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Long poem by Trisha Sugarek | Details |

The Ash Can

The Ash Can  ©

I got the call on Sunday night.  I was traveling on business.  When I looked at the caller ID
 I wondered why my husband’s boss would be calling me.  I was unprepared for what
 he told me and my legs turned to water when he said that my husband was dead. 
 ‘A heart attack?  An accident?’ I asked.  ‘No’, he said, ‘John committed suicide.  
 They found him in your garage this morning.’  I heard someone screaming and 
wished that they would stop so I could hear the rest.  His voice was very far away
 and the woman just kept screaming.  ‘Shut up! Shut up!’  I need to hear.  I clapped my
 hand over my mouth when I suddenly realized it was me who was screaming.
 I don’t remember hanging up or getting on the plane. (beat)  Yes, John and I were having
 problems and we had been separated for about three months but nothing was official. 

 After thirty years of marriage I never believed that we couldn’t weather this and share 
the rest of our lives together.  This was just a phase he was going through…some sort 
of mid-life crisis.  This had to be some horrible mistake, a case of mistaken identity.  
My John would never do this, leave me like this.  (beat)  

I stumbled into our home around nine the next morning.  The house looked like a woman
 hadn’t lived there for months. Dirty dishes in the sink, groceries half put away, empty 
beer cans and a full ashtray by John’s chair.  Seeking comfort I walked over to his chair. 
 Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a reflection in the mirror over the
 fireplace.  Some wild looking woman with mascara smudges under her eyes and smeared
 lipstick looked out at me. I walked closer to inspect this stranger in my house.  
She looked old and used up.  Who was she?  What had life dealt her to look so worn out? 
Oh, God, it was me.  Staring out with those eyes bleeding hot, raw pain.  (beat)  I curled
 up in John’s chair and closed my eyes.  Was this all I had left of my husband?  This slightly shabby piece of furniture that still smelled of him?  How could I tell our children?  Could I bear to go into the garage?  What would I find? 
 I knew that they had taken his body away but what had they left there for me to see?  
Maybe something there would prove that this was truly a mistake.    I rose to my feet and 
walked into the kitchen and through the laundry room to the garage door. (beat)

I slowly opened it and was knocked back by the remaining stink of gas fumes.   
John’s car sat in its parking spot, the garden hose hanging from the back window like 
some obscene snake.  I gagged and pressed the button to open the garage door.  
The passenger side window was open so I could look inside without having to touch the car.  And what I saw on the seat told it all.  There was John’s cell phone, an empty bottle of Vodka and a bottle of Excedrin.  (beat)  And something else…a second cell phone…what in the world? I was only allowed five seconds of blissful denial before it all came crashing down on me.  The second phone…the secret phone that men who cheat keep to talk to their lovers.  All those protestations he offered during the time that we were apart.  ‘No, there was no one else’, ‘I just need to find myself’, ‘I don’t want a divorce’, ‘I just need some time’. ‘I love you; I’m just not in love with you.’  Lies, all lies!  How could I have been so stupid?  Then I notice a crumpled manila envelope on the floor of the car.  Anger driven, I opened the door and picked up the envelope and the two cell phones and went back into the house.  Sitting in John’s chair once again, I smoothed out the envelope and read what was written there.  
‘Ricky, tell Sherry I love her. Tell Sherry I can’t live without her.  Tell Sherry not to cry
 for me. Sherry, I’ll love you forever. I’m sorry.....John-Boy.’  Who the hell was Sherry? 
 Did my husband of three decades kill himself over some tramp?  Some other woman 
whom he barely knew?  I picked up the second cell phone and scanned the history of calls.
  Where was area code 864? As I set the phone down my eye caught the partial title of 
a book lying on the rug under the table.  Picking it up, I read: ‘How To Keep A Long 
Distance Relationship Exciting and New.’  I opened it to the first few pages and found an
 inscription,  ‘To my tiny dancer, until we meet again.  Love forever, your John-Boy.’
My God, John, how could you?  How could you do this to us?  I yelled as I threw the 
book across the room; will this hellish nightmare never end? (beat)  I picked up the
 cell phone and scrolled down the history; Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman.  No other woman, huh, John? South Carolina…hence the long distance relationship…you’re such a fool, I told myself. There was voice mail saved and I listened to the most current ones.  Those messages told a story of a married woman who had a son and a new grandchild. 

Another sad, pedestrian story of a restless woman trapped in a loveless marriage but
 unwilling to leave.  The daughter-in-law apparently would not let Sherry see the child. 
 It seemed that John, in a misplaced attempt to help, called Sherry’s son to insist that
 he let Sherry see her grand-baby. 
 Only to succeed in blowing up that family.   The final message was not so sweet and 
sexy from his lover. Sherry had dumped my husband. (beat)  I didn’t know whether 
to laugh or cry.  I seemed to be trapped in a crazed, unbelievable soap opera.  But what 
is it that they say about truth being stranger than fiction?  I sighed.  John had always
 wanted to rescue anyone in trouble…even when they didn’t ask for help.   He had crossed
the line calling that woman’s son.  Oh, John, what were you thinking?,  I asked the empty
 room. Didn’t you know?  You were her dirty little secret.... (more)

(from my book, Monologues 4 Women) 





Long poem by Kelly Crenshaw | Details |

I hope

I'm 51 today.
51 tomorrow, yay
Was 51 yesterday.
52 is months away,
And yes I'm thankful.
Although it's not my real birthday,
It kinda is in a certain way.
I'm still alive another day.
I had the notion to celebrate.
And be thankful.
Though it's not a holiday. 
Thanksgiving has come and gone away,
I'm just alive today.
For that I'm thankful.
Honestly, I am not just trying to make these lines rhyme,
Or reflect upon the deep sublime.
I'm just grateful today to be alive.
I mean really thankful.
I'm not trying to wow you with philosophy,
Or impress you with theology.
It matters not at all to me.
I just feel thankful.
So tonight I take a walk outside,
I look up into the endless sky and then I breathe.
I breathe in deep,
And I say thank you.
And maybe not just to Who you think, 
Man let's throw in the kitchen sink,
And include all who've touched my life, to whom I'm thankful.
Some of you I'm glad you're gone,
Frankly you stayed a bit too long
And some you the grave stole far too soon,
And yet I'm still thankful.
Today the living and the dead
You've both been right up inside my head, 
And synergized this verbal thread.
For that I'm thankful.
I close my eyes and think of Tim, named David right there toward the end. 
I always smile when I think of him,
And now I listen
I heard a siren going by,
I wonder who and wonder why,
Was it a wreck, did someone die?
Yet still I listen.
Neighbors dogs are going wild.
Was that the laughter of a child.
Seems like I can hear for miles.
Still I listen.
I hear the hi-way roar of cars.
Tho I have never heard the stars
Is there really life on Mars?
Shhh brain please shut up and listen!
The soft night whispers in my ears.
Pressing through my random fears,
I stand amazed at what I hear.
And now I wonder.
I open up my eyes and see as I feel this winter breeze
The silhouette of leafless trees.
I stand in wonder
Then I wonder about the first man to ever be,
Or the first time he looked up to see
The Milky Way the galaxies.
Did he wonder?
I wonder what he did
How he loved how he lived.
If he ever lost a friend?
Man oh man I wonder.
Was he the first to dig a grave?
How it sounded if he prayed?
How he fought?
How he played?
If that man could see us all today,
What would he say I wonder?
In ways was he a lot like me?
Did he sometimes fear what he could not see?
Did he create unseen walls 
Of unbelief?
I stand and wonder.
Did he ever hurt the ones he loved?
Did life convince him not to trust?
I wonder.
My great grandfather lived
My DNA is shared with him.
I wonder how we are the same,
And I don't even know his name.
Still I wonder.
Will my great grand kids know my name?
Will it even matter who's to say?
Will they look up in wonder?
Will they listen?
Will they be thankful?
Not much I can leave to them
That would matter too much in the end.
I suppose the primal hope in man
Is the hope I hope lives on in them
I hope they wonder. About the universe.
I hope they listen. To life's unspoken verse.
I hope they're thankful. Even in midst of deepest hurts. 
I hope they're thankful.
I hope they listen.
I hope they wonder.
And no matter what life hands them,
I hope they hope.


Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

A Happy Day --true story--

This may seem a long story, as stories go...so bear with me if you can...
Our family is large, quite a clan....we gather each summer for family fun
With uncles, aunts, cousins, and kin....too many to count
but wonderful moments is what we're about....kids to shout...food to eat...
      laughs to share....and love to give.
One particular day (our turn to host.)... wieners to roast...celebrations to toast
I had been running like crazy....assigning the posts
"Honey,.where is the charcoal?...."Lawns to mow!"  
"Hurry everyone! No time to coast!
"Son, did you buy enough drinks?"...."Now think, ....everyone....think!"
"Put on your best!"..........."Whew!   Give me a rest!"

  The months before had been a trial..we had been put to the test
  But in the end, we had been blessed...
  We had stepped up to the plate,.....but now was the time to celebrate!

  You see, a few months before, of that fateful year...
  My daughter had married, a handsome young man just the year before.
  They had started out life, with stars in their eyes, happy and strong...
       (before something went wrong).

Happiness...is a thing that can come in disguise...and the steeper the hill, the more strength we can find.  And we learn to survive

  Our daughter's new husband, such a hearty young man...became strangely ill
  Soon was discovered,....a threatening mass....in the brain, ...the stem,
  We were frightened to death....Oh God...not them!  They had just begun!

  Little girl, growing up....a rock of strength...and youth was no barrier. 
  She made us proud
  Only once did I see her falling apart...in a hospital corridor, only once did she break
  Into my arms she came, such a quake that I felt ...as it broke my heart
  So soon she was able to regain her smile, and stood by his side, all the while. 
  So that was our trial, but ...the doctors came through..........the news was good!
  He was doing so well....he would recover in time!  He would be just fine!

So here on this day....it was six months later...
A joyful celebration...a wonderful conclusion....(no ordinary reunion)...
To rejoice in the fact that our dear new son was healthy, he had finally recovered
That night of the party...as we sat outside
  As the twilight had settled a beautiful day
  My daughter and son ....shared what had just been discovered... 
                                      That news of our grandchild....was soon on the way....


________________
A True Story:


Long poem by Lyric Man | Details |

GRAND MOMMY'S HOUSE

Loading up the car, on a trip that’s not to far..
to Grand-mommy’s house!
We head up 65, it’s such a lovely drive..
to Grand-mommy’s house!
“Are we there yet?” “Almost, we’re getting really close”..
to Grand-mommy’s house!
On Francis Street we turn, sweet thoughts of past trips return..
at Grand-mommy’s house!

Feelings hard to hide, knowing the joy inside..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
The “I love greetings”, Ah, pressure and stress is fleeting..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Warm hugs and kisses, from the Mr. and the Mrs..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Place your bags in the back, time to enjoy a dinner snack..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Pork sandwiches and tea, something special just for me..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Sweat aroma fills the air, to the sunroom.. pick your chair..
at Grand-mommy’s house!

Talks from the past, wonderful memories that last..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Funny stories are told, wow, it never gets old..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Wisdom to teach, in a way that’s always in reach..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Kindness and care, so much affection to share..
at Grand-mommy’s house!

When you’ve had to much to eat, you’ll still want a treat..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Chocolate cake and pie, you’ll want both.. don’t lie..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
To the bathroom to wash your face, so many hearts, lips, love, and lace..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
You’ll wash both your hands, by the light of the lipstick stand..
at Grand-mommy’s house!

So much more to say, and many games to play..
at Grand-mommy’s house! 
The Weather Channel’s on mute, Granddaddy thinks we’re cute..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
It’s getting kind of late, time with the cousins has been great..
 at Grand-mommy’s house!
When you’re feeling beat, head to the second den for some sleep..
at Grand-mommy’s house!

At midmorning we awake, there’s no schedule on the slate..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Smell those biscuits piping hot, oh.. we like them a lot..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Come into the kitchen, to see all that Grand-mommy’s fixin’..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
She’s wrapped in Granddaddy’s arms, there’s so much love and charm..
at Grand-mommy’s house!

Warm hands to hold, you’re always treated like gold..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
Love, faith, and trust, spoiling grandkids is a must..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
You’ve helped us all to see, just how good life can be..
at Grand-mommy’s house!
My Grandparent’s endless love, is a gift from God above..
at Grand-mommy’s house!

By Dave Wood and daughter Katie Wood


Long poem by Cassandra Compher | Details |

The Rewards of Babysitting

Part 1
    For the grandparents: Ah the rewards of babysitting
The smiles, hugs, and all the love, the crying, the complaining
And when is this kid going home so I can get some sleep
Grand parenting.. Some jobs just aren’t worth the pay.

Part 2 (Grandparents)
    What's worst than having one child you say? Watching
Two for the entire day. More crying, more lunches to 
make- School starts Aug 23rd and believe me it’s a relief
for your sake.

Part 3
    While babysitting you start to smile knowing school will
Begin soon. You think, after these kids are gone will sleep
Till noon. Let’s enjoy peace as long as we can
What the kids are here, again? Yes, Grand dad it’s the
Weekend!

Part 4

    We got something for those weekend blues.. A special little
Present we’ve been saving for you. Now it’s very different
I can say. A sitters hand book to help you get through the 
Holidays.


        The Privileges of Babysitting


The Babysitters Hand Book    “A book of Excellence “

1.Always conduct a positive attitude when the children
Are screaming
2.Keep the pool “Bug Free” unless you need extra snacks
3.Aspirin should always be in stock for those louder days
4.Keep the stereo volume high so it blocks out the kids voices
5.Relax completely when sitting because it won’t be long
Until you have to get up again
6.Keep all the cats fed so when the kids chase after them
They’ll have enough energy to get away.
7.Have tape on hand in case you need immediate silence
8.All meals should be prepared in advance in case of 
Severe hunger.
9.Never ever break up a fight unless one wins so there’s
Only one kid to watch.
10.Keep 2 pairs of shoes, one pair will never be enough
And remember when you start loosing your mind
That next time you’ll hold on longer.

Part 5 Grandparents

   Now that we’ve covered the holidays lets just 
Sit down and be still, healthy kids are fun to
Watch aren’t they?  With the only exception
When they are seriously Ill.

                       Continuing the Bonus’s of Babysitting

Part 6

   Ah the closing thoughts of the babysitter. The
Friend and pal that always gives a good cheer. The
Dependable fool that bends over here. The Responsible
Buddy you have each and everyday. The constant sucker
That will go anyway. You’re the Good partner that
Will always last and having another grandchild
Is the Final Blast

The Conclusion of Babysitting


Long poem by MoonBee Canady | Details |

A Child's Training

(Prov. 22: 6 /  Heb. 5: 14  /  Deut. 6: 6-9  /  2 Tim. 3: 13-15, 16  /  Matt. 19: 13, 14)


(Part One of Two)



If A Child Wants To Eat Candy
All Day Long …
When You Tell Them ‘No!’ - -
Is It Wrong?

If A Child Wants To Stay Up On School Nights
And Not Go To Bed …
Will You Leave The Matter At That
And Do What They Said?

If A Child Wants To Run The Streets
At All Hours of  The Night …
Would You Allow It
And Say ‘It’s Alright’?

If A Child Fell Into Hanging Out
With The Wrong Crowd …
Would You Do Nothing
Thereby Showing It’s Allowed?

If A Child Gets Some Silly Notion
And Is Being Misled …
Will You Not Try To Talk
Some Sense Into Their Head?

And When Your Child Makes A Mistake
(‘Cause All Of Us Make Life’s Errors)
Are You Going To Be Loving & Forgiving
Or Come Off Like Some Holy-Terror?

If You See That Your Child’s Life
Is In Imminent Danger …
Would You Leave His Soul’s Wellbeing
To Some Ulterior-Motive Stranger?

All Children Need Education
That’s Why We Send Them To School
But Isn’t Home Training
The Best Place For Understanding Life’s Rules?

Before Your Child Gets Polio or Smallpox
Or Some Other Life Threatening Situation
Would You Not Seek Out Preventative
Medicine or Cures Thru Vaccinations?

If A Child Just Wants To Play
And Not Do Chores or Homework …
Would You Not Try To Find Out
Why A Lazy Streak Is Starting To Lurk?

If Your Child Is Depressed
Unmanageable or Confused …
Would You Not Put Extreme Effort
Into Finding Just What You Could Do?

If A Child Needs To Be Shown Love
and We Withhold Our Kisses & Hugs
Are We Guilty When They Grow Up
Into ‘Crypts & Bloods’?

If Your Child Doesn’t Want To Talk
and Retreat In Hiding From The World
Wouldn’t You Do Everything In Your Power
To Help Your Precious Boy or Baby-Girl?

If Your Child Has Low Self Esteem
Or Shows A Lack of Character …
Wouldn’t You Want To Be
Their Value & Virtue  Narrator?

If Your Child Just Really Needs
Someone To Listen & To Talk To …
Would You Not Prefer
that That Someone Be You?

I Once Knew A Police Officer
Who Had Said of His Beat …
A Child Can Get Discipline At Home
Or They’ll Get Their Beatings In The Streets

And The Same Can Be Said
Of A Young Child’s Impressionable Mind
It Needs To Be Nurtured At Home
Or It Will Eat Every Junk & Stuff They Find



(Part One of Two)


                      Written & © :  7/16/2013

                       By:  The MoonBee


Long poem by Beatrice Boyle | Details |

Why Do I Write

Why Do I Write?
I was born in an era when Shakespeare, Shelley and Wordsworth were kings. Reading them was like hearing beautiful music and after all these years…it still is. Then I fell in love with Emily Dickenson and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam…what wonderful words of wisdom they imparted! I write because it allows me to express myself…my thoughts, my compassion, my soul… much as my singing has done all my life. Now that that part of my life is waning, I can still be a “diva” in my own eyes! lol I write, because my heart tells me to in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eludes me. I write because these thoughts and words which are choking me...screaming to be free...must be released. I write for those who mourn, or who suffer illness, to console them and say I understand. I write for the lonely, for those who have no hope. whose stories tug at my heart. Since I can't hold them close to me, I try through my poems to convince them there is hope and tomorrow will be better. I write to be heard...to show I am still relevant and have viable thoughts and opinions to share with the world. Experience is still the best teacher. I write to protest injustice wherever I find it. To be silent would be cowardly. I write humorously about inconsequential, everyday situations, to bring a laugh or two into our lives. I wrote my memoirs for my grandchild, to preserve the past for future generations. I wrote poetry to release grief and sorrow when death came to call, to help me find peace and acceptance. I write my religious poetry…not to flaunt my religion…but to praise God and thank him for his sacrifice for me and for the peace his presence brings to me. I also ask his blessings for my friends and loved ones and for the heavy in heart, so that they might find peace and deliverance from the evils of this world. I do not expect my work to be published…I have no illusions about my talent…I write for everyman, most of whom would shy away from the literary world and consider it elitist in the extreme, but when tragedy befalls them, they take comfort in simple words of encouragement and consolation. But most of all, I write for the sheer joy of it and because my soul requires it!
Copyright©2008 Beatrice Boyle (All rights reserved) For Frank's "What turns you on" contest


Long poem by Vickie Ortiz Vazquez | Details |

My Father

Mi Padre, 2012
V. Ortiz Vazquez ©

Bears the mark since child birth
Incognito until childhood
Development blocks transformed part of his destiny
Twin brother carries the severe load
Not only does he stumble when speaking but also when walking
Both deteriorating with the passing of
Seconds, minutes, hours
Days, weeks, months, years

To remember the days when family went out for a jog
To ride the memory lanes when outings took us to the mountains
Rivers
Lechón Asado
Monitas, Crab hunting
Mud beyond the ankles
To peddle through strange terrain brings the day you taught me how to ride my bike
Hanging on the tree’s branches
Result of your way of teaching
“You have two choices; break or crash,” you said

Remember my swimming training?
“You either swim or drown,” you stated as you threw me into the deep waters
To this day, panic comes when I cannot touch the floor
Next stage in my life a new lesson
To learn how to drive
18 was I, a family friend my teacher this time
Keeping in mind the words you said to me once
“If you want to learn how to drive, watch what I do”
So many words yet no practical techniques with them

Formal education left you at an early age
Life’s education provided you with lifelong lessons
Handy man you became
Trick of trades pass down to you
Childhood road blocks no impediments to you
Sharp mind even when learning was tough at times
Hands no stranger to hard labor
No competition to formal education
Building your life’s traveling path one block at a time
First, you stole my mom
Your wife
Second, came my brother
Then, me and my sister
To wake one day to learn of your demise
Explanation to the changes within you
No longer active
Your hands no longer take pleasure of fixing things
Captive between four walls
Your mind
Diagnosis of schizophrenia
Johnny, Christian, Vadeline, Carlitos, Chadwick, Cody
How long until you can no longer enjoy grandchild’s laugh?
Touch?
Conversations?

Cheated you were, are
Compensated with a wife, children, grandchildren
Nurture with richness of a simple man
Patiently I wait until the next time you say, “Tonta. Así no se hace”
And, in your father’s role explain to me what I already know
Don’t seem to understand
To call you later and ask for your handy hands
No time of waiting
Refuse to part with slipping mind
Sharp hands





Long poem by Aime Ailean | Details |

Ode To GrandFather

And have you drifted into the midst of time?
Do I have to move heaven and earth to find you; if so then I'll try.
Am I the only remnants of you, this reflection lost in a maze; this body, soul and spirit in which I 
often gaze. 
The form you left behind, this small girl wrapped in sin;
you've spoke to me in visions...this life shall never end. 
Not until I've found you and my soul can rest!
Your suffering continues from heavens great abyss, as you watch
your youngest Grandchild self-destruct in the way you did.
Can any of us escape it? The ties of blood which bind; 
I only know your memory shall haunt me until I die? 
  Have all forgotten you existed, when I'm judged or
shoved aside...they ne'er see you in all I do, they refuse
to look upon my "other side." 
And yet it seems the strongest, for blood cannot be fooled,
wishful thinking can lie and cheat you away but in truth I'm part of
you. 
Never will I stop, or cease this fruitless chase, I have to find
you somewhere; I have to see your face...for there's a rebel
in me, a burning fire inside and it never came from all these
people that I've come to know as mine.
I'll never hate ye Grandfather...wherever you have been; 
I've heard the worst about you but still I'm your kith and kin
and whatever horrid acts you've done I've already forgiven.
And I promise you I'll find you and I will not sink as deep and
I will not die young and hopeless in the sea of Isla drink.
You, yourself has kept me from knowing who you were...
why did you have to perish so long before I was born?
  All those myths and legends which surround your name,
you could have cleared what has been said, if you had lived
to explain! Why did you leave this world without so much as 
a word, a letter of some kind, telling of your hurt?
And out of three Grandchildren...why did you chose me? 
To be a rebel, the fighter, the one who'll set you free? 
Do I remind you of you in your youthful hours...was it my 
mind or feeble frame that drew your ghost beside me? 
  I know your here;I see you in myself, my mind, 
my longings. And I never sleep for in dreams I greet your
spirit which guides me. 

You are not dead and ne'er forgotten, not for as long as I live...
your spirit, your sorrow, your flaming desires dwell still within
this skin.


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)


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