Best Cleats Poems
When once I pondered whence came the stars
With bated breath and rapid pulse
I let my spirit loose to fly
To the source of my concern.
Pollux was first to welcome my quest
And I shouted, “Why are there stars?”
“A dragon’s sneeze, with blazing glow
Birthed my neighbor and myself.”
“Why are there stars?” of Altair I asked.
He grudgingly barked a reply.
“Methuselah’s birthday candles
Blew embers strewn heavenward!”
With spirit weary, I ventured on
With many more stars left to source.
“Why are there stars?” was my anthem
Until fully satisfied.
Vega had to hold back a giggle
When faced with my inquiry
“Atalanta now wears Nike’s
Cleats poking holes to the gods.”
With one more cluster to hit I flew
“Why are there stars” my only words
But never in my pondering
Could I picture what was said.
“When your father passed ten years ago
He obsessed of your fear of dark.
He never rests, or takes a break
But hangs nightlights for your peace.”
June 26, 2018
He writes to me in curly cues painting
fractals on pressed paper made of rice.
Shreds of simple stalks are beaten to
bare the smoothness of his script.
We have not known each other long
but we have known each other since
man first made fire, the poet and his
muse. His presentation fascinates
with swirls of brush or indian ink
he strokes, both deep and long,
with pleasant pressure most often.
His words though highbrow smack
of pent passions, watering palates
and earthy scents. The wanting so sweet
no reality could fill the expanse, the
oceans of prose, the mountains which
jut provocatively, daring, inviting, the cleats
of man, use pinion and hammer triumphantly
upon the bounty of breast, the thigh of night
the whimper of dawn. Poet preen for your muse
Caress the unsullied parchment whiteness
in the hollow of my neck.
First Published in Pyrokinection May 2013
ROWNTREE PARK
I have found green here
bordered by white lines
that meet then veer off
into infinity, perfect symmetry,
peppered by flashing yellow dandelions.
These, and more, colours
I have found here.
I have found dreams here
in the bats that sing for singles
and scream for homers,
in the cleats that pound
a rhythm as they slap the ground
with mercurial delight.
Oh, the sights and sounds
that I have found here.
I have found the cycles of life here
in the grass below and the sky above,
in the safe and the out,
I have found peace.
I have found youth here,
for here I am not an old man
barely able to walk,
I am forever ten
as I round the bases and slide
headfirst into home,
the feel of dirt in my face
and the smell of death in the tag.
Ciel, on your birth day ‘twas true to say
Heaven’s bright light rays rain’d down from above
Fast forward to fifteen years to the day
Now it’s you that brings light, laughter, and love
Kind, calm and caring, words under control
Wait! Who’s that fleet girl in cleats with the ball?!?
Rocket shot from right wing shoots straight to goal
Through back of the net...ball, keeper and all
French horn, piano, and ukulele
Swimming with sea turtles and manatee
Beautiful music and places to stay
Your trips oft start with Airbnb
Beacon of bright light for love, hope, and peace
Sweetest of sweet hearts, our Ciel Elise
My grandfather and I had a special relationship.
When I was young we lived near his home in Baltimore. But, my family moved away from
Baltimore when I was five and we lived most of my life in another state far away from my
grandfather. Whenever he called, however, I was the one grandchild he always wanted to
talk to so we could discuss his beloved Baltimore Orioles. I was the one grandchild who
followed sports closely and always remained a true Baltimore sports fan.
Later in life, I learned that my grandfather was actually a gifted baseball player himself when
he was young. In those days, he would explain, professional baseball players did not make
enough money to support a family so he had to make up his mind to either play baseball or
get married and raise a family. As it turned out, his love for baseball was only surpassed by
his love for my grandmother and, although he hung on to the newspaper clippings that
labeled him a “can’t miss professional baseball prospect”, he hung up his cleats and glove,
married my grandmother and went out to find a “real” job.
But his love for the game survived and year in and year out, he and I discussed the
intricacies of the game and enjoyed or lamented each baseball season based on the
successes and/or failures of the Baltimore Orioles. As crummy as the Baltimore bums are
today, I was fortunate enough to experience and share many more successful seasons than
poor ones during those limited years that I shared life with this amazing man.
I always felt sorry for my grandfather, considering him a victim of poor timing. Had he
been born about 50 years later in life, he would not have had to pick between being a
baseball player or earning a living – in fact, with his talent, he could have earned a much
better than average living while enjoying the one thing he loved most in life.
When my grandfather passed away, I was sure that he was joining a heavenly nine to once
again strap on his spikes and don the leather. Without a doubt, they must play baseball in
heaven. And I wait for the day that I sit in the heavenly bleachers and cheer on a young
grandfather playing this wonderful game with other boys of summer.
(Inspired by, “is there baseball in heaven”, by Constance, A Rambling Poet)
It’s funny how my father’s hobby became mine. He has been a sportsman all his life, he played basketball, volleyball and softball all his youth, but his real passion is soccer and even though he is 55 years old now, he still keeps playing it and loving it. He has had all kinds of cleats, all brands, all colors, different styles, but it does not change anything, he still plays amazing. But one thing I do find hilarious is that every time he comes from a game, he cleans his cleats, he washes them and takes them with such an unbelievable affection, that I’m beginning to think that he might love them more than he loves me, but now I do know the feeling of a new shiny, hard and beautiful pair of cleats. I still recall when he took me for my very first pair, I could not believe he was doing it for me, I was so excited, but now I realize that what I was excited about is that I could be like my father for just a moment when I had them on. Ever since I was little, I remember my daddy playing soccer, leaving home all dressed up, ready to fight, and win the ball to make a remarkable roll on the field. The playing field that we both love, the field all covered in grass, all green, so delicious and soft, so colorful… being crashed by everyone’s cleats and the rolling ball, feeling the sunlight on our skin, and the wind on our faces. Having a team, an extra family with whom we could find support and create new ideas, new plays so we could smash the opponent. So yes, I loved watching him play and cheering him up more than I could ever like watching official and famous soccer teams. I do find funny the fact that my father’s hobby became mine since everyone says we’re too similar, and even though he also has a son, his daughter is with whom he shares that connection. I love the fact that our simple relationship was started thanks to such a manly sport, and curiously, to transform me into such a girly girl.
Today I woke same predictment,
Feeling alienated and suspected.
It's another day in the life of a hood ventriloquist,
Struggles become smothering, and obstacles seems to be addictive.
I've walked so long to this gut wreching beat,
Bruising my elbows on razored gnawing pleats,
While suffering conversity with self in flicked murderous cleats.
Will it ever end? Will someone ever win?
The starting line is the end,
And the end is where it really begin.
Surviving looks to be impossbile,
It's going to take a real my to overcome life's obstacle.
10
I sprint as I cry in pain
Coach yells, “ RUN, PASS, SCORE”
9
Blocking out all the screaming
And the chaotic noises
8
From the sidelines
I dash through five tough defenders
With everything that I have got
7
Out of breath I devour the last of energy
I can use to score the winning goal
6
Ball zigzags in between my bright orange cleats
As I fly through many obstacles that
Get in my way
5
Five seconds left in the game
Will it make it in I think as my fingers are crossed
4
All the pressure is on that ball and I
As it soars over the field where I am myself and
Flies to high for the other team players to get
3
The ball tears through the goalie's gloves.
No one can drop the confidence level I have just received
2
The ball collides against the net, and I have caught a joyous victory
That exact moment pays up for the backbreaking, painstaking work I've put in
With every goal I score, I rule the world
1
That’s why I am the Power Player of the team
I don’t give up because I’m all determination
For my love of Soccer
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
There’s a fungus among us
It’s funky no doubt.
It’s creepy, it’s crawly
and I’m quite put out.
Tennis shoes, Gym shoes,
Golf and football cleats.
Snow shoes, walking shoes,
rain shoes and sleets
Running shoes, Sunday shoes
Bedroom shoes galore
All strung out and stinky
In your room on the floor
© Mar 11 2010 Charles Henderson
You are the batter,
Shaking in your cleats,
Scared of what may come,
So scared you may flee.
The pitcher stands there noble,
Strong and steady,
His pitch is fast,
And you are not so ready.
The pitch is down the middle,
Right where you like,
But something comes over you,
Like the darkest of the nights.
SWING!
And you miss,
Satan got in you,
And gave you a kiss.
You walk back to the dugout,
And begin to weep,
You let your father down,
But then you leap!
You hop right back up,
Your at-bat again,
You get another shot,
This time Satan must not get in!
You pray to God,
Asking for Satan to be gone,
You dig in,
Humming in song.
With a smile on your face,
You watch the pitcher throw,
Right down the middle,
Yet this one was drove!
As far as you could,
The ball flew like out of a gun,
You watch with amazement,
As the pitcher says," That’s my son!"
ANNOYING GAME
Annoying Game
Cheers
quite annoying
voices mutter
quiet chatter
huddled in confusion
Boring broadcasters
feigns excitement
children watching
not so mellow drama
The curse preventing
Felix the cat's first act
more chatter accompanies
horrible organ music.
Resounding cheers
Greeks speaks
plays called.
"he walks the bases "
on cleats.
Dinner is served
on T.V. trays
Uncle does not move
He sits on the throne
commandeering black
and white screens
with rabbit ears.
I wait for the final cheers
Of the win, Yes, It’s over
or the Boo's for losers
Baseball, way to ruin
a child's summer.!
I remember that boy standing there in the outfield grass,
Waiting and watching so no ball would pass.
He was in right field, or was it center or left?
I only know he played each with its own kind of depth.
The emblazoned cap snug against his skull, shading his face from the sun.
The game was all that mattered, even if he was having fun.
The colorful jersey which he proudly wore, with a number on his back,
Showed that he was part of the team, so everyone could keep track.
He waited patiently for a ball to come, so he could make a play.
Sometimes he waited the entire game, sometimes for a whole day.
But he stood his ground like the ballplayer he wanted to be,
Taking his stance, just like the pros he would see.
He would rub his mitt, then gently hold it open over his knee,
When the ball came to him, he was sure to be ready.
Was he wearing sneakers, or proudly putting on his cleats,
He wore bluejeans at first, shedding them for a baggy uniform without pleats.
It was those early years in the outfield where he was taught,
That errors are made, and perfection was sought.
He realized that errors would be part of the game,
Not only in the outfield, but in life all the same.
I remember that boy at each little league game I see,
For in truth I clearly recall that boy...once it was me.
For Oil Painting #4
contest by: Eve Roper
written: 12/12/15
You are the batter,
Shaking in your cleats,
Scared of what may come,
So scared you may flee.
The pitcher stands there noble,
Strong and steady,
HIs pitch is fast,
And you are not so ready.
The pitch is down the middle,
Right where you like,
But something comes over you,
Like the darkest of the nights.
SWING!
And you miss,
Satan got in you,
And gave you a kiss.
You walk back to the dugout,
And begin to weap,
You let your father down,
But then you leap!
You hop right back up,
Your at-bat again,
You get another shot,
This time Satan must not get in!
You pray to God,
Asking for Satan to be gone,
You dig in,
Humming in song.
With a smile on your face,
You watch the pitcher throw,
Right down the middle,
Yet this one was drove.
As far as you could,
The ball flew like out of a gun,
You watch with amazement,
As the pitcher says," That's my son!"
Rounding third I'm heading home
Pants mighty dirty, cleats are worn
Knees swollen, bones do ache
Just one more game before I break
Coach waves me in I trip and fall
Scramble back , I'm safe for now
Dust in my mouth, nose, and shoes
The sun is setting , no time to lose
Tiptoe that chalk line with one foot fair
Heading home, into the light I stare
The ball is hit, the fans do cheer
I cross the plate as light as air
The game is over, I rest in peace
This story as told in a press release