Best Bleacher Poems
Sloths, the slowest creature
slowest mind
slowest feature
as you sit upon that bleacher
waiting for a simple teacher
you feel something is missing
yet nothing is missing
you want something to be missing
to find something fitting
this is like a record
always repeating
life is slowly leaving
hearts barely beating
the flock is slowly fleating
im barely sleeping
how can you say something is there
wheh nothing is really there
you say when you look back something is there
yet when i turn around nothing seems to be there
your heart is empty
because you left it
on the stairs
back at home
its all alone
the heart is bleeding
because the bullet thats fully stuck
inside this heart that is stuck
in the little crack thats pulling it back
its funny
how the world turns sunny
when the heart has a frown
cause someone stole its voice and its smile
now this heart is all alone
cause no one will hold
this heart that is crying
simple becuase it is dieing
its all alone
inside its home
where it was left
simply because it broke
that simple heart
is yet to be discovered
as it hides under the covers
with its new found lover
yet now its lover leaves from under the covers
leaving this heartbroken lover
if you can see this simple heart
then you are a magician
cause it was broken from the very start
you gont know what this heart has been through
you dont have a single clue
you all just hide from the truth
yet wonder who this heart belongs to
the girl the gave up on it
simple because she couldnt deal it
it broke her from the very start
so she gave it away so she wouldnt feel it
but now she has no one to hold
because of this shes really bold
to get attention just to feel whole
her heart was her everthing
it made her who she was
yet now shes different
and we all know the cause
Categories:
bleacher, 10th grade, 8th grade,
Form:
Free verse
A Chicago Cubs-Fan Prayer!
In nomine patri et fili spiritu of Ron Santo
Let us all give thanks for Ernie Banks
Let us play!
Our Father, who art in Wrigley Field
Hallowed be thy ivy covered Brick-house walls
Thy new stadium will come, the owners will be done
On the mound, sit ‘in with the bleacher-bums or your rich roof-top owner friends
Give us this day our daily dread but remove those lights that so offend
Forgive us our trespasses and cubs left on bases
As we forgive those teams who trespass those places
And Caray us on and win the pennant races
All’s we’re ask ‘in for Lord, is a couple a runs
Then deliver us a world series, before God loses HIS patience
Amen!
Categories:
bleacher, baseball, business, devotion, dream,
Form:
A Chicago Cubs-Fan Prayer Answered!
In nomine patri et fili spiritu of Ron Santo!
Let us all give thanks for Ernie Banks!
Let us play........, two!
Our Father, who art in Wrigley Field
Hallowed be thy ivy covered Brickhouse walls!
Thy new stadium will come, the owners will be done
On Clark and Addison, as it is, to sit in the sun with thy bleacher-bums!
Give us this day our daily dread but remove those lights that so offend!
Forgive us our trespasses and Cubs left on bases, as we forgive those
Teams who trespass these hallowed places!
Caray us on and win the pennant race, all’s we’re ask ‘in for Lord,
Is a couple a more runs!
Most of us can't afford a dog or beer in here, but a least da cops is really
Nice around here!
Lead us not into temptation and deliver us to a World Series, while were still young!
So grab a beer and join the cheer, cause we ain't leav'in Wrigley
Till "Yogi" say's it's over in here!
AMEN!
Categories:
bleacher, baseball, celebration, dedication, inspiration,
Form:
Free verse
I bring hit after hit like a boxer
You haters' inconsistent
Everybody's on the same vibe
Mine's kinda' different
Verse hot, hook hot--
I'm gon' sellout soon as I drop
Verse hot, hook hot--
I'm gon' sellout soon as I drop
Minor in poetry, fine-arts major
Doctor goon on deck, call this a fear-factor
I'm going in, but I ain't got no curfew
I son a lot of you, it's like I birth you
Got a lot of verses, but this ain't a Bible
Fallout when you hear this, I ain't liable
Ain't talking 'bout tearing, but the beats R.I.P
Didn't sell a lot of tracks, but I got D.O.E
Put you up on game, my hustle's M.O.E
Music over everything, ain't moving 'D'
I got cash like the bank, I sell CD's
Smells funny, tickled my nose, I might sneeze
You would think I'm water, the way I flow
I'm just like some dynamite, bound to blow
Act like you're in a recliner, lay back
If I ain't on fire, then why they say that?
Feature, feature, can I get a feature
So far ahead I sit on competition--bleacher
My Raps' like a bunch of apartment buildings, complex
Got chicks on my jock', ain't talking 'bout sex
I'm so different, it's magnificent
Haters want me to fall, but that's not how the script went
Thing's fishy, I ain't gettin' caught in that net
Just killed the beat, without breaking a sweat
Categories:
bleacher, hip hop, humorous, life,
Form:
Lyric
Mr. Cub, take me out to the ballgame!
A Chicago Cubs-Fan Prayer!
In nomine patri et fili spiritu of Ron Santo
Let us all give thanks for Ernie Banks!
Let us play, TWO!
Our Father, who art in Wrigley Field Hallowed be thy name on those ivy covered Brick-house walls
Thy new stadium will come, the owners will be done
On earth, as it is in heaven to sit in the sun with the bleacher-bums
Give us this day our daily dread, but remove those lights that some say offend
And forgive us our trespasses for trading our best hitters and aces
As we forgive those same players who then come back, and rub it in our faces
Lead us not, into tenth inning disgraces, and worst of all, with men left on bases
Deliver us from evil and finishing in last place
And Caray us on to win the pennant race
All's we're ask ‘in for is a couple a more runs with three men on base
Bring us oh Lord a world series trophy, or it won't be long before were all dopey!
Our faith be rich, but our pockets are poor, because most of us can't afford a dog or a couple a beers in here!
Our spirit lives on and we know no fear, so whaddya say we lose the, "wait till next year"!
Mr. Cub is rounding third and headed for home, one more time on this hallowed ground, but we still need a closer for a Cubs World Series win!
Ronny made the call to one of their friends, "send in the saver, Ernie can't do it all"!
Now the "LORD's" in the line-up, and Mr. Cub just handed him the ball!
Let us all give thanks for Ernie Banks! AMEN!
Categories:
bleacher, baseball, childhood, growing up,
Form:
Free verse
THE VOLLEYBALL GAME
feet on plastic,
bleacher c r a c k s.
s
m l
r l
a p a
w u b
juggle in air
w a l l o f s p e c t a t o r s
feet withdraw
fingers raking hair
S C O R E
8/15/2017
Categories:
bleacher, sports,
Form:
Free verse
What are the characteristics of a teacher?
Always, this question, I hear.
There are teachers out there more interesting than a bleacher.
I wanna be a teacher that treats students like a dear.
I remember experiments from teachers because I experience it.
These are the best experiences you could ever have.
I remember elements from these creatures because I have once distanced it.
These are the worst distances you could ever have.
Teachers that create long-term memories are effective teachers.
Teachers that ate up long-term memories are not collective teachers.
Students that create long-term memories are effective students.
Students that bait long-term memories are defective students.
One characteristic of an effective teacher is that they don’t teach.
Absurd and ridiculous, I know it sounds this way.
One metaphor of great teachers are that they’re a beach.
Bird and meticulous, they soar free with teaching and teach best by play.
Good teachers care, know the content,
Expect high levels, and are great performers.
Great teachers dare, like the rules to be bent,
Expect no devils, and are great informers.
Physical, emotional, intellectual,
And spiritual are the best ways to learn.
Biblical, proportional, conceptual,
And lyrical are of no concern.
This is why I want to be a teacher.
So stop asking, please.
This will really help me mature.
So stop bugging and looking, geez oh wheez.
Categories:
bleacher, teacher,
Form:
My inspiration She is born,
And with a brush of my thumb,
I can feel all her bones,
I hesitate to hold her at first,
So small--but fills me with enough to burst,
Makes me swear to never curse,
Or let her ever hurt
Or allow her to wear any type, shape, or form of short skirt,
I'd rather choke
Than let my smoke irritate her little throat,
With the first bat of her lashes
She took over my world--like no girl before ever could,
Stole more parts of my soul--then any devil ever took
With her smile I'm sold
The fire in my selfish desire put out cold
As far as I'm concerned she's my North and South Pole,
The world revolves around her
I feel a little sorry for her though,
The bloke she's gonna have to call daddy is a joke,
Luckily she didn't get his nose,
Or much of his other physical features,
After all she is a beautiful creature
The thought of all the things I want to teach her,
But I know soon enough she will become the teacher
Promise to be on every bleacher,
Wearing her picture on my T-shirt,
Did I mention no short skirts?
I hope she has a sense of humor,
Because life is too short to frown,
Or not get up when you’re down,
A couple years down the road she's 12 years old,
Such a beautiful little girl,
Wears clothes her own,
Doesn’t care much for her hair,
As it wraps down in curls,
Curls up with her books,
Her words years ahead of her looks,
Just turned 25 and so full of life
Independent and free but still secretly--Dreams of being a mother and wife,
I see her and the love in her eyes,
It’s a shame she won't talk to me about love,
But I hope I've showed her enough,
So she can recognize it when she meets the one,
That allows her to be complete,
That steals her away from me—to give me a grandson in return
And as I watch him play,
I'll reminisce on these days,
When life was all about getting hazed,
I too grow old,
Get ready to leave this world,
In my death bed it's her hand I hold,
As she lies in tears, and I lie without fears,
I swear on everything I'll constantly tell her how she saved me,
Back when she was a baby--and even before
As I write this to her my inspiration…before she's even born.
Categories:
bleacher, hopefor her, beautiful, me,
Form:
To be a Cubs fan is to be
the audience of a Greek Tragedy
Sweet is the pain as we pay admission
To bow down in October submission
Leaving bitter taste through the winter
Clinging to the lofty dreams of a winner
Commiserate and complain in the offseason
Some even threaten Southside treason
But like clockwork we rally as April draws near
Swearing as always "This is our year"!!!
Brandishing hoodies, jerseys, and lids
rushing to Wrigley, dragging the kids
Opening Day...the first pitch "Z" throws
goes for a strike as the OldStyle flows
"This year we will go all the way"!!!
Is the drunken refrain the bleacher bums say
In late May the Ivy fills in quite nicely
Yes, I know six bucks for OldStyle is pricey
But when in Rome, drink cheap beer with foam
Or sip a Bass while tuning in Ron Santo at home
You don't need to drink beer to watch them play
But on some occasions it buffers the pain
No matter the result... Ill hold my head high
It makes my day to see the "W" flag fly
As this season will mark year one hundred and one
Since our last World title was won
Lets forget about goat curses and Bartman blame
get out on the field and play the damn game
I will never give up, I will never give in
I won't lose hope on a World Series win
GO CUBBIES!!!!!!
Categories:
bleacher, devotion, faith, funnyworld, drink,
Form:
Rhyme
The smell of hot dogs, fresh grass, and stale beer
A constant dull drone from the Bleacher Bums
“Take Me out to the Ball Game”, sung aloud
Infield raking dust, by busy grounds crews
Seventh inning stretch at old Wrigley Field
Ivy covered walls, with a losing streak
Uniforms with faces of baby bears
The rival redbirds are taking the field
Cub fans begin to return to their seats
Fresh from a line to relief and last call
A solid round of boos from the bleachers
The batter warms in the on deck circle
At times, there is no better place to be
Chicago on a hot sunny day, free
© Copyrights G. Jones, 2008
Categories:
bleacher, life,
Form:
Free verse
Beyond the invincible Death,
Past the infectious Icons,
The ever-winding spatial staircase,
And the crack between Time and Space,
Lies the unconscious mind, the ethereal plane, and the land of the lost.
I have traveled miles to be here,
And there are miles to go before I wake.
On a vaguely familiar cracked playground,
Where weeds grow wild
Between fences, bleachers, and tents,
At the crossroads of interconnectedness
I will be meeting him,
Or
He will be meeting me.
I notice distinctly that
It is light but there is no sun in the sky.
There is something non-real, yet realer than existence, about this setting.
On top of the bleachers a small black child beckons me
Toward him.
His face reminds me of my childhood;
His smile reminds me of my long lost home;
There is something both wise and foolish about the way he smiles.
He strides back and forth across the top bleacher;
As I get closer he informs me,
“Animals are the dead coming back to communicate with us.”
Some of what he says doesn’t make sense.
“Mij saw I,” he chants.
He informs me that if ever I want to see him,
I am to come to this spot.
As I try to look at my hands,
The child drops off the back of bleachers,
Disappearing into oblivion.
-Joseph DeMarco
Categories:
bleacher, native american, philosophy, visionary,
Form:
Free verse
There once was an old lady from Maine.
Born in Virgo, a critic, quite plain,
her zest for punctuation
caused poetic frustration,
but they cared for her all of the same.
While writing one day this fine teacher
met her match a right handsome preacher
he dissected her acts
found her lacking in tact
and schooled her behind the wood bleacher!
Categories:
bleacher, funny,
Form:
Limerick
Written April 14, 2017
It's easy to fall in love
Even easier to break apart
I've been trying for six long years
To mend this broken heart
You used to talk to me so sweet
My biggest fan in the bleacher seats
From the rose bush to the baseball bat
Why'd you have to go and be like that
Why don't you just be like John Wayne
Why'd you go and have to die
Why don't you just be like John Wayne
Even he cried sometimes
Life never looked so bleak
Than the day you left me
It's easy to forgive sometimes
But this ain't one of those times
Sticks and stones may break my bones
Glass houses are all I've known
From the salt shaker to the baseball bat
Why'd you have to go and be like that
Why don't you just be like John Wayne
Why'd you go and have to die
Why don't you just be like John Wayne
Even he cried sometimes
Categories:
bleacher, death, family, grandfather, grief,
Form:
Lyric
Cycles
by Michael R. Burch
I see his eyes caress my daughter's breasts
through her thin cotton dress,
and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra
holds his bald fingers
in fumbling mammalian awe...
And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk
of a distant park,
hot blushes,
wild, disembodied rushes of blood,
portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers...
and now in him the memory of me lingers
like something thought rancid,
proved rotten.
I see Another again?hard, staring, and silent?
though long-ago forgotten...
And I remember conjectures of panty lines,
brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs,
coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors,
all the odd, questioning stares...
Yes, I remember it all now,
and I shoo them away,
willing them not to play too long or too hard
in the back yard?
with a long, ineffectual stare
that years from now, he may suddenly remember.
Photographs
by Michael R. Burch
Here are the effects of a life
and they might tell us a tale
(if only we had time to listen)
of how each imperiled tear would glisten,
remembered as brightness in her eyes,
and how each dawn’s dramatic skies
could never match such pale azure.
Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure
and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . .
till a line appears—a trace of worry?—
or the wayward track of a wandering smile
which even now can charm, beguile?
We might find good cause to wonder
as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?):
what vexed her in her loveliness . . .
what weight, what crushing heaviness
turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray,
and stole her youth before her day?
We might ask ourselves: did Time devour
the passion with the ravaged flower?
But here and there a smile will bloom
to light the leaden, shadowed gloom
that always seems to linger near . . .
And here we find a single tear:
it shimmers like translucent dew
and tells us Anguish touched her too,
and did not spare her for her hair's
burnt copper, or her eyes' soft hue.
Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue)
Keywords/Tags: youth, puberty, teen, teenage, teenagers, teen love, sex, sexy, lust, desire, date, father, daughter, chastity, virginity, abstinence, hormones, photograph, photographs, effects, ghosts, phantoms, time
Categories:
bleacher, daughter, lust, sexy, teen,
Form:
Free verse
The space between what could have been
And the place he is living now.
Started out as a tiny path
Became a major road somehow.
At seventeen the dream was real
There was a contract in the cards
Quarterback of the football team
Who had thrown one thousand yards
But on that fateful Friday night
A hit that was unexpected
Dislodged his lethal throwing arm
The scholarship was rejected.
He is now a bleacher creature
A big fan of the local team
But with every passing touchdown
He imagines what might have been.
Categories:
bleacher, dream, emotions,
Form:
Couplet