Best Home Plate Poems
You didn’t notice my tears.
As you both kissed each other
like two lonely plungers
who just escaped from plumber’s solitary confinement,
your eyes open and wander up.
You didn’t look across that banquet hall
with my feet planted against wood polished tendencies.
Its creaks motioning time towards yellow-signal identity.
As my breath declares sudden death
against lake’s dripping reflections…
…you didn’t think to set your photo album on private.
Advertising lust
wrapped in pretentious cloak
sewed in recycled fibers of “love”.
With ignorant enablers speaking chic-flick tongue,
“Oh My Gawd! I’m so happy for you! I wanna ovulate!”
As I, put my head down
returning to this moment in time,
I had to let my song…cry.
Lenny Williams begins to exude “cause I love you” chorus,
as I walk towards bar
sensing your seductive retinas
stroking against my Latin swagger.
Your ring finger
chained by 3 carat, naïve cut, diamond
motions an intense, streaking caress
against wine glass filled with Zinfandel sin.
Because you know I am your addiction.
Your diabetic lips never forgot
that taste
of my
brown
sugar.
But, you didn’t notice my tears.
I wish you had.
For all this time, these tears
were of joyful splendor.
Because solace holds my hand
with candlelight warmth.
Slow dancing with my soul
in mystery Salsa sway.
While you stand on home plate,
holding your 2nd place trophy,
with 3 strikes against you.
A reminder that my heart,
was flexible enough
to dodge
a bullet.
© Drake J. Eszes
When I was a child,
summer at my Aunt Joanne’s
meant staying out as late as it took the sun to set!
And mostly with my cousin Chris,
I threw a baseball back and forth
with exhilaration each time I felt
the impact of Chris having thrown the ball
right smack in the center of my glove.
Chris’ dad, my Uncle Clifford, loved his baseball!
One time I remember
being loaded with the other kids into his old car,
summer wind blowing through my hair,
as he drove us to a game in Davenport.
Uncle Clifford used to play on that same diamond
where he took us to watch that game.
I wasn’t all that keen on it.
But the atmosphere was so lively.
Vendors selling hot dogs, cracker jacks, and candy -
this was my childhood delight!
I am sure I must have cheered
for a team of which I knew absolutely nothing,
mimicking my elders there in the stadium
as wildly they called out their reactions to the game.
In school I played baseball myself,
standing like a statue in the outfield.
It was more exciting to watch my brother Dale from the stand,
those long hot summer afternoons as he played on his league.
It would be at least twenty years later
that I would sit and cheer for a baseball game again -
this time for my son in Little League.
Rooting for a loved one makes the game more alive for me!
Grimacing with every strike my son made;
standing up and going crazy when at last . . .
he knocked it out far into right field!
Glowing with pride that my son’s forte was as catcher
and watching him in all his gear behind home plate.
When I hear the old familiar song Take Me Out To the Ballgame,
it reminds me of the simple pleasures
of my youth,
a time when life was slower paced
and those summer days with my cousins.
America’s pastime, which has trained so many kids
to love being part of a team,
now seems to take a back seat to that rowdy sport called football.
But give ME a game I can follow,
a game that through time I came to love.
My Uncle Clifford has since passed away;
oh to spend one more day with him
at the old ball game.
I have attempted to capture my favorite major league baseball players in this little shape poem of home plate. Included are (in no particular order):
Say Hey Willie Mays Walter Johnson (Big Train)
Randy Johnson (The Big Unit) Babe Ruth (The Sultan Of Swat)
Tony Gwynn Jimmie Foxx
Ted Williams Maury Wills
Stan “The Man” Musial Johnny Bench
Ken Griffey Jr Greg Maddox
Henry Aaron Lou Gehrig
Roberto Clemente Ty Cobb
Satchell Paige Ernie Banks
Rickey Henderson Carl Yastrzemski (Yaz)
Trevor Hoffman Albert Pujols
Gibson (Bob and Josh) Honus Wagner
Rogers Hornsby Cal Ripken
Robinson (Jackie, Frank and Brooks)
Some favorites I had to leave out…
Christy Mathewson Warren Spahn
Sandy Koufax Tom Seaver
Mickey Mantle Rod Carew
Joe Morgan Ozzie Smith
Mariano Rivera Miguel Cabrera
Pedro Martinez Ichiro Suzuki
David Ortiz Jose Altuve
I’d love to see your faves mentioned in the comments section!
written 24 Aug 2020
The little boy laughs as he runs, his grandfather struggles to catch him.
The little girl giggles and peeks over the pew as her mother prays.
The old woman in a veil and gloves neatly folds her handkerchief.
The man wipes sweat from his face as he lays down his axe.
The old woman slowly walks down the lane as her dog struggles to keep up.
The teacher looks at his watch as his student reads his report.
The man slams the door behind him as his wife shouts.
The little boy dances as he pulls the fish from the water.
The little girl smiles as she smears lipstick on her face.
Daddy is frowning and she is laughing on that first bicycle ride.
The dog howls as they take the old man away.
The new bride smiles and falls into her husbands arms.
Mother worries that her husband will not return.
The man throws the hammer and grabs his thumb.
Young eyes twinkle as Grandma brings the turkey to the table.
Mother brushes the hair out of her sleeping baby’s eyes.
Baby and puppy joyfully roll on the ground.
The old dog lays his head in her lap.
Grandma pats her husband’s hand one last time.
The young soldier waves good bye to his family.
Dad's eyes swell with tears as he gives her away.
Papa can barely remove his shoes after work.
The young boy taps his head with the pencil as he takes the test.
The little girl pours tea and hands the empty cup to her teddy bear.
Dad waves to his son as he gets on the bus.
Mom and Dad clap as home plate is crossed.
Daddy eats the little messy birthday cake.
Mommy pulls her new baby to her breast.
The woman puts ice on her eye and cries.
The writer yawns and lays down his pen.
The park was immense, its lilac-bush-lined fences remote
To blast a home run took a superhuman smote
All alone a-tremble at home plate, so helpless and small
Dared I hope to swing, and not miss the ball...
Decades later, the lilac bushes are grown thicker
The once-cavernous park now shrunken, and quicker
Than my shock at the passing of so many years
The unraveling of stitches from my baseball-sized tears
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.
B ats balls bases shaped like a diamond
A merica's favorite past-time being played
S luggers hitting those home runs
E ating hotdogs peanuts and crackerjack
B ases loaded a grandslam
A ll Star break in mid-July
L obbing strikes over home plate
L ove to watch the Boys of Summer play the game
-C.A.Saputo xoxo
we leave home plate
and run the bases
is life playing baseball?
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!”.
I want to go to Wrigley Field
Stand behind home plate
And point my finger at the left field wall
I do it to remember baseball
What it used to be
Simple
Pure
Dirt
Muscle
And spit
It used to be you could go to climb the fence and get in to Wrigley for free
Simpler times
Now you can't get in for less than a small fortune
Steroids and wall street
Great
I want to stand at home plate
And point my finger for a better world
Babe Ruth was certainly associated with the ruling class
But he played a sport of the people
And he represented a team whose city has some of the ,most ardent socialists in the world
So I know I'm reaching here
But I want to stand at Wrigley field
In the heart of america
And point my finger like babe ruth
Very unwitting representative
Of the nations working class
Pointing my finger to the beyond
In the heart of america
Pointing my finger to the beyond
Toward what's better.
Toward what's more.
Towards what America
Is supposed to be.
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,
not a winning run, but 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!
That girl keeps saying ‘no’
Each time I ask her out.
She gives no reason why,
Just turns and shuts me out.
I’m pretty sure she’s straight,
Not on the other team,
But I’m stuck on home plate
(if you know what I mean!).
Was it something that I said?
Maybe something that she heard?
Do I smell bad? Do I look sad?
Does she think that I’m a nerd?
Not trying for a ‘home run’,
Not even ‘second base’.
Just want to get to know her
And take her out someplace.
I’m playing the long game--
I’m Eventually gonna win!
Someday I’ll get a nibble,
Set the hook, and reel her in.
I asked her B. F. F.
To find out what she heard.
But she her ‘confidante’,
So wouldn’t say a word.
No word out on the street,
From Homeland Security.
The Psychic Connection
Was as clueless as me
Was it something that I said?
Maybe something that she heard?
Do I smell bad? Do I look sad?
Does she think that I’m a nerd?
Not trying for a ‘home run’,
Not even ‘second base’.
Just want to get to know her
And take her out someplace.
I’m playing the long game--
I’m Eventually gonna win!
Someday I’ll get a nibble,
Set the hook, and reel her in.
Baseball and beer and a beautiful woman
Baseball and beer
and a beautiful woman
Tonight, such a
wonderful date
Two teams are playing,
while one love we're sharing,
who cares who is up
at the plate
Her team gets a hit
and I can't help but smile,
seeing the look
on her face
The batter starts running,
he hopes for a single
while I begin rounding
first base
Holding her tight,
as we kiss between pitches,
keeping an eye
on the score
I slide into second,
my heart quickly beating
here with the one
I adore
"Stee-rike, you're out!"
I can hear the ump yelling,
the shortstop just went
down in three
I pull her in close
all the while I am thinking,
I'm glad he's not
yelling at me
Now to third base,
oh her skin soft and tender,
the infield, the lights
up above
I can see home,
as I lead off a little,
then dart in a sprint
to her love
Crossing home plate
is a magical feeling,
breathless the two
of us cheer
A beautiful woman,
an evening of baseball,
and let's not forget
about beer
** Note: The Astros won the game**
For the National Pastime poetry contest
Sponsored by: Phillip Garcia
At the end of each summer day,
while laying there in my bed,
I placed a small transistor radio
under the pillow near my head.
Each night that the Reds did play
I listened to the baseball game;
Joe Nuxhall did the play-by-play -
youngest player ever, adding to his fame.
They were the Big Red Machine;
often in first place;
Pete Rose knocking out another hit;
Dave Concepcion fielding with grace.
Ken Griffey - the father -
roaming the outfield grass;
George Foster hitting home runs;
Joe Morgan sprinting in a dash.
Tony Perez, so consistent;
Cesar Geronimo had the perfect name;
Johnny Bench squatted behind home plate,
catching another game.
Through my little transistor radio,
Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall brought it all to life,
as the sun faded away to darkness
on those hot Ohio summer nights.
And at the end of every night,
Joe Nuxhall would sign off all alone,
saying, "This is the old lefthander rounding third,
and heading his way on home. "