Best Dugout Poems
the red glow so far away
so close, embraced
the burst of innervated dawn
restraining its awe
the uplift of a lemony-spring
sponge-squeezed from the sudsy sun
the faucet of quiet waters turned off
the aura of a red and white sail on the run
and my day’s just begun
just wait
until the unspooling of the supermoon
the sand dunes of midnight
dreaminess in the lightly rocking socket
infused with Panamanian water lilies
whereas my ears leap at the splash
of oar-rowed canoes
my eyes behold but a shadow of heaven
and i almost die right there and then
in my dugout
i awake to a blue ceiling with stars
hazardly close
unable to breach the barrier reef
i sink into my pillow
in stillness
asleep
6/25/2019
I felt the sea on my pulse,
the salt in my brunette,
pebbles underfoot,
the net dragging me.
I felt the familiar ebb and flow,
close to shore,
tippy-toes.
The coconut permeates the dawn,
its scent infiltrating,
its oils reverberating.
I feel the palms bending low,
so low I can touch
their feather fronds;
and fronts clashing.
First drops of the storm,
so tender-pitter-patter,
light thunder,
soft lightning.
Nearby volcano erupting,
you think I’m dreaming
about your lava eyes.
Beach blanket soaked,
settling into muddy sand,
its tartan, tanned
and connecting
with the waves,
overlapping.
The island’s going under -
the thunder, ecstatic;
its lightning erratic.
Surrounded by water,
a dugout
with flapping wings -
the canoe is land.
Lily pads on steroids
float upon deceptive waters -
so pretty I can touch them;
and caiman too.
All that’s ever been
resides in sandy eyes;
I’ve collected seashells
in my mind.
She comes to bat with the score tied three to three.
Staring out at the pitcher,
she goes into her stance,
just hoping the ball will come over the sweet part of the plate.
Into her motion, the pitcher winds and fires.
Gathering all of her strength,
her eyes lock on the fast approaching yellow softball.
Like a gladiator ready to charge, she coils her body ready to strike.
Swinging with all her might, she connects
and the crowd goes wild as the ball sails
over the center fielder's head and to the fence.
With the crowd cheering,
she takes off like a young cheetah toward first.
A smile on her face and a gleam in her eye,
she looks up and catches the coaches signal to go to second.
Seeing the ball is still in the outfield
and the third base coach waving her on,
she rounds second and heads for third.
Fans fired up cheering,
mom and dad hold their breath and pray
as she rounds third for home.
Looking up and seeing a good relay throw to the catcher,
she throws on her brakes and reverses to third.
A bullet throw from catcher to third base
has her in a rundown.
Like a ping pong ball, they have her running back and forth,
but she’s not worried with her speed.
Then it happens,
the third baseman overthrows the catcher
and she is off for home.
Heart pounding and breathing hard,
knowing it will be close,
she dives feet first and slides into home base
under the tag to make a home run.
The crowd is roaring in the stands,
jumping up and down, hollering and clapping their hands.
Her team mates run out of the dugout and mob her with joy.
She’s made the winning run to break the tie.
By:5/23/2015
A true story of my nine year old granddaughter making the winning run.
To see the game, you have to plan
It takes some time you see
This is for all the die-hard fans
You'll need a strategy
To stand in line for baseball
Can be a timely task
You first must get the tickets
To clear your way to pass
Excitement now before the game
Which section are you in?
The dugout group or foul ball side
Row 5, seats 9 and 10
Concession stands are all around
Decide which should be first
Tee shirts and hats or hot dogs
You'll have to quench your thirst
Now don't forget the plans you made
Cause folks are filled with glee
You'll drink your beer, your coke and sprite
But then you'll have to pee
Another line to wait in
The porta potties blue
Don't get distracted from your plan
They'll jump in front of you
Oh Wow! Another "homer"
My team is going to win
Can't wait for seventh inning stretch
I have to pee again
Great game it was they played today
Our team is now the star
We're tired but we have to go
It's time to find the car
Big Cypress stirs, heated by Miccosukee
sky hung in spun gold. Rising in the east,
morning sways with waves of river grass
as the elder paddles through waking water
in dugout canoe. Bare-chested, he whistles
an old, creek song, lost and found in tangles
of green swampland. Bronzed face chiseled from
stone gazes on soft, flush of Indian summer;
a burning heart beats with nature beneath.
In hand, he clenches twine of sacred bundle.
Beads of sweat fall from head lowered in prayer
to the Creator. His silent prayer for earth, hunt,
harvest and tradition collides with modern tribal
life, a quiet moment complicated by thoughts of
upcoming ceremonial festivities. If only,
he could step back in time to dance in ancient
garments 'round sacred fire free from tourists’ pale,
intruding eyes. His daughter and wife will sew
and bead jewelry to sell; his grandsons will wrestle
alligators; and he, the elder, will stand proud,
fighting to maintain dignity and culture under
a warm Miccosukee sky, hung by his ancestors
...in spun gold.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 11/17/13
for Shanity Rain's Native American People Contest
No one is more famous than Allo Wishis
Who, with his bat, broke all 108 stitches
Exposing a yarn ball, the leather fell fast
Causing the fans, to rise, with a gasp
Back in a corner lot, below Hamby Square
Was a sixteen year old pitcher, Billy Baer
Had a bad habit, of breaking wind
Because of the force, he’d put on his spin
He’d raise his knee, to meet his chest
Then split the distance, with leg abreast
Stepping off, to shoot the curve,
as the ball would fire, from Billy’s nerve
Up then down, he’d send them all back
To the dugout they flew, every inning in fact
Till at last as the sky, turned dark royal blue
From out of the dugout, he came, tapping his shoe
Score was tied, with one more strike to throw
It was Allo Wishis, who succeeded a blow
Breaking the pitch, and ball with ease
Bringing the pitcher, right down to his knees
Up on the shoulders, of everyone there
Rode Allo Wishis, and Billy Baer
Three hours after, everyone had gone home
They received a call, that the ball, was a scone
Seems that the bakers son, went home to eat
Taking his ball, and leaving the treat
But that didn’t matter, a ball or a tart
They play again tomorrow, well, at least until dark
GUESTS OF EMBERA DRUA
We are guests in this village on the Chagris River shore.
Tribe members of Embera Drua twist palms of Panama -
embrace us each, with this wreath of scented flora,
language barriers break down with food and dance.
In this jungle we’ve no need to be formal in dress,
the natives share achiote seeds to redden my lips and cheeks.
And fresh coconut chased down with sips of sugar cane,
plenteous Panamanian fruit, hot lunch served in banana leaves.
Before we position our eyes upon the treasured trades
we are invited to join them for some entertainment.
Our acquaintances in tribal wear, write lyrics upon
their dirt floor ballroom, with calloused feet.
Dressed in paloma skirt and cotton taparabo, men and women
invite tourists to dance with them, as drums pulse and flutes charm.
We will remember the stilted homes of our friends,
dogs lazing underneath the floor, abundance of fruit trees,
a school in development so students can remain with parents
instead of placing sandals upon feet and leaving their family home.
Our dugout canoe glides back to the shore of lily pads,
we swim with invigorated thoughts and gladness.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
A free verse done in a quatern form (1st line moves to each stanza but is here, I have more syllables in each line in free form then is allowed inQuatern
This scene before me is one of ideals
A dugout canoe of faded yellow, afloat
The fisherman winding his every day hopes
On a pop bottle spool with only one hook
Amid cliff sides of rising mountains, they come
This scene before me is one of ideals
Desires for adventures rendered sublime
In and out the cultures drift, on the divide
Accommodate the wandering nomad in us
Sharing our similarities, learning to trust
This scene before me is one of ideals
Country and culture calling out to the world
Accept the intrusions on centuries old life
Finding the rhythm, new outlooks attained
Why the world matters you’re shown right away
This scene before me, is one of ideals
written: 10-13-2019
Copyright Protected 2019 Jeanne McGee
Written in San Marco, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala
O tender soul, o innocence defiled,
What cruelties did your youth upend?
Tormented by she who should cherish her child,
Instead her addictions made her your fiend.
Those eyes that should have beamed with a mother's love,
Grew cold and contemptuous in the throes of her vice.
What horrors played out in that hellish dugout,
As her demons unleashed their malicious device?
Did her hands that were meant to soothe and caress,
Leave marks of unspeakable malice instead?
While her harsh words like knives did your spirit suppress,
Leaving your young mind battered and misled.
In that lair where you should have known only grace,
An unholy darkness descended to reign.
Fear and anguish contorting your sweet face,
As her sickness lashed out again and again.
O the trauma embedded, those indelible scars,
That no child should ever have etched on their soul.
Your safe haven perverted by terror's brutal chars,
Stripping security's blanket that should make one whole.
And when at last you were plucked from that pit,
From the hell that your childhood had tragically become,
Other arms tried to embrace and permit
The shattered pieces of you to be some.
But the ghost of those horrors still stalked in your mind,
Echoing torments that never were quieted.
The hyper-vigilance always lurking behind,
As the demons you fled, you could not outride.
For PTSD's insidious grip took its hold,
Replaying those memories of helplessness felt.
The night terrors and flashbacks forever retold,
Of the agonies your young being did pelt.
O you brave, resilient warrior of the soul,
Battered but never defeated by your youth's blight.
The traumas that tried to leave you a haunted, scarred toll,
Could never extinguish your infinite light.
For though she was meant to protect you
“Life’s A Lot Like Baseball”
Life’s a lot like baseball, neither is a simple game.
Each is filled with the stuff of life.
Both, so much the same.
Complete with hard work and training, nearly every day.
In each, one learns to catch and throw;
and taking bases along the way.
Everyone is a baseball player;
whether on shortstop, in the dugout or at the pitcher’s mound.
It doesn’t really matter where we are
as long as we are team players, dedicated all around.
Sometimes we catch the balls;sometimes we may miss.
But everything’s A-OK, as long as we try again even if the crowd boos a hiss.
Every once in a while, when we're batting well,
we may even hit a desired home run.
Life seems so good; such a celebration time,
filled with much laughter and fun.
When we strike out, we need to remember…
Not all is lost; we’re still part of a great world team.
If we are down on ourselves for not playing well,
we just need to try again,
because the game is never as bad as it seems.
When we are mad or disappointed with other players,
we need to give them the benefit of the doubt.
They could be struggling with problems unseen,
and we wouldn’t want to wrongly shout, “You’re Out”!
Sometimes we might attend a game
to encourage or watch others play.
It could be family, friends or anyone,
we are there to encourage and inspire them on their way.
Yes, life is a lot like baseball;
with its seasons, players and teams ever changing, as its always been.
Remember though, we are all in this together,
to support,
to cheer,
to win!
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.
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!"
Why is the pitcher in for only two innings or three?
Spring training is going on right now, you see.
From a long winter, veterans scrape off the rust.
Rookies trying to make the team hope it’s not a bust.
They work hard to earn the manager's trust.
You will see players with an unfamiliar name.
Everybody only gets one or two at bats in a game.
On the field for a few innings, then into the dugout they go.
Who is going to make the team? The managers want to know.
Why all of this fuss? There is a very good reason.
The teams are getting ready for a 162 game season.
Play Ball (Softball)
My daughters use to play softball
I wish I could have been to them all
Since my daughters don’t play anymore
I don’t have a team to cheer for
I do watch some games on the TV
The girls have lots of great energy
When the girls are in the dugout
You can hear them cheer and shout
You can hear them chant and scream
To win a world series starts as a dream
For one team to lose comes sorrow
And they may not have a game tomorrow
I’ve seen many girls being sad
I can’t recall any of them getting mad
Lots of girls playing softball
Good luck to them all
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!”.