Best Batters Poems
A dedication to Eileen Ghali
for her prolific production of
inspiring work
Willow Tree = Keyboard
And that’s your only clue
Hurricane Eileen - The Storm
As darkness drew nearer
Light falling to drearer
I knew, the night was a foul
The windows were slashed
By her white lightening blast
Down the chimney old windy did howl
By her orchestrates
He rattles the grates
Appears round each gap in the door
Then in comes her rain
Through cracked window pain
As I witness her latest downpour
How the storm fascinates
With the show she creates
And I sit here and watch her for free
Down on the plain
Taking the strain
She batters the gnarled willow tree
Great thunder clouds form
In the head of the storm
And magic arrives in her sky
Come rivers of rain
With nowhere to drain
The water, a flood, rises high
Then happens a lull
To recharge to the full
Takes time out to contemplate
To be cruel or be kind
She rampages her mind
And comes back, at double the rate
With a boom and a crack
Bursts silver from black
A crescendo of noise fills the ear
And the gnarled willow tree
Writhes in ecstasy
By the pulse of her wild atmosphere
Mixed shadows are cast
By her white lightening blast
Her soul, for a while, exposed
For a moment in time
All is in rhyme
Till her story she chooses to close
As her elements soar
They’re at large with a roar
For hours they’ll dance and they’ll play
Blows the hurricane
Driving her reign
Till had, fulfilment of stay
With her forces unleashed
Her passions released
The storm passes over to light
Once more she has shown
By the tantrum she’s sown
Her strength… her power… her MIGHT.
Form:
Inexorable Want
How do I find
These sentences
Written as they are
In ephemeral ink
Indelible lines
Inscribed in my being
Spectral yearnings
It crashes me
To rocks
In unanswerable waves
Swimming tidal
To the inexorable
Yet
The implacable distance
Confounds me
Longing vent me no more
In twists and turns
And unmade beds
Where crumpled kisses
Dream on hot soaked cushions
Leave me not
To the ever restless
Fumblings
Quiet unheard of whisperings
Of her name
How do I find
The collective alphabetic
Of love unknown
Yet
Divulged by these
The screeching banshees
Of petal falling
Corpuscle red
They flow through my blood
Unbidden
Unwarranted
Unwanted
And so desperate
How do they find me
On such a precarious brink
With the voltage
And permission of electricity
Rapine in all my singularity
Hurricane she batters at me
For all my will to resist
I am
Weak
I cannot
Help me please
Lest I drown dark
Brooding in forever’s need
She is my quiet
And ever sun set calmed
Sea
And I
I am a tempest
Left to bellow and blow
Inside an hour glass
In the confines of my soul
Help me please
Save me from this void ripping
As she shreds every day
Every hour
With my unrequited returning
To her arms
Save me
For I have found
My life
My soul companion
So far from me
On some so strange a horizon
That the distance
Between us
Could prove to be
My
Undoing
“we look for that that does not come and go
it cannot be organic form, subject to decay
thoughts and beliefs are fickle, how little we know
yet come what may, our inner child continues to play”
The 'umbilical cord',
hereby symbolic,
its severance
where
initiated,
a soul of three,
and then much more.
Growing up was an
in-depth shared
furtherance,
whereupon,
directives were encountered,
either embraced or tossed aside.
Time and again, instant moments,
encouraging considerations,
imbued ponderance,
whereto,
we tether ourselves
to a sizeable pole of justifications.
Hail to a fitness club, or a cab to a McDonald's,
intermittent intervals, slim down or fatten up,
choice batters about a pole that remains,
until life expectance,
leans awkward,
wherefore
for time indulgence,
slacks a major facet as the pole evolves minor,
for one's immediate concerns, lies elsewhere, a priority.
All the while, the pole was steadfast but never silent
taking a backseat to the urgencies of the moment
significance tallies the hours near,
wherein
one now realizes that time is fleeting,
wonders how one's pole has shaped itself, was it worth their while.
At that instant, open their eyes
and see the poles that are
standing around them
bedside so they can
measure their
worth truly.
Where
we mete
out ourselves
to whom we truly
Blessed Assurance.
Pain ~ ~ ~ pain
Invisible swimmer within blood and vein
Barbaric and callous
Dwells within corpuscles
Intrinsic and inescapable
Source of pool of tears
A lunatic clown that impairs muscles
Schizophrenic display when he batters bones
Free from arrests despite his cruelty
He aches with passion; death's sibling
Oh! don't visit me, friends and family
Comfortable one that renders comfortless all who
live
Smile suppressor; hope vaporizer
Rolling in bed and roars like a lion
Diverter of prayer for wealth desire
"Dear God please give me good health and vigor".
Yes, Let's Do it. Election Insanity.
....................
Yes! Let us have all felons vote!
Better yet, let's muddy the "Swamp"
Have known killers run for Congress.
Perhaps, even be our President.
Indeed, the Americans have gone looney.
Must be chugging down really cheap wine.
Or smoking tons of powerful Ganga.
Don't forget the OxyContin...Whooh!
Let's believe those who work are evil.
Pit them against those who will not.
A typical Communist famous card trick,
Played by Commie crooks.
Let's knock over every statue of those who
made America great,
And replace them with un-American ingrates.
Let's replace them with killer rappers,too
Or female singers on TV, who love to
flash their woo-hoos!
And a special garden so inspired,
Dedicated to disgusting race-batters, too?
And a special duo needs one, also
Stormy Daniels and Avenatti, a dude so
falso!
The newest one to Jussie Smolett,
all made in gold.
Hope that idea. Leaves you cold!
Why heck! We took God out of schools.
Then like refards,we complain ,they don't
know the Golden rule.
No, they don't..you removed a basic tool.
And to salute the flag? Oh, no, they won't!
Flags are to be stomped on and for the
Burning?
All this sets my stomach churning.
In recent years, our government wanted
Their spies in churches.
Yes your ministers are evil don't you know?
But into a mosque, the FBI may not go.
Christians are a dangerous breed!
Really? Yes, so say all the druggies high on
speed.
This is my brief peek as what's coming down
the pike.
I find it all dismaying and not at all right.
Panagiota Romios
4/23/2019
3:2m PST
This is the center
of all my work
I write one line
before and after each line
and you will see
when you place my lines of other poems in between
this is my reality coming undone
for this is my center
For I am but a fool
out to trick myself
I am a clown
stuck in the middle
of something
and somewhere
wondering what else?
This is the key
of what i said before and after
the reality of my craft
and the solutions
to all my upcoming endless
psycho babble chapters
of genies and wishes
and batters and pitter patter
This is the center
I'm spiraling out from
a line above and below
to read between
each piece
a true obviousness
of limited wonder and laughter
moons
and hanged men
For this is just the middle
of everything
but it's not really
so this is my disguise
of a confession
BASEBALL
Batters up…..the tingles start and now we know its spring
All the winter woes are gone and baseball fever sings
Seats are chosen --lucky fans will sit where they can see
Easy chairs for some are best--- the price of them is free
Bull pens hold the players and the feelings there run high
As the batter taps the plate he glances at the sky
Like somewhere there is a baseball god who’ll help him out
Luckily he smacks a low ball—it’s a home run and a shout
THE PITCHER SHAKES OFF ANOTHER SIGN.
I START TO WONDER WHATS ON HIS MIND.
WITH SWEAT RUNNING OFF MY BROW,
I NEED A HIT AND I NEED IT NOW.
BASES LOADED WE'RE DOWN BY THREE.
THE GAMES OUTCOME DEPENDS ON ME.
THE CATCHER RUNS OUT TO THE PITCHERS MOUND.
THEY NEED ME TO HIT IT ON THE GROUND.
I CHECK THE DUGOUT, THEY'RE ALL ON EDGE.
THE INFIELD DEFENSE FORMS A WEDGE.
I STEP BACK IN THE BATTERS BOX.
A FAN SHOUTS OUT, IT'S TIME TO ROCK!
THE TENSION'S THICK AND STARTS TO MOUNT,
BASES LOADED WITH A 3-2 COUNT.
THE PITCHER NOD'S TO CONFIRM THE SIGN.
THEN HE GO'S INTO HIS WIND.
IT'S A FASTBALL, IT LOOKS FAT.
I MAKE CONTACT WITH MY BAT.
CENTER FIELDER STARTS RUNNING BACK.
NOW HE'S ON THE WARNING TRACK.
HE LOOKS UP, IT'S OUTA HERE.
THE CROWD ERUPTS AND START TO CHEER.
ALL MY TEAM MATES SWARM HOME PLATE.
THIS IS WHAT MAKES BASEBALL GREAT.
If I were to venture a sports analogy,
I'd say life most resembles baseball spiritually.
We spend eons preparing in the dugout,
Then nervously strut out to take our time at bat.
The rival coach directing our adversaries
Is the Father Of Lies and man's false philosophies.
His goal is to prevent us from reaching home plate safely.
His team's minions outnumber us near-infinitely.
The rival pitcher has icy practiced steel-like nerves,
And he's struck out many with foul spitballs and curves.
He pitches things like sloth, envy, greed, media idolatry,
Addictions, “Pro Choice”, perversions, **** and other immorality.
Our beloved Coach whispers to us from the dugout.
HE famously scored grand slams when HE went to bat.
If we listen to Our Coach, and with spirit swing fast and hard,
We'll knock those pitcher’s balls clean out of the yard.
HE knows we won’t always hit solid homers,
So HE doesn’t expect us to succeed just as loners.
We might on our swing just make it to first base,
But the team batters behind us can help us reach home base.
Even though the adversary’s minions outnumber us,
Only our choices will allow them to defeat us.
So with our Coach and team we must stand up,
When the Great Umpire of all calls “Batter Up!”.
BASEBALL IS ENTERTAINMENT
I LOVE PUTTING ON A SHOW
I GIVE IT MY BEST WIND-UP
LET THAT BASEBALL GO
SOMETHING ABOUT A STRIKE-OUT
A FEELING THAT THINGS WENT WELL
UNLIKE THE HOMERUN PITCH
WHERE IT FEELS THEY RANG MY BELL
I CONSIDER IT A CHALLENGE
TO FACE THE BIGGEST NAMES IN THE GAME
I BUILT THAT REPUTATION
I HOPE THEY FEEL THE SAME
I KNOW I GET A LITTLE WILD
BUT, I'VE BEEN WORKING ON CONTROL
NO INTENTION TO BREAK AN ARM
JUST TO LET YOU KNOW
IT'S LIKE ONE ON ONE
SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT
BUT IF YOU TRY TO BUNT ON ME
I'LL NAIL YOU ON THE SPOT
YES I HAVE A FASTBALL
NINETY-FIVE AND UP
I KNOW YOU KNOW IT'S COMING
SO GIVE IT YOUR BEST CUT
I'VE BEEN WORKING ON MY CURVEBALL
IT MIGHT JUST BACK YOU DOWN
CONSIDER IT A CHALLENGE
TRY TAKE THAT PITCH DOWN TOWN
I LOVE MY JOB OUT ON THE MOUND
I LOVE THE GAME OF BASEBALL
I LOVE WHEN THE BATTER AT THE PLATE
CAN'T HIT MY BLAZING FASTBALL
I LOVE THE PLAYERS ON MY TEAM
WHO LOVE THE GAME OF BASEBALL
IT'S A THRILL WHEN BATTERS TAKE MY CHALLENGE
AND CAN'T STICK MY NASTY CURVEBALL
This was a night all pitchers hate.
He had trouble getting the ball over the plate.
When he did, the batters displayed their power.
The manager yanked him for an early shower.
This pitcher wanted to hide in an ivory tower.
In a few days, another game will come, fortunately.
Pitchers have no need for any memory.
He will just have to try all over again.
All baseball players are mere mortal men.
It's not easy becoming a Legendary
Major League Baseball pitcher.
It never was and will never be.
You get put through the wringer
and hung out to dry.
From time to time you'll get little or no
run support.
You may have to face Legendary Icons
of the game 2 and 3 times in a game.
Come face to face with undisguised
Batting Champions.
Silver Slugger Award Winners.
Members and potential Members of the
500 Home Run Club.
Members and potential Members
of the 3000 Hits Club
A few Future Members of
Baseballs Hall of Fame
as well as Iconic MLB ALL STARS.
You will face monumental challenges.
You'll get worn down and roughed up
being on the road 82 games a season.
As a Major League Baseball Starting Pitcher
you suck it up, go out on the mound
and challenge history.
You bring your "A" game
You bring your best fastball
your best curve ball
and your best change up.
When you average 33 starts a season.
Average 10 complete games per season.
Average 3 shut outs per season.
Throw a No Hitter every 3.857 seasons.
Face an average 972 batters per season.
Average 232 innings per season
Through hot , cold , humid and sticky weather.
Give up an average 169 hits per season.
Average 232 innings per season.
Average 82 earned runs per season.
Give up an average 14 home runs in 33 games
over 232 innings per season.
When you average 120 walks per season
Strike out an average 246 batters per season
for a career total of 5714.
It kinda looks like this.
6.6 hits per 9 innings
4.7 walks per 9 innings
9.5 strike outs per 9 innings
Over 27 seasons.
When you do that for a total of 27 seasons
The critics will call you the next
Nolan Ryan.
The Legendary Strike Out King
Member of Major League Baseballs
Hall of Fame.
Michael E. Harris
02202022
Doe Ray and silly me began to bake
we dream't up a special taste brownie cake
the plan was as easy as one two three
it was time for some fun we did agree
following a recipe seemed simple
only thing my mind went wildly cripple
glazing a concept far too confusing
beating batters became quite amusing
somewhere our baking ended in white smoke
the whole party ended as a big joke
our best efforts could not get the right mix
our smoking became the recipe fix
concentration just ended in jiggles
our best efforts a gaggle of giggles
I remember the day of my nine pitch inning.
Though it happened over forty years ago.
The day was hot, yet cloudy,very little breeze.
I went through my usual stretching and running.
The guys knew to leave me alone before the game.
The stadium was slowly filling, an early crowd.
It had rained in the morning and the grass was damp.
The fresh cut grass was sticking to my cleats,
which meant the mound's clay would too.
I didn't know much about the other team,
except they were from the Red's organization.
Then again they'd never seen me either.
We were the home team, so I took the mound first.
My catcher and I had just met, me having just been brought up.
We decided to go all fast balls to get into a rhythm.
The first batter stepped up, a tall right handed hitter.
Tom my catcher set up with the center of his body,
six inches off the outside of the plate.
This meant if I hit the glove where he had it,
it would be a ball.I used a two seam grip,
putting pressure on the outside finger.
This would make the ball appear futher out,
before breaking about seven inches towards the hitter.
Still a ball, but something for him to see,
to leave in his mind.To our amazement the umpire
set up directly,behind my cathcher.
The call, strike one!Tom and I looked at each other and smiled.
I immediately changed to a four seam grip,
which stays on a truer line.The next two pitches were six inches off
yet called strike two!Strike three!
The next two batters were set down in order.
Three pitches apiece.All balls.All called strikes.
After that inning and a few helmets slammed,
along with a few bats.We never got that pitch called
a strike again.The umpire had called those pitches,
not by the plate, but, by the center of my catcher.
We thought it funny to strike three guys out,
on nine pitches, none that were actually a strike,
And none that were swung on by any batter.
contest..Batter Up
. . . What I know about sports is nothing
but my Dad was quite a fanatic really,
he had his sports man cave all setup,
with not one, but about three televisions going
at the same time with different sports blaring.
He sure loved the Toronto Blue Jays . . .
and I remember back to 1992 and 1993- he knew the roster
of pichers, catchers, batters, infielders, outfielders, coaches
. . . the wins, loses, strike outs, the players names,
and they won the World Series 2 for 2 . . 1992 and 1993.
Other years he cheered the St. Louis Cardinals or the
New York Yankees from the man cave . . .
Now this was a big event for him and his buddies
and Dad put me in charge of snacks and beer runs,
oh, the hoot and hollering was deafening (Mom said)
Dad left us in 1997 suddenly one summer day
and I found in his pants pocket a clipping from the paper,
sports schedule for July 21 on television- I still have it.
I recall saying to Mom, I hope they have sports
. . . in Heaven.
________________________
February 15, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Sports- In The Man Cave
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 876-370-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.