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Long Baseball Poems | Long Baseball Poetry

Long Baseball Poems. Below are the most popular long Baseball by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Baseball poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Because

A bespoke suit is tailor-made to the individual and a bespoke person is
      engaged to be married (spoken for)
but to have bespoken, or bespeak, is to ask for or engage in advance
      (as in marriage or a business partnership)
and also to speak to or address, show or indicate, foretell or forebode.
So, truth may be ascertained by considering the truth we reason, the truth
      we've seen, the truth we feel and the truth we're told.

Merely to speak is to cause good or doom in a magical world.
Silence is not an option for every action bespeaks intention.
Although the empire and the corpse collapse we do not let the circle
      lapse.
We impose our own small order.

Order may delineate or assimilate the Other.
Belonging is longing for complete solitude but you gladly return to lovers'
      arms and plumbing.
There's little humor in the cholera unless you manage to survive.
I pleasure in and treasure my insignificance. If only I could be overlooked
      by the planning board and IRS.

Powerful contrasting and synergizing photos on the cover of Balance by
      Hubbard & Kane
the economics of great powers, ancient Rome's ruins, decaying columns
      and coliseums
versus Washington DC's orderly, straight and sterile streets from the
      Capitol to the National Mall.
What causes empires to fall? How do they come to hold community?

Well, we worry. Overpopulation, malnutrition. We are anxious about
      famine, genocide and nuclear war.
Self-imposed suffering, the hyperorganization that is a cancer on our
      insufficient organization.
When the individual dies does the National Mall impose its own small
      order on all dark matter? Or is the whole universe canceled including
      chaos and complexity? Watch out, don't run into those small invisible
      suns.
These are questions I'm willing to find the answers to. Willing in the sense
      of living in the place where will and power are one. Because to be
      bespoke is to be spoken for.


                              *                             *                             *

Three conceptual models of causal logic:
the unclosed valve at Three Mile Island is an example of the on/off or
      categorical model;
the genetic contribution to a developing cancer is likely a graded,
      probabilistic risk rather than an absolute certainty;
a depression that occurs after a relatively minor stress that followed a
      long string of moderate or severe stressors would be an example of
      an emergent or nonlinear cause.

Four levels of analysis, an approach first suggested by Aristotle over 2K
      years ago:
in the Three Mile Island and Fukushima nuclear accidents, predisposing
      causes were the flawed training and management oversight;
the tsunami was a precipitating (get it?) cause;
the inherent complexity of the many interacting systems that make up a
      nuclear power plant is a programmatic cause;
and human hubris is a purposive cause.

Three logics by which knowledge of causation is gained:
the empirical method uses the scientific method, for example, the
      determination that a genetic variant is present in multiple members   
      of a family in which cancer is common;
the empathic method uses the logic of narrative connectedness to
      support the reasoning that a specific stressor is negative for one
      person but not another;
ecclesiastic logic would be employed by a believer who attributes cause
      to an actual lapse in his longstanding participation in the precepts of
      his religion (or discipline).

Therefore, we may estimate the probability of a precipitating cause using
      empirical measurements;
or name the purposive ideal behind an emergent cause based on
      ecclesiastic beliefs;
or identify a categorical cause predisposing us to an event by telling the
      story or history empathically.

Horrible how we die!
Yet it's an idyll of an early summer evening, new cut grass, two baseball
      teams of children playing in it.






Long poem by Robert Stoner Jr | Details |

Baseball: Trash Can Cats Vs Downtown Stray





Here we are fans this fine summer day,
to watch Trash Can Cats, versus Downtown Stray.
The field is grand in this deep wooded glen,
pitchers are warming up in the bull pen.

Pitching for the Cats is Crazy Legs Lynx,
his pitching fast and usually sinks.
Throwing for Strays is lefty Greyhound,
he’s tall and lanky but throws very sound.

Dogs take the field, Manx cat at the plate, 
the balls streaking by, he’s swinging too late.
Three strikes he’s out, Greyhound’s having a day,
the Bobtail cat will be next up to play. 

First pitch is low, ump calls it a ball,
the next one’s inside, a very close call.
Greyhound next pitches a ball with great speed,
Bobtail cat swings, bat up to the deed.

High into the air the baseball did soar,
Rocky Retriever swift ran to the chore.
Over the fence it finally had spun,
Cats have the early lead zero to one.

Sam Siamese next hit to first base,
Billy Beagle was right in his place.
Tagged Sam Siamese, out by a snout,
going to be a tough game without a doubt.

Black Bombay was next to at bat,
this was a dangerous black batting cat.
Greyhound threw three balls, speed lighting fast,
Black Bombay cat was not long to last.

OK fans, Trash Can Cats take the field,
Downtown Stray, the bat skillfully to wield.
First up at bat will be Pauly the Pug,
he’s a bit short but oh boy can he slug.

Crazy Legs Lynx lets a ball go,
Pauly Pug drew back but was a bit slow.
The next ball was placed for Pauly just grand,
Pauly bunted, on first base he did land.

Freddy Fox Hound will next take at bat,
eying the pitcher he’ll cream that fast cat,
The next pitch did come blazing toward him,
curving left to right his chances were slim.

The crack of the bat and off the ball went, 
into left field the ball, quickly, was sent.
Left fielder Maine Coon cat ran for the ball,
Pauly Pug on first base never did stall.

Pug rounded the bases, a cloud of dust,
running for home plate, as he knew he must.
Russian Blue cat was catching home plate,
Maine Coon cats throw just a bit late.

Pauly Pug crossed the plate, the score was tied,
Freddy Fox Hound gave that ball quite a ride.
The next two Stray batters went down in smoke,
an epic baseball game, this is no joke.

The afternoon wore on, battle royal,
both teams competing with highest moral.
Pitchers dueling in highest degree,
all of their skill for everyone to see.

We come at last to the bottom of nine,
Trash Can Cats now weren’t doing so fine.
The score in the ninth still tied one to one,
if Downtown dogs scored the game would be done.

Springer Spaniel up to take his turn,
three times passed Spaniel that fast ball would burn.
Dan Dachshund followed, next in the order,
three pitches all strikes, right on the border.

Bulldog next up, last hold out of hopes,
with slow confidence, to the plate he lopes.
Bulldog practices a swing, thunderous might,
set not to go home a loser tonight.

Stepped to the plate, gave the pitcher a glare,
planning a hit with no mercy to spare.
The first pitch a blur no chance for a swing,
went so fast, he didn’t see the darn thing.

Next pitch was low and they called it a ball,
he stepped off the plate, the pitcher to stall.
Here came a pitch it curved to inside,
Bulldog took a big swing, losing his pride.

Then two more balls were to follow that day,
three balls two strikes on the count they would say.
Next pitch coming, he could see the darn thing,
he reared back and gave his most vicious swing.

The crack of the bat shocked even him,
the Trash Can Cats future now looked dim.
Howe Himalayan cat ran at top speed,
so hoping to catch this game winning deed. 

The crowd were all standing, waiting to see,
the out come this blast from Bulldog would be.
The ball flew so high, then began to fall,
finally landed way over the wall.

The crowd gave a cheer and shouted as one, 
the Downtown Stray had successfully won.
Both teams met in the middle of the field,
shaking of hands, Downtown Strays win was sealed.


 ©


Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/megans_hit___the_baseball_sonnet_553892' st_title='MEGAN'S HIT - the Baseball Sonnet'>

MEGAN'S HIT - the Baseball Sonnet

      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!

                    II.

"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!
   
                   III.

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!

                   IV.

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!

                V.

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


Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/megans_hit_464711' st_title='Megan's Hit'>

Megan's Hit

        MEGAN'S HIT
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!

                    II.

"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!"
and then I vowed to get us in the 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!
   
                   III.

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!

                   IV.

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!

                V.

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


Long poem by Louis Borgo | Details |

Untitled

When you are sleeping in the bed, with the bible god be my witness
I don't know if I can love every again.
I mean I try to date but something just keep hold me back hold me back, 
self confident is not even the worth trying found words,
word, this type love could bring a grown man to their needs- 

I never reallie got it when they said but your had on the bible,
and swore the oath for better or worst,
or when you hear music at a wedding and you dance the night away,
what are school proms for?
I though I better night would be resident evil and game cube
only if so one would clue me in-
 
Self consciously years later you question your action in school,
why was she the first I ask if she would buy a key chain from fbla 
and the first time she said uh and then maybe the sentence 
didn't even make sense so natural like
natural selection like we was sync- 

Why in the world am I going to a baseball game another county over she was their,
and I did not realize I
was good at baseball in till I got older a simple sport I sware but I am part puerto rican it come natural
what am im saying it is to early for this like five in the morning-

but oh my god that dream a dream dream,
I don't even think I was on earth and 
then two year later on mother day at western sizzle before
they shut down she came out no where like a ghost 
and was sitting behind me with her family,
but why aren't you eating but texting-

but the real question is because im like slow is did they 
reallie write me straight out of high school, 
I mean I am like a street fighter the alpha type,
but a vibe like that 
you gone have ask her because im shock when she took my sit in first period 
like what are you doing?-

I don't know if im lost my mind or if she playing mind games? 
They say it is the end of the world I say so what is she doing?
I guest the world will never know-

I got the chills and it not because of the weather all I want to know did he cry 
when he walk you down the ally,
people always say you know when know but,
what am I saying I have never experience love like this before-

and im usually shy and word on the bird is uh right cause you took my breath away- 
I don't think any one going get this
what was she doing at that ice cream store 
I didn't even know that was a ice cream store 
I did but I never notice it in till it was gone-
 
dream a dream dream still shaking up,
first thing I did was hit speaker on the phone 
and hit every number it was it was scary but it beautiful,
a beautiful nighmare it was indeed,
I can not catch my breath let me go get the bible
this would be a reason to go back to church every 
Monday Wednesday and Sunday-

All I can say is A-m-e-n , A-m-e-n, A-m-e-n
Cause world felt like it  has already ending,
Friday thirteen J-a-s-o-n!!! and "Jason is my nickname"-


Long poem by Joe Flach | Details |

The Man In The Mirror

I looked into the mirror today and was surprised to see an old man looking back at me.

It seems like it was only yesterday that the man in the mirror was searching through his full 
head of thick black hair for that one strand his wife said was turning gray.

And, wasn’t it only last week that the mirror reflected the image of a young man trying to see 
how noticeable the pimples were on his face before going out on his date?

It seems like only a month ago that the mirror displayed the sight of a boy looking very 
closely for signs of a whisker on a smooth face where there were none to be found.

And, it couldn’t have been any more than a year ago that the mirror held the image of a 
small child adjusting the baseball cap on his head to fit just like the one worn by his favorite 
baseball star.

“What have you done with the faces of all those boys, teenagers, and young men that used 
to look back at me”, I asked the old man.

“I have done nothing with those faces”, replied the stranger in the mirror. “You make the 
mistake of expecting to see those faces on the surface of your own. Those faces are still 
there, they are just reflected on different mediums.”

“The face of the small child in a baseball cap can be seen when you play a game of catch 
with your grandson and the new baseball glove you gave him for his birthday.

The face of the boy looking for the first signs of a mustache and worrying about the 
blemishes on his face comes out when you tease your nephews who are just now becoming 
interested in girls.

And the image of that man canvassing his scalp to remove any signs of a gray hair is 
apparent when you give advice to your grown children as they struggle with new careers, 
new spouses, young children and the stresses that accompany these changes that will also 
contribute to the graying of their hair.

It is all those faces, compiled into one that looks back upon you now.”

“Thank you”, I say to this wise old man. “That makes me feel much better knowing that 
those faces are still there. And you are right; I do feel as if I display those faces at those 
moments in time. I guess I just need to stop walking past mirrors and worrying about who 
looks back at me.”

I walk away from the mirror, instinctively knowing that the reflection remains, smiling at me, 
shaking his head and saying, “He’s such a kid.” 


Long poem by Joe Flach | Details |

Baseball in Heaven

My grandfather and I had a special relationship.

When I was young we lived near his home in Baltimore.  But, my family moved away from 
Baltimore when I was five and we lived most of my life in another state far away from my 
grandfather.  Whenever he called, however, I was the one grandchild he always wanted to 
talk to so we could discuss his beloved Baltimore Orioles.  I was the one grandchild who 
followed sports closely and always remained a true Baltimore sports fan.

Later in life, I learned that my grandfather was actually a gifted baseball player himself when 
he was young.  In those days, he would explain, professional baseball players did not make 
enough money to support a family so he had to make up his mind to either play baseball or 
get married and raise a family.  As it turned out, his love for baseball was only surpassed by 
his love for my grandmother and, although he hung on to the newspaper clippings that 
labeled him a “can’t miss professional baseball prospect”, he hung up his cleats and glove, 
married my grandmother and went out to find a “real” job.

But his love for the game survived and year in and year out, he and I discussed the 
intricacies of the game and enjoyed or lamented each baseball season based on the 
successes and/or failures of the Baltimore Orioles.  As crummy as the Baltimore bums are 
today, I was fortunate enough to experience and share many more successful seasons than 
poor ones during those limited years that I shared life with this amazing man.

I always felt sorry for my grandfather, considering him a victim of poor timing.  Had he 
been born about 50 years later in life, he would not have had to pick between being a 
baseball player or earning a living – in fact, with his talent, he could have earned a much 
better than average living while enjoying the one thing he loved most in life.

When my grandfather passed away, I was sure that he was joining a heavenly nine to once 
again strap on his spikes and don the leather.  Without a doubt, they must play baseball in 
heaven.  And I wait for the day that I sit in the heavenly bleachers and cheer on a young 
grandfather playing this wonderful game with other boys of summer.

(Inspired by, “is there baseball in heaven”, by Constance, A Rambling Poet)


Long poem by Kristopher Higgs | Details |

While You Sleep

While you sleep I tell you all of the things I keep inside throughout day.
Now that you can hear but not listen I find them much easier to say.
My hopes, my dreams, my fears, and everything in between
Your subconscious hears so keen, or so it seems.
My tongue is soft; I speak so sweetly 
Knowing your reaction will never greet me.

Tonight will be different in what I want you to know.
It has everything to do with what I can’t help but show.
I hold no claim to any religion but you’ve given me a place for my faith.
Somewhere it will never stale or lose its lavish taste.
You’ve shown me something I can see, touch, and feel, 
And so before it I choose to kneel.

I know I don’t say it but I miss you every day.
Sitting, thinking of the perfect words to be my choice,
Yet when you call I can’t find any of the right words to say.
I’m just happy to finally hear your voice.
Even just a moment is enough to sooth my heavy heart;
Fearing the ends of conversations knowing we’ll have to part.

I’ll never be too far from you, always within arm’s reach,
And in your days of darkness I’ll be the light that you will seek.
I’ll never let you leave too far from me, I’ll stay close behind you in this world;
Secretly protecting what is mine, you will always be my girl.
I only want the best for you so the best of me I will employ.
Faithfully yours, I will always be your boy.

I close my eyes and kiss your soft sweet lips
And see the very best of you in loving bliss.
I see past the physical which makes you attractive
And focus on the things I can’t see in which I’m attracted.
Your thoughts I’d love to hear them all.
Of the things you speak disinterest never makes its call.

My day will come, I know someday I’ll be the only one.
And you I will pursue viciously,
Because I’ve given you the greatest gift I can give, to love unconditionally.
Yes our day will come, I know someday we’ll be as one.
And you I will pursue viciously,
Because I’ve given you the greatest gift I can give… to love unconditionally.


Long poem by Thomas Hsi | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/one_day_youll_make_it_girl_548784' st_title='One Day You'll Make It Girl'>

One Day You'll Make It Girl

Copyright 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Poetic Lyrics By Thomas Lam Hsi


THERE IS ONLY ONE TRUE GOD...THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY...WHO ALONE CAN
SAVE FROM Satan...who plays 'all' roles...the devil...the 'Lord Jesus'...
the 'Father'...the 'Holy Spirit'...all 'Other Gods'...and 'alien gods'...HE...THE
LORD JESUS CHRIST HIMSELF IS FULLY GOD AND MAN...AND HE ALONE...
IS THE ONLY WAY TO GOD THE FATHER...and to an Actual Heaven!



The Golden Girl...'jus isn't you...dear...in life...there are many roles.

Is sis...The One...or...am...I...'jus another...one...Mom 'n Dad...what's...my role?

Dolls...maybe the same...but...here's another game...money's tight...can't you see?

Chad's...so sweet...sis and he...well...oh well...if...I try harder...could I be?


If life is hard...it only gets...harder...girl...sometimes there...are no answers!

Mom 'n Dad...lied...love alone...isn't enough...life...though...sometimes...answers!

When the well...is deeper...the pain...grows 'n grows...girl...hang on through!

Golden Girls...dolls and boys...the streets...are longer...till you see...it through!


Girl...one day...you'll make it...the world...is the oyster...and...you're the pearl!

Girl...one day...you'll make it...your sister's...not the only...one...you're the pearl!

When life's harder...the pain...lasts longer...'n golden things...can't make...
A Golden Heart!

When life's harder...the pain...lasts longer...'n golden things...can't make...
A Golden Heart!


Christmas...with...my...only dream...it really...does seem...a little longer...and
Stronger!

Christmas...with...my...only dream...it really...does seem...a little longer...and
Stronger!

One day...I made it...Girl...I made it...I made it...Mom 'n Dad...lied...A Golden Girl!

One day...I made it...Girl...I made it...I made it...Mom 'n Dad...lied...A Golden Girl!


When the road...is too painfull...and the blood...stains through...stay true!

When the road...is too painfull...and the blood...stains through...stay true!




Long poem by VAL BROOKLYN Rogers BLK PANTHER | Details |

THE THINGS THAT BOYS DO

Boys do boys BREAKS toys.  Knick knack paddy wack. Give. A dog. A bone.
Some say the things that boys do are wrong and even more wrong still.
Pushing a go cart up a steep steep hill. Wrestling down steps and falling. 
Breaking bones. Being home alone.  Fire crackers one two three STOP spitting
On me.
REPEAT  REPEAT  REPEAT
Boys even when they're right they're wrong. Boys are strong.  They are 
Triumphant on mix martial arts and wrestling night. They need a place here in 
SOCIETY.  They need their own show and tell month.  What week? What's a week?

Fighting through one trillion trillion jeers.  Not wanting to show their fears.
                           THE  MEDIA  COMES THE  QUICKER
Fearing vulnerability boys are nothing but the brunt of solid steel with DIAMOND
Spikes.  Many boys are MELLOW but spell  WE  DO RAISE HELL.  Some might 
Think boys do things for SPITE. Such as staying alive? Or flying a kite?
Boys but when dark is night stay inside.  At DIFFICULT times they fight even when
They're right thinking they are strong. MAYBE they are wrong?  

Wrestling tearing fisting clenching cursing spitting stomping reaching for his own 
Fate. Suffering alienation and hate.  What he wants he gets one way. (Sparing no grace) or another.  All in all in all. Some boys walk a CHALK line and are fine.
In the light of the life of things this is how it is. Boys are STRONG. They go long.
 THE MEDIA THE CONDEMNATION THE VILIFICATION:  Boys are bursting through malls tearing down walls shooting guns on the run. 

Nothing but boys will be boys. Nothing is truth until it is seen through the eye of a boy
Keen. Gangs, tussles and physical rebuttals. There those tails wagging of puppy dogs, 
Yeah boy! You got SWAGGER you got sway. Football gear and baseball cards yeah all
Hard. Make way for shooting hoops hanging on stoops

TRACES OF MANHOOD TO DATE. BEEN NEVER A MAN WHO HASN'T BEEN A BOY.
ENJOY!!  GOOD FATE!!


Long Poems