MEGANS HIT - the Baseball Sonnet
There on the deck, I took a practice swing
tormented in the possiblity--
then hope was dashed--I found no hope to bring
up to the plate, when Ump cried out, "Strike 3!"
I was the last to bat--in this last game--
just oh for three, my record said it all!
And in the dugout, faces all the same,
the looks of gloom! Just waiting for my fall!
I took my place, right up there to the plate.
Out on the mound, the picher grinned at me--
as if he hoped to make my swinging late,
or throw me one--I couldn't even see!
He'd walked a batter, waiting on first base,
to tie the score, if we'd get in the race!
"No girl can hit!" I heard the catcher call,
and echoed from the bleachers was the same,
we made our stands, the umpire cried "Play ball!"
(the umpire was my Daddy, in this game.)
I gripped the bat, the windup came too fast!
As did the ball, but where it should have been!
"Strike one!" the umpire yelled at last--
The fastest ball that I have ever seen!
"She'll never swing!" the catchers words for me--
then threw the ball out to the pichers hand!
While out on first, my runner waits to see
if I can swing, or only make a stand!
Right in my face--the picher scouled a bit--
while I choked up--and readied for a hit!
All set to hit--I made it then my dream!
and came the ball--I could not swing at that!
"Strike twoooo!" the umpire made it scream,
then said to me, "You've got to swing the bat!"
The bat it weighed a hundred pounds or so;
"She'll never swing," the pichers eyes did say,
With that he gave his very best, I know!
I glued my eyes--as it screamed straight my way!
I never saw the hitting of the ball!
but won't forget the cracking sound of it!
Nor know again the feeling of it all
of this my very most important hit!
The sound it made--that ev'ryone could hear--
a batters dream--but pichers' greatest fear!
The ball soared hard and high past second base!
then seemed to drop so slowly from above,
as quick as I could get us in the race,
I watched it bounce right off the fielders glove!
The tying run was just ahead of me!
Ole "Never-Steal" now ran like not before!
And right behind, fast as my feet could be
I gave my best! And then I gave some more!
The crowd gave out the seasons wildest plea!
As I yelled to the runner just ahead,
with all the grit that I could find in me,
"I'm going in! And if you stop--you're dead!"
Ole "Never Steal" was giving all he could
and on his heels--I made my promise good!
We saw the ball come by as rounding third!
Not once a hesitation in it all--
and as the umpire watched without a word--
he swept his arms, to make the tying call!
The score was tied--third baseman set to throw--
now ready at home plate, the catcher stood--
and through it all--my only thought was GO!
but if I did--I'd have to make it good!
I knew the ball was thrown down to home plate!
The catcher poised, and glued where he should be!
I had to slide, and heard the ball hit late!
"She's SAFE! She's SAFE!" my Daddy yelled to me!
Now layed to rest--our coaches greatest fear--
the only game we won--throughout the year!
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
March brushes past us, in its blustery haste
And we, who stand where Winter’s chill once laid waste,
Watch in awe, the breath of Spring ignite the earth.
Around cold Winter’s girth, warm Spring wraps its mirth.
We know, after every death, there is rebirth.
Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.
Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.
St. Stephen’s College.
When the winter winds have stole
their shivered breath,
And warmer now, snow is shed,
what lovely can bring when it sings;
(From mountains deep to waken sleep)
And gather the birds to their blossomed boughs,
singing their elated woody sounds,
(gently loitering in elder trees)
speckled chirps in forest green
Neath budding Sylvan mistletoe
the earth is born-again,
returns this ditty of long ago
(til rejoicing in leafy worlds)
The vines are greening and the old man who owns the vines
was busy trimming them although it was Sunday and church
bells chimed He is very old 92 last year, and it was father’s day
a few days ago. He never married, but every bush is his child
And he gives them equal time. He is in many ways a lucky man
the vines love him, he knows that, leaves softens in his caring
hands that carry a promise of everlasting worship.
On father’s day, I never left the house, sat by the phone waited
for a call from my daughter, she is everything I never achieved,
my futile dream of respectability.
A whisper of a wind came through the open window, gently told
me that my cherished is a figment of my dreams of perfecting.
Then an irate storm cast rattled the window, your real daughter was
born in poverty in Kingston, Jamaica, the child of a prostitute and
she became one too.
A golden light shines over all the land –
In night-time’s silence cloaked with pearl-drop dew –
Such wonders found in nature here at hand,
And yet, it seems, my eyes see only you.
The songbirds choir in blossom-laden trees
Their counterpoint the skylark’s soaring air;
The whole of spring now wakes from autumn’s leaves,
Yet I think only of your raven hair.
No shining day could ever match your spring,
No flower by an artist’s eye yet seen;
Where you alight, the angels softly sing –
You are the one, my only perfect dream.
Yet I can’t describe, mere foolishness to try,
Your perfect beauty, now captured in my eye.
Big man's hand comes down upon the garden;
Plucked is a flower, the pick of the Earth;
Soon its silky quality will harden -
The rich natural beauty will lose its worth;
Sweet Flora's crop, may be a God's delight,
But for man it's just a passing flavor,
A season to favor before we take flight,
We're so hardcore, love is hard to savor;
What man doesn't go right for the pistil?
Even birds and bees know the pollen's flow.
Rare are the hands that respect the petal...
Rarer are the seeds that true love will sow...
So please learn the flower's anatomy,
As if you were a devout honey bee ....
In pale sunshine as Winter bids farewell
A pretty face appears to spark a smile
Of golden dreams to cast a lighter spell
And thoughts of spring in languid minds compile.
On peaceful mornings, bird song finds its voice
As snow begins to melt as if by choice
It knows it's time is done as Spring is near
When daffodils in bloom restart the year.
The viridian blades in breezes bend
To dance with gilded maids in vernal days
These images of Spring enchanting eyes to gaze.
And dreams now follow where the dillies wend
Where candles flicker with merriment and mirth
To Mother Nature's triumphant rebirth.