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Metaphor Baseball Poems | Metaphor Poems About Baseball
These Metaphor Baseball poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Baseball. These are the best examples of Metaphor Baseball poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
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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
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
we leave home plate
and run the bases
is life playing baseball?
Copyright © Robert Heemstra | Year Posted 2015
She steps up to the plate –smiling
The smile that fills you with hatred and embarrassment
When so often it is present.
This is no laughing matter.
The unliked by the team,
But still the needed captain.
The field is watching, waiting.
Bat up, she stances.
The players tense –mechanically.
The pitch from empty space,
Creation of the batter’s mind,
Carefully crafted to tie the game.
The crowd groans.
And off goes the game.
She motions to first.
The ball whizzes through the air-
First the infielders –chasing –running –pacing
Staccato across the red.
But they are no match –the ball continues.
She accelerates to second.
The inner-outfielders, the bridge, take over,
As if squeaks and honks can stop it.
They chase, to fill the empty space, but relent.
She crescendos to third.
The far-outfielders, at last,
The most important players of all.
Long, deep strides cover much ground,
But they cannot compare.
The ball is gone.
She made it home.
There is silence in the field.
And the crowd goes wild.
(In 8th grade, I really didn’t care for my band teacher, but loved band.)
Copyright © Anna Wright | Year Posted 2016