ to claim the
ball.” we laughed, and he
hit a grounder, followed by a
pop fly, followed by another
grounder, all thrown back to
the proximity of the pitcher.
“what’s it gonna be like tomorrow?”
I asked. “In the 70s...I haven't hit
since last spring.” Some clouds
loomed overhead and my hairs stood
on end. He hit a short one and paused,
“What are your dinner plans? I
got a few pizzas in the freezer.”
“Wow, that’ll be great weather for the
frisbee tournament then.” The ball
tuckered out of my glove. Dammnit.
He cranked out another one, and the guy
out left managed to haul it in,
“Aye laddie!” The sun peaked out
a bit, and I saw where the clouds
would end for a time. “Aye laddie!”
That one, I caught.
Reds and oranges over the trees, and
none of us believed in sun sets.
I want to go to Wrigley Field
Stand behind home plate
And point my finger at the left field wall
I do it to remember baseball
What it used to be
It used to be you could go to climb the fence and get in to Wrigley for free
Now you can't get in for less than a small fortune
Steroids and wall street
I want to stand at home plate
And point my finger for a better world
Babe Ruth was certainly associated with the ruling class
But he played a sport of the people
And he represented a team whose city has some of the ,most ardent socialists in the world
So I know I'm reaching here
But I want to stand at Wrigley field
In the heart of america
And point my finger like babe ruth
Very unwitting representative
Of the nations working class
Pointing my finger to the beyond
In the heart of america
Pointing my finger to the beyond
Toward what's better.
Toward what's more.
Towards what America
Is supposed to be.
I got a little note today
About a trip I always take
It brings me thoughts of summer
And the games we love to play
I've had many good times
And went with a lot of old friends
It is the right of every southsider
To go there to the end
Sometimes the weather is sunny
Others it is dark and gray
It really doesn't matter
As long as they play
I long for this day to get here
Forty Seven days to go
It is the start of something special
It is what we all will dream
So bring on my mighty White sox
I am hoping you do well
Bring home that elusive championship
We all are waiting for it to begin.
The game that taught me how to breathe
eat,sleep,and dream of the thrilling play
learning to appreciate my teammates
but,also to respect my opponents
Sleeping with my leather glove
before a big game
dreaming of making the play
that makes a difference
knowing that no one player
was more important than another
practice together,play together
breathe together as one unit
Late spring and early summer
fresh cut grass and dragged fields
chalk lines so straight
you didn't want to be the first
to smudge and kick up the dust
so we always jumped over them
..........in the beginning,
but after the first pitch....game on
the lines may have been drawn before the game
but the game is played between the lines
it's a new world....it's a new day
It's still a game of little boys
now being played by big boys
and big business.....
how the game can change
and get you to breathe
a different kind of air
it's only a game
Patiently waiting in a line
eyeballed an wary
harsh barking of subterranean cultures
standing weary and inured
to the rotten
inside the high walls and wire, the weighted stone of
existing like convicts
the morning groans as she untangles from the covers
worn and blunt
from the night before
her eyes puffed and wrinkled, wrinkled and blink
winking with bleary sting. mustard gas
swallowing in the hollows
choking the cities yellow
choking the grass grown over
choking the green grass
burying the noble and their children
who only wanted revenge on
say, the ghost shirt. say, for the
no more wire, no more line
it all gets sent through collapsing
drowning man, drowning with the fear of
that he has forgotten, or
the fire that has forgotten
fingering dull charms
that he has wrapped round
the neck. to study on
like a rosary. a rosary of
dull, clanking, cold
to keep him occupied
to keep the morning
to keep an attempted faith
Baseball is only a game but it's fun to play...
And it can add excitement to any dull day.
The gays and gals on our team are all special you know...
And we recognize each other wherever we go.
The coaches are special and they teach the kids right...
And our fans are all out of sight.
But our team moms happen to be the best...
And it's so true, ours are all better than the rest.
When all is finally said and done...
Our team family makes baseball fun.
I read you like the paper
Your face a cover page
I catch the comics daily
I master all it's games
Extra, extra, I'm all about it
I'll slather up a soap box,
An' have that shit surrounded.
Hey everyone! This just in:
She's about to make headlines
For swingin' them bats like Tony Gwynn
I've always been an enthusiast for the
Fine game of baseball.
I am quite lonely in this league, or so
it seems, as most of
my associates are keen to liken it to
observing the freshly
splashed whitewash of a skilled painter,
which I suppose is a
fair comparison. Both spectacles are
drawn out, repetitive,
and tend to the esoteric within: each
one who is drawn to
enjoy the fanhood of our pastime has
their own personal
mantras, and standards with which to
judge. Every action,
however agile or daring, is but a flicked
to the tapestry of a solitary game.
We are the judge
and jury, the unblinking eye that haunts
the gladiators, the
roving observers who deftly pinpoint
the flaws in a patch
of perfectly white paint. For, perfection
is unattainable, and
knowledge of this is why we don't watch
paint dry, and why
we watch baseball.
Life is a baseball out
When grounded in foul
actions, words, or thoughts
it becomes a strike,
but can't get you out.
Line driven into 3rd base seats
may hurt somebody, but usually
Over swinging makes a big mistake,
for when someone catches you,
you look stupid.
But at times
you guess right
(she really does love you, "c" was the right answer, that promotions was waiting
willfully for you, the kiss of a marriage was true)
and the crowd stands in awe.
The silence screaming,
and the ball just barely leaps over the fence.
All, everything in the world seems happy,
Unless, you catch a sight
of the pitcher.
these brick bound boxes
fill this equinox of smart headed people
of these independent achievable people
critical analysts of this 21 century
ready to be presentable to the unmighty
smaller population of antisocial teenage children
willing them to be
not to be free, but inside these brick bound boxes
that fill the human intelligence with total
literate irrelevance to who we should be
to who can be
ultimately like them
filled in these brick bound boxes
with mental instimulance
of a mix of lies, creation and motives
see, I don’t have a problem with any of them
just these brick bound boxes that hold them
hold this unforgettable willing mind
of someone we chose to leave behind
in these brick bound boxes
that encompass first the mind and then the soul
but who wants all this control?
society can speak of a whole.
an incredible strong mental image
of how life is to be--
within these brick bound boxes.
My life isn’t based in these brick bound boxes
but it soon will
creating a song of the monotone dead
longing to be passed on from generation to generation
but can't you see
can't you forget that this is not who we ought to be
unless we need to spontaneously combust
in this equinox till it metastasizes
catastro sizes to an everlasting dust
even you must ought to smell the musk.
So tell me, how do thee?
how do thee live with these brick bound boxes
filling up every empty not-yet-set concrete whole
implying of who you are before you could even
have some kind of control over yourself
its swept under the rug.
no biggie, you're just a kiddie
no actual value to this reality
yet before you can buy alcohol
and I’m someone to sound big
I just don’t want to fill these lonely brick bound boxes
where the death of every living will cease to be a beginning
in this equinox of the everlasting dust,
so do you must, live in these brick bound boxes?
There is a street in town
Where porridge is drawn up,
Where loafing is a virtue
And spitting is the sport of kings.
Old London town would be so proud
Of all the knaves and fools
Who frolic all day long
Then sleep amid the ruins.
Edgar was the given name
Of one young fool
Who skipped along the padded street
One whistle to his name.
He loved the maiden Joan of Arc
Whose beauty was untrue.
Both expired the self-same day,
No penny to their names.
And me, I get along somehow
Standing on a rock,
While fishing in a muddy hole,
I never watch the clock.