Best First Base Poems
Hot date
Can’t wait
We're at
My flat
Cute eyes
Nice thighs
Admit
She’s fit
So sweet
Must eat
We dine
Sublime
First Kiss
Sheer bliss
Soft peck
On neck
Tongue's twirl
Toes curl
First base
Hearts race
Undressed
Bare breast
Blimey
She’s ‘HE’
No joy
Ladyboy
Fussy
Pussy
Night ends
As friends
Written by Jan Allison & Tim Smith
28th August 2014
I awoke to a memory that asked to be felt through the emotions of
An early rising seeing boys playing in the park without wondering
about the meaning of life because at that time life had no
meaning only to be lived and enjoyed in the moment
And I wondered
Was it better then as a tear climbed downward on the lines carved deeply in a
face that had
Seen so much and loved so fervently
Those days when a sandlot became an arena and the ringing
of laughter echoed
Through a neighborhood
Where there were skinned knees and sprained ankles but hearts were left
Unharmed and the gladiators had not seen 13 yet
While skirts were still a reason for giggling and it was more important to reach
first base from the hot corner than it was
To acknowledge her smile because
We were warriors with a common bond
BROTHERS
Standing at the plate there is no doubt
The pitcher is determined to strike me out
He squints to see the catcher's glove
Then spins and swings his arms above
The ball scorches a path across the plate
I feebly swing six days too late
The umpire acts like he's having fun
When he bellowed out, "STRIKE ONE!"
Again the pitcher stares at the dish
While I silently make a wish
Not a big request at all
I only want to hit the ball
The pitcher rears back and throws a curve
The ball starts over there and then begins to swerve
I miss so badly I hit the ground
I can hear people laughing all the way back in town
The umpire is having a belly laugh too
As he holds up two fingers and shouts, "STRIKE TWO!"
The pitcher is doing a cocky dance
While behind the mound hiking up his pants
He looks smug and I hear the catcher say,
"Give it up boy, he's putting you away."
The pitcher shakes off signs 1,2,3
He's saving a special pitch just for me
He peeks out over the top of his glove
I can tell that this strikeout he already loves
He winds up like a crazy corkscrew
Slinging a pitch he has never threw
I close my eyes and jerk the bat
Somehow the bat finds where the ball is at
The crack was the loudest ever heard
Nowhere in this stadium can you hear a word
You can hear a pin drop in this place
Nary a smile on any face
You would think that ball was launched into outer space
But alas, it is just a dribbler to first base
I feel I should get out of town
When I saw the other team high-fiving on the mound
Dad said, "Don't worry son, we'll get them next time champ."
After all it was just my first bat at Little League camp!
"Thoughts of a Sexual Nature"
Vivid thoughts of you,
in your birthday suit.
Sprawled on my living room floor,
anxiously you wait
for what you came here for.
Long toned legs,
a rippled mid-section.
I want to hear you beg,
you caused this ********.
Incense burn!!
Sex on the Beach
heightens the mood.
I allude,
to a massage.
A mental mirage,
a dream.
Vivid thoughts accrue,
as I knead your birthday suit.
skin like a rare passion fruit,
and I'm working for your nectar.
You're my aperitif,
and I have a sweet tooth
for your vermouth.
_________________________________________________________
Strumming your neck,
my tongue is the pick.
Hearing you moan lightly, "Oh your so thick."
So eager was the lass,
for me to.... hose down her fire.
You see, the blaze I intensified.
I knew her desires.
Slow down I pleaded,
hasten your pace!
We have all night baby,
and first base is my face.
I had overdosed on her Vermouth.
She poured without a care!
Enveloped in lusts rapture,
it was, to soon to conclude.
Ambiance is important, so I'll set the mood.
Red lights, mirrored headboard
& playing softly in the background,
a love songs
interlude!!!
_________________________________________________________
Soft moist lips lick you're ear
whispering words of delight
pursuing my plight for your might,
my tongue rolls down your neck
peck on peck,
as my goal unfolds
kissing chest nipples
your dimples of gold
tanned bronze like a god,
excitement,
ecstasy
extension to explode,
the ride enhances as liftoff begins
tastier than sins,
searing flesh on flesh emotions
enmesh juices of love in thrombosis,
in oceanic osmosis,
as we fall...
spent ...
content ...
in orgasmic opulence.....
"This is a collaboration written by three different poets... Starting with Me...
Samuel Brooks has the middle section, and Linda Marie Bariana concludes...
This turned out well and I am sure all of you will agree..
Jared Pickett---Asavvy1
Samuel Brooks----ChocolateWoW-------------------------1/27/2010
Linda Marie Bariana------Sweetheart
Brett Favre looks hot in his Wrangler blue jeans
You know that cool dude ate his spinach greens
Has the perfect TV face
With the girls he scores first base
If only he could master passing screens
* For the sports limerick contest
Crying in the rain
Letting go of all this pain
I do not want to see again
How we came crashing to an end
I do not want to see why
We were forced to say good bye
I have watched it and I have lived it
Been crushed by such a low hit
I’m crying in this rain
My eyes red with raw pain
The tears are flowing
Just not going
And I’m left all alone
I beg for your forgiveness
I scream with all I’ve got
But when it comes together
What I have is not a lot
I walk alone down this street
Strangers’ eyes are following
But I just keep on walking
Head down and never slowing
I pace these roads and hope to find
Something that means anything
Something that’s familiar
Until then I’m just left hanging
I’m still crying in this town
The rain pours on my face
Trying to forget you
But failing at first base
I cannot help but remember
Your face and how you smile
Just keep walking strong
It might be easier after a mile
Your eyes and how they glowed
Are burnt into my mind
I close my eyes and see them
Staring back right into mine
I’m crying on this night
And will on many more to come
I’ll stumble forward without you
Looking for my fortune
I cannot ever forget
The feeling that I had
When you put your arms around me
And chased away all the sad
I will try but fail to forget
How you loved me through thick and thin
I will wander through my life
But always still in love with him
He was my world and I can’t forget
He makes me who I am
Although he’s gone and lost from sight
I will not become a sham
I will always try to forget
How brilliant he made me feel
Made the world seem wonderful
And that maybe this world was real
The pain I feel when I remember him
Is cutting deeper still
He’s left a gaping hole in me
One that no one could ever fill
I try and try and fail again
My baby is still gone
I’m crying in this rain again
Cold and all alone
I reached in to pull out my all playing ball …
without alcohol
Head up, I breathed brave and stepped up to the plate …
felt like dodge ball bait
Sunshiny bases enticed my run-gained mount …
on feared three-two count
Bat smacked contact so I ran like a wildcat …
clawed first base splayed flat
I reached in to pull out my all playing ball …
fun enriched windfall -
worth future recall
... CayCay Jennings
November 2, 2018
I was there
On my way to Laflin when the 55th and Garfield bus slowed down.
He should have been passed out from excitement like other 10 year olds playing
football in vacant lots,basketball in streets, and baseball with wooden sticks.
Instead on his way to gas station
collar bone caught bullet like a bleeding brown mitt.
He never made it to first base safe, he never made it home.
I sat there in blue and black CTA seats
and I wished he was struck by a
be-be, paint ball, or tranquilizer gun
but no they simply snatched back cocked metal and released.
He lied there surrounded
face had grazed grass
and when his mother saw him she wished she could resist what purples saw.
cross-fire whiplash
punctured neck
with a certificate to prove his end.
She pawed at his white outline
pleading he would breath life, but when i didn't she wept.
I was restricted to step off bus and on to pavement,
so i had to let my eyes listen
to how blue lights and smudged tears didn't compliment the tragedy.
I mean I was stuck to scene because of the caution tape
and the ambulance
and the way his stretcher jumped as he was being taken to the morgue.
Pedestrians though it was over until they fled like that little boys mother when she
heard her sons blood had been scrambled on the boulevard.
Police mans knees blasted to chest as they chased for blocks ones who failed to
follow: THOU SHALL NOT KILL!
I kept riding past Halsted then on to Racine finally came to Laflin stepped off bus,
looked at the bullet whole in the street sign then asked
what is the purpose of you holding hand high and think u have the right to kill.
Rebecca Johnson
Alan who is a great man and a peerless philosopher
Has run for public office including the presidency
Several times but still have not got to first base.
He casts a long shadow,
but people don’t appreciate his shade.
Even his opponent who happened to be
a small man comparatively,
Not fit to be a parrot on his shoulder
And yet public chose not Alan
but the man with a long shadow.
The small men when in power with weak leadership
can cast long shadows of large range of influence.
It often happens as the saying goes;
"the smallest ants cast long shadows"
It is a sure sign that the sun is about to set,
Like an oil lamp burns brighter when oil is at its end.
+++
January 8, 2014
Form: Free verse
THE YOGI BERRA SONG
IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL IT'S OVER
One run behind and I'm at bat, 2 are out,
I'll be damned if I don't get a hit.
I tell the catcher I'll be home in a while,
But he grins at me just for a bit.
Holding on first, I can still feel the ball,
But it's wild and I'm safe at first base.
That's where I stay, cause I can still hear it all,
What that chatcher told me right in my face.
It ain't over til it's over.
I tell the umpire to watch out for the man
who's at bat, cause he'll make his own way.
I'm stealing second, though it's not a good plan
cause that catcher hardly misses a play.
I feel the ball and it's faster than me,
But the second baseman's foot is too late.
There comes the call, and I'm as safe as can be,
But on second base, I know I must wait.
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over.
I hear the hit and it's a good one I know,
it's the winning run, if I go on
Passing by third I'll tie the game if I go
on to home, or the whole game is gone.
I feel the magic, it's the reason I play
and I love coming out from behind!
Home plate is hardly just a leg length away,
But his words keep on nagging my mind!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
You're out!
Kill the umpire!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
You're out!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
You're out!
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
No, if you know your baseball, you will know why
this runner can not score. See notes below if you
don't figure it out.
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!”.
Score's zip to zilch, last inning's near halfway through
at Gettysburg Commons' baseball league playoff.
Champion Graycoats at their posts hitherto -
Blue Jackets hear the pitcher's husky cough -
a clue to the catcher - this batter's toast.
Pickett lobs the pitch from high on his perch,
Meade smacks it past the church house roof almost -
a bolt from the Blue, Gray gets lost in the search
and Meade makes an easy trip 'round three bases.
Hancock is next and takes his turn with relief.
He whacks one to the pitcher of all places
running like blue blazes in disbelief.
He speeds to first base while Meade makes it on in.
Then Hancock circles the field - score is ought-two
As Pickett sits on the ball holding his shin.
In shock, he volleys a few words of blue.
The umpire approaches, a'raisin' his hands,
"I heard balderdash," he bawls with a frown.
"Game's called for cussin', but the score still stands."
Singing the blues, Graycoats hand over the crown.
New "toasts" of the town are Hancock and G. Meade.
They both talk a blue streak to boast of the coup.
Dazed by their disbelief, Graycoats recede.
And for weeks, Gen'ral Pickett's leg's - black and blue.
written 12 January 2015
(With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer, author of "Casey at the Bat".)
The Mudville nine and Casey have their chance for sweet revenge;
They play today in Dirtburg, their misfortune to avenge.
Two mighty Casey homers have us leading, five to four.
The bottom of the ninth arrives: three cheers for three outs more!
The lead-off slugger, Bugsy, flies to right: out number one.
But Smith and Jones both single; now the worrying’s begun.
So when our pitcher, Nelly, loads the bases with a walk,
In shaken insecurity we hush our hopeful talk.
We badly need a strikeout—better yet, a double play.
But cleanup batter Brutus may have something more to say.
Old Nelly sure looks nervous as he winds up for the pitch,
And Brutus eyes him coolly, and we see his muscles twitch.
And now our hearts stop beating as we hear the bat’s report.
And ahh, relief—we breathe again; he’s grounded straight to short!
The shortstop throws to second for the force: out number two.
The easy lob to first will end this rematch, right on cue.
The Dirtbag Coliseum is erupting in a din:
Uproarious cheers reverberate as Smith and Jones jog in.
The joyful, jubilant half-gibes behind each haughty face
Proclaim our Casey still a bum; he’s overthrown first base.
Coaching Little League was Dad’s greatest joy
My brother Artie always got a hit
Proud Pop would smile and say, “That’s my boy!”
I would cheer too, but then my brow would knit
It seemed unfair that I could not partake
In a sport that consumed much of Dad’s time
“Put me in, coach, a home run I can make!”
But I felt left out of the national pastime
Times had changed when Artie’s daughters were raised
Annette could pitch and Diane played left field
Their success made Artie feeling amazed
For their sports talent had another yield
College scholarships quickly came their way
It wasn’t their school grades that drew acclaim
Honors came for the way they’d learned to play
Girls finally took their place in the game
Soon our whole clan was playing together
At family parties and on holidays
This summer sport’s played through winter weather
In photos you’ll find me smiling at first base
*February 25, 2017
Skipping school to play baseball,
spending up all I got at the Mall;
having fun and laugh with girls
who love Coca Cola and burgers.
It's a day of fun for kids dripping with sweat,
if I'm lucky to hit a home run, I will freak;
Mario runs for first base, he doesn't make it:
we lose the game, our team was way too weak.
Now it's time for ice cream, we head for Carvel,
I spend all my saved money to pay for the bill;
I hope mom doesn't see the broken piggy jar:
she'll ground me, no playing on the monkey bar.
A red car pulls up the curb, it's ugly and clanky;
" Who's that lady with the straw hat? It's mom! "
" Come here, little brat; you're grounded,Tom!"
I just turn pale and say sorry for playing hooky.
Written on 5/17/2017