Smart Play
“That’s what I love about baseball –
it doesn’t mean anything.” – Woody Allen
The sun is shining, flags are flying,
Spring is here once more:
fresh-mown grass, and onions frying –
and so you know the score.
No criticizing, analyzing –
pack away the screed:
today there’ll be no need
for diagnostic apparatus:
we’ll live without divine afflatus
until the coming Fall.
No gyres or Gaias, or signifiers,
no pyres , no lyres, Heraclitean Fires:
Just bunts and grunts, and foul-back fliers,
and eighteen guys with heavy thighs,
all chasing on a ball.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
