Best Baseball Field Poems
Every so often, my mind wanders back to the summer of my youth, where a specific memory awaits.
Having completed my first year at University, I’ve come home. My younger brother John, fifteen, seems all grown up, so different. He’s gotten taller but it’s more than that.
I'm surprised when he offers me a tour of his new ‘Boyz Only’ clubhouse. I almost wonder if he has missed me while I was away, likely not. The shell of a hand-me-down camper has been converted into a hangout. When I mention that he keeps it surprisingly neat, he snickers and reveals his stash of hidden girlie magazines, safe from the inevitable parental inspection.
I am impressed, and at the same time, I can’t help but feel like I’ve entered a time bubble, a door, a transition. On one hand, it feels surreal; on the other hand, it’s simply an honour to just sit here as a guest.
I talk to John about what it was like to adapt to life in the big city. He talks to me about his recent exploits and his adventures with his friends. It isn’t long before we reminisce about the escapades we shared when we were younger. In our pauses, we’re somehow cognizant that we’re one step closer to adulthood, to what we might call freedom.
In the past year, I haven’t thought much about home and our countryside fields. For me it’s more about what the future has to offer. But on this day, it’s tangible how John and I are setting out on different journeys. He is next in line to fly the coop and I'm sure he realizes it. As we spread our wings, it’s obvious that the gap will only grow.
This precise moment clings golden to me, ever so close to the surface of my heart.
at the forest’s edge
by the old baseball field
youth within reach
AP: 1st place 2024
Submitted on September 1, 2025 for contest 2025 POETRY MARATHON MILE 13 sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 1ST
There's the old house again
the one you've heard so much about...
'Course it looks much smaller now
and the front yard, that was
our baseball field, has shrunk...
Why is my stomach churning
What are these tears that blind my eyes
Oh, I can't bear to think upon it again...
The mind shields the trembling heart
The heart weeps unrepentantly
Somewhere there’s a baseball
Shivering in the cold
Somewhere there’s a baseball glove
Afraid of growing old.
Somewhere there’s a baseball bat
Some weary cleats - sweat stained hat.
Somewhere there’s a baseball field
Beneath snow’s winter fall
Somewhere dreaming children
Hear the umpire shout
“Play Ball”.
John G. Lawless
submitted to – Batter Up – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Debbie Guzzi
The beagle with a brown tail really stood out
for his high intelligence and good behavior;
he looked up to me as his rescuer and savior,
he was well-loved by me, he had no doubt.
I sought a related name for his sniffing cognition,
" Sniffer " seemed the perfect one I deemed;
very remarkable was his sensory perception,
I was stunned by this beautiful and gifted breed.
Out into the empty baseball field we often went,
I threw my hard ball and he caught it instantly;
I sat down and he ran to me breathing heavily
and licking my face, he smeared it with his scent.
The beagle with a long brown tail was rarely quite;
he had gorgeous eyes more brilliant than a lapis stone;
they winked and shone while I fetched his cookie bone...
many afternoons we chased rabbits to beguile time.
Entered in Laura Loo's contest,
" I Love My Pets "
Written on 1/ 24/2016
Do they play baseball in heaven.
Wonder if you know if they play baseball in heaven?
Think they have a baseball field in the clouds?
Does guys like Mickey mantle and Frank Robins on.
Does the great Babe Ruth hit home runs?
Are there teams like the Yankees or the braves up there.
I know God must have a team he likes.
I want to find out if they are the angels.
Do you think that I will be able to play with the cool ones?
I know they must have a hall of fame with guys like Joe and Stan
"A Vision of Existence - Baby Style"
my eyes blink within a cushioned comfort zone
fingers and toes cling to tender warm insides
I tend to dream of bicycles when I birth flesh and bone
or a pink doll house where a loving family abides.
my swimming skills are limited as I lay in Mommy's womb
one day I'll jump the high dive at the beach
in a few months I'll push my way out of this vacuumed tomb
to taste sweet fruits; my favorite will be peach.
I dream of running round a baseball field on a sunny day
or jumping rope or riding skates with friends
sometimes, I wonder, how Mommy will hold me in her special way
how Daddy will teach me great things where learning never ends.
I know I'll have a nursery room with toys and books and games
in the corner an awesome truck with cool fender
am sure my parents are hard at work browsing baby names
but I will have the last surprise revealing to them, my gender.
*For Unborn Baby Dream by The Scribe
Oh, my, how excited, elated, I would be
to receive sudden financial prosperity.
The true appeal would not be the tangible
but the freedom I have longed to handle.
It is so easy and fun to imagine
the idyllic dream-cottage I would fashion.
If my pen and intent have successful flair,
Perhaps I can transport us all there.
One super, great thing about my new home
is the location in a unique, universal zone,
where society, by law, must leave me alone
and never again cause me or mine to groan.
First, I’d hand my home dreams to Thomas Kinkade
whose involvement my enthusiasm would persuade.
He would build my perfect cottage in a glade;
quaint goose bump appeal with each modern update.
Country, antique and Quaker furnishings throughout
would be joyously bought using my new clout.
I would slowly decorate within and without -
extend the thrill, I would without a doubt.
A Walt-Disney-mind will fashion green grounds
over which perfect billowing clouds will abound.
Cute, gleeful birds will provide uplifting sounds
and precious flowers will pop color all around.
Somewhere on my lush, beautiful property
will be awesome fun for others and me;
ATVs, a bowling alley and bumper cars;
a racquetball court where everyone stars;
a baseball field where rivalry will spar;
an inviting lake twinkling beneath the stars
where fishing and swimming are never barred;
and, a babbling brook playing nature’s guitar.
Every morning will wondrously begin.
Before any voice has even spoken,
a gorgeous song will be piped in,
Cat Steven’s singing, “Morning Has Broken.”
Look at the baseball field.
The poet’s words, a sword to wield.
To these pleasures I consistently yield.
But heavenly joys I often neglect.
Where are the heavenly spires?
The bosom that protects against the eternal fires.
Where in worship no one tires.
And the holy one’s face is clearly seen.
What is the reward that is beyond our sight?
How are we to navigate through the night,
With an invisible joy as our guiding light?
How can wicked hearts love one who is perfect?
And this thought perplexes me:
The one weeping in Gethsemane.
For his alienation from the holy trinity.
A fellowship not known by mortal men.
And yet my heart tends to go,
Towards the summer, and to the snow.
My love is for things that I know.
But the holy fellowship I‘ve never seen.
I can boast of the poet’s words.
I can admire the fish and the birds.
I can point to harmonies written in thirds.
But the Holy one’s face I cannot describe.
Man in his mind’s eye.
Can conjure up griffins and fairies that fly.
As well as fraudulent gods in the sky.
But a true deity he cannot draw a picture.
For the company of friends we are grateful.
In our camaraderies we are playful.
But we don’t desire to sit at the trinity’s roundtable.
Of that friendship we are alien.
And if there is a heavenly hymn able to touch my ear.
My eardrum may never again resound, I fear.
The face of the savior unclear,
To a mere golem returning to the mud.
Somewhere
Somewhere there’s a baseball
Shivering in the cold
Somewhere there’s a baseball glove
Afraid of growing old.
Somewhere there’s a baseball bat
Some weary cleats and sweat stained hat.
Somewhere there’s a baseball field
Beneath snow’s winter fall
Somewhere dreaming children
Hear the umpire shout
“Play Ball”.
John G. Lawless
When Bobby was just nine years old,
folks loved his winning ways.
He was a little gentleman
deserving of their praise.
His helpful nature and big smile
were natural, they knew.
His family was proud of him.
Life bore a rosy hue.
At school and on the baseball field,
on Boy Scout projects too,
though Bobby was a shining star,
his ego never grew.
Then Bobby changed dramatically
when he became a teen.
Out came a taunting arrogance
no one had ever seen.
The center of attention still--
at his insistence then--
he bragged on his accomplishments,
how great he'd always been.
He ridiculed some other teens,
"The losers," in his words,
"the clumsy oafs who stink at sports,
the dummies, and the nerds."
He soon was sharing center stage
with others who, like him,
enjoyed attention--good or bad--
and acting out on whim.
Then one day his comeuppance came
when his school's team had won
the championship and he was high
on praise and having fun.
He took the credit--no surprise!
But soon the tongues would wag.
He meant to say, "No brag; just fact!"
He said, "No fact; just brag"!
The "oafs" and "nerds" laughed in his face.
The "dummies" yelled, "That's right!"
His dumbstruck fans just stared at him,
now a pathetic sight!
*******************
May centers of attention learn
that positive is best--
which honest, humble people earn,
eschewing all the rest.
July 6, 2017
Summertime memories of better days
Playing outside way past dark
Bungalo was the community pool
Church picnics at Dutch Hill Park
Sliding boards and old metal swings
A box for the little ones filled with sand
There were monkey bars and seesaws
A merry go round that we turned by hand
A pavilion full of picnic tables
Where neighbors sat together to eat
And the old beat up wooden dance hall
That gave little relief from the heat
Usually they had a polka band
Playing polkas, waltzes and rock n’ roll
Wooden floor jammed with people dancing
Those memories touch my soul
Sometimes we’d run down to the baseball field
Play ball until we were soaked in sweat
Or sneak down the woods when we got a chance
We’d all have a cigarette
Then we would walk back to the picnic
Get food at the concession stand
Carry it over to the dance hall
And listen to the band
The picnics lasted until late at night
Neighbors sat talking and having a good time
A hamburger was only twenty cents
And a beer was only a dime
Take me back to those innocent days
Where my memories still roam
To church picnics at Dutch Hill Park
Saints Peter and Paul and Saint Jerome.
The sweat pours down from
tank tops and t-shirts,
preposterously loud screams explode
on the baseball field around them.
Drink it all in for a win that's more
than a glory of the game
by those who long for excitement
and the possibility of league's trophy.
The raucous crowd of spring flock together
their arms flinging outrageous signals ,
with high pitched hurrah, as bats fly off
to gaily rattle, “Oh, my! Go get 'em!”
when men become boys of spring's home-run!
Batter Up Contest
I stepped out onto the baseball field of life
Nervous flutters stirring inside me
Realizing it was my time
My time to bat
Sweaty hands
Nervous stomach
Sweat rolling down my forehead
Nothing was going to stop me
I got in position
I lifted my bat
I closed my eyes
I took a deep breath
Trying to relax myself
It was my time
Yes, my time
Trials and tribulations won't hinder me
Hardships and persecution won't discourage me
I'll survive no matter what
I won't walk away
I won't give up
This is what I've waited for
A chance to fulfill my dreams
Dreams the Lord has given me
This is what I thought to myself, as I stood there gripping my bat
My face covered in sweat
My heart pounding in my chest
As I prepared to swing at whatever came my way
Maybe I'll hit the ball out of the ballpark today
So I braced myself, as the ball made its way to me
Here it comes
Here it comes
I closed my eyes
And I swung
And………
And, what's next?
Fist of crumpled bills, reading through the flavors etched in chalk;
While couples hand in hand, lean on one another and sweet talk.
She orders just for one; Chocolate seems to help when she’s depressed,
The buzzing ice cream lights illuminate the face of loneliness.
Chaotic cafeteria, he’s harassed for sport,
There will be no lunch today; the athletes, they extort.
Racing home to stay unscathed is his daily test,
Behind the baseball field they bruise the face of loneliness.
Flopping with some friends of his, he pilfered as they slept,
Withdrawal had him seething as his craving quickly crept.
Hypodermic and possession; he plead no contest.
He held the slate as they photographed the face of loneliness
“Will she come to visit today?” Trying to remember his daughter’s name.
He sighs, propped in his wheelchair, in his shirt with a coffee stain
“I should probably shower, but who the hell do I have to impress?”
His TV blares as he drags the razor across the face of loneliness.
Never seen beautiful angels
sprinkle angel dust on me
as snowflakes on a leafless tree,
and I don't expect them to alter things
when they swoop down with their long wings;
where were they when I faced fears and dangers?
Angel dust has another meaning...
besides the magical power to alter a destiny,
kids of my age used this drug
and went insane, not recognizing
themselves, their personality changed drastically;
some even wanted to jump out of a window.
Sweet angels, leave Heaven and visit me
on the days when wishes freeze on silent lips,
let them resemble snow falling on distant hills,
and deserted roads like the one I'm traveling on!
Let me catch many snowflakes softer than a baby
with soft skin...whiter than daises basking in the spring sun!
A boy, barely fourteen, has been found dead as a poisoned rat
on the bleachers of a run-down baseball field frequented by a hungry cat....
his red eyes were wide-open imploring a merciless sky color rust;
no angel came down to save him: he laid there and painfully died!
Who gave him that powerful drug? Did he want to bite the dust?
He has taken that secret with him...why didn't anyone listen when he cried?
Entered in Gail Angel Doyle's contest,
" Angel Dust "
Written by Andrew Crisci
on 10/18/ 2012