Best Southpaw Poems
THE ARTIST
An artist from the city of Rangoon
Wanted to paint the crater's of the moon
Packed canvas, brush and paint
Told his wife who did faint
Then he took off in a hot air balloon.
THE SCIENTIST
A bright scientist who worked at the zoo
Thought in genetics he'd make a breakthrough
Mixed some bovine
With some feline
And now all the lions at the zoo roar moo.
CLIFF
A young butcher from New York called Cliff
Checked cold storage cos of a strong whiff
He then opened the lock
Forgot to use the chock
The next morning they found him quite stiff.
THE SHERIFF
Then there was the old sheriff of SouthPaw
Went up the hills to arrest an outlaw
It wasn't the sheriff's day
Cos the baddie got away
Shouted" up yours old sheriff and yee haw".
FREDDY
A womaniser called Freddy from Fife
Was caught out by his long suffering wife
Of course he denied
"You liar" she cried
And while he slept took revenge with a knife.
Written 6th July 2019.
MIRROR HORROR
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Is it me I see at all ?
I part my hair on the left every night
He parts his hair on the right,
I am a right-handed breed
But he has a southpaw lead.
If I use two mirrors to correct the reversal
The guy I see is more universal:
Looks like anybody in the street
Not someone you’d particularly like to meet.
The more I see him the less I like the face
Time has turned it into disgrace.
My admiration of him is somewhat colder
Every year as I get a little older.
Thinner and thinner, the brown hair fades,
With rapidly passing decades:
Before that face becomes too crass
I’ll get rid of that looking-glass.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Matt Caliri’s Contest - Mirror
They're trying to decapitate the hood magistrates,
with fabricated reasons for treasons
It's the season that we evaluate and saturate,
All those who maneuver with a false mind,
Hood occupants are tee'd off like it's golf time,
So your game needs to be up to par
because to the jails and cemetaries
too many people have lost time,
The government is microscopic on the popular,
They possess new world order style binoculars,
They're building plantations and camps
in the form of penetentiaries
to house and be the spots for the,
Most corrupted, those abducted,
from society in a variety of flavors
because misbehavior leaves us stuck with,
A bunch of years on tiers to joint suspension,
We stay inchin' through tention,
and in this hard knock life comprehension,
we discover that we're losing
in their systematic intervention,
They know that the hypnosis from dollar bills will rule us,
In a cess pool of,
deceived individuals who tryin' to glisten like a jewelers,
Metals and precious stones,
Yes it's on,
We brave enough to test the throne,
The quest is long,
And we fight until our flesh and bones,
Dissolved into the earth
We were born to die so who's next to go,
Our lives are far from festivals,
We're surrounded by people
who perform acts that are unethical,
attempting to reach the pinnacle,
Because the hood fame will excite us,
We search for the cures to hunger-itis,
What we really need is the wisdom from the providers,
Who serves the mind food
because the government is killin' us,
They're sealin' our fate with each plate to get rid of us,
They lable us outlaws, so we turn southpaw
and fight for our rights from the left like P. Whittaker,
It's hard suvivng inside their GENOCIDAL SYLLABUS,
So before you get tossed like a javelin,
Stay sharp and keep your eyes and mind travelin'
While you're in the systematic maze
to keep your life from unravelin'.
THE SOUTHPAW
By Roy Merritt
This kid has a helluva arm
The coach he told the scout
And if we could get him
to get it over the plate
He'd strike all the batters out
He can throw it really fast
Over a hundred and twenty per
You might not believe what I'm saying
But that's the truth dear sir
He doesn't have a curve ball
No slider or a change up
But if you're standing at the plate
You better be wearin' a cup
That's our biggest problem with him
This kid is really wild
And all those who have to face him
Turn into a little child
And if one comes whistlin' in
And goes anywhere near their head
They start swingin' at anything
Facin' him they dread
Now the scout he was a cynic
The story was always the same
We gotta a pitcher you should see
He'll make it to the Hall of Fame
And so the southpaw he took the mound
And started to loosen up a bit
And then he saw the batter in the box
And this kid was biting his lip
Why is that he wondered
Why does he look this way
Why is he hesitant to take his cuts
And put the ball in play
And then the scout he found out why
And came to believe what the coach had said
Cause the southpaw threw one wild and
By God knocked off his head
Yes indeed his head came off
Right there at the plate
I know it's hard to believe
But that's the truth for goodness sake
And so the ump he followed it
As it rolled all over the ground
The stadium stood deadly silent
You couldn't hear a sound
And finally at last the head stop rolling
And the ump picked it up you know
And so held it aloft
He really was a pro
He held it there eye to eye
Lookin' it square in the face
And shouted aloud “You been walked
Now batter take your base!”
Frank Edwin was his real name.
This southpaw went on to garner fame.
With great accomplishments and few regrets,
he became the closer for the New York Mets.
This native of Martinez, California
finished his baseball playing career in Philadelphia.
He is indelibly etched in Phillies fans’ memories
when he struck out Willie Wilson in the World Series.
That was in the magical season of 1980.
What a colorful act on the mound he was to see.
Unfortunately, Tug is not around anymore.
He sadly passed away back in 2004.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
Just look up with either eye.
Do you see the color of the sky?
See those eggs inside the robin’s nest.
One is like all the rest.
Look at the peacock’s feathers at the zoo.
Tell me, do they possess which hue?
Remember Vida who pitched for the A’s
He was a southpaw from some earlier days.
What was his last name? I am asking you.
It is none other than “Blue”.
Robert Pettit for Russell Sivey’s The Colors Have It contest
Mirthful memories of stitches and axel grease,
Kennel Clubs and snicker doodles.
Memories like colors, collected on an artist’s palette,
Stirred with southpaw patience,
Finding her backward child upright,
On a cycle’s seat; in a hopeful heart.
She sprinkled her son with dust from a Turner’s apron,
Which was folded neatly behind a watercolor easel,
Beside a piece of curly maple, carved with care and honesty.
So strange the result of that old black hurst.
A harrowing childhood taught her to protect,
To find safety for her son; no more locked doors.
Scrapping wallpaper and a boot full of cola,
Kitters and critters, costumes and cross-hatching.
So many lessons for the care of those you love.
Vicks rub, vaporizers and hospital visits,
Waiting for hours for good Dr. Rhodes.
Truck seats and hugs before Basic Training,
Lunch dates at Wendy’s on top of Bridgeport Hill.
Concerns for character and a trip to the police station.
College apartments and Charleston summers.
Until the day he danced with her son,
On the day he was wed; without her,
That day would never have come.
I feel now the strokes of Monet,
And I thank the Breeze for my cradle,
And my view from the treetop,
Impressions from my past; gifts from my Mother.
The success of my love is rooted in her hands.
Disturbed forbidden valentine
you level me and that’s the draw;
I’ll be all yours if you be mine;
Your roughness I wouldn’t refine,
I eat up what’s enticing, raw;
Disturbed forbidden valentine;
Profile’s bent and that’s by design,
left is right when you’re a southpaw;
I’ll be all yours if you be mine;
Cliche’ of shivers down my spine,
there lies the appeal of an outlaw;
Disturbed forbidden valentine;
Two hearts completely intertwine,
ignoring each red flag and flaw;
I’ll be all yours if you be mine;
Rage at a different baseline,
holding my neck and a handsaw;
Disturbed forbidden valentine
I’ll be all yours if you be mine.
I’m a southpaw,
one of those left-handed,
upside down,
have to curl my arm to write,
backwards individuals,
liv’in-the-left-life
in a right-handed world.
Think It’s easy, e.g.,
being a leftie?
Think again...
we’re out of place at dinners,
have to master backwards scissors,
built specifically for righties and
we are forced to learn everything, in reverse.
We wear permanent spiral wire imprints
on our left arm from trying to pen
our feelings into a right-handed
spiral-bound notebook.
One day, I decided to break the rules
and now all of my journals are written
back-to-front, blowing busybody minds.
Forget writing calligraphy,
a left-handed, oblique set of pen nibs
costs twice what the right-handed ones do
and they are about as elusive as garden gnomes;
what, you don’t believe me?
Try to find a set, I dare ya!
I’ll bet there’s not a store in your town
that stocks them, even though lefties
exist in huge numbers.
I spent 20 years trying to do calligraphy
with a right-handed, oblique pen;
(thank God for the web or
I’d never have found a set.)
In parochial school,
the nuns forced me to
turn my paper to the right;
now I am a half ambidextrous leftie.
This did not set well with my Mother
who wanted me to be the individual that I
was born to be...a leftie.
So, I turn my paper to the right, alright,
curl my arm into a question mark and
write upside down.
but , I play a right-handed guitar.
(otherwise titled psalm to
Amelie Beth by Matthew Scott,
his genuine, gluten free and non GMO
poetic non fake appreciative guise.)
Ah, thee availed me reason to craft
a poem with rhyme or reason,
when I beheld unexpected email
exemplifying Christmas season
triptych most handily drawn pictures
by southpaw sister to think
on the other hand (right),
would be synonymous
with brother commiting treason...
Tempting as such crime
to oust Trump doth appeal
worst scenario... an utter
nightmare should commonweal
constituting United States of America...
blatantly, doggedly, ferociously...
crushing democracy fragile ethereal
frenziedly, maniacally, and unceremoniously
grinding into powder art of the deal
compliments those doughy
two hundred forty three pounds
with squishy feel
bearing full force upon
every square inch of each heal
commanding, forcing, and torturing
every American get down
on knees and kneal
until they simultaneously beg
for mercy with ear splitting squeal.
The ruthless "Fake" tyrant
cackles, gurgles, issues glee
as he doth reveal
his starkly totalitarian, ultimately
vindictive, wickedly surreal
punishment to every man,
woman and child for
not winning 2020 election yule
suffer where high crimes
and misdemeanors during
farcical impeachment trial miniscule
compared to reign of terror
he will violently unleash
rip pull sieve tides
substituting himself as top dog
thus, he forcefully usurps
permanent dictatorial rule...
Other than the above dystopian fear
your brother eagerly
awaits the new year
maybe joining activist group
(maximizing) plank - scare
ring up said apocalyptic near
possibility, cuz Trump equals sore loser
(methinks that an understatement)
nonetheless, what I write might
seem far fetched hear
say (grim heresy),
yet... look no further,
he doth plainly appear
as anti-semitic, bombastic, cataleptic,
demonic, egocentric,
graphic, horrific, misogynistic...
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
WE rush to hospital, to the maternity ward : OUR first GRANDSON.
The SON of MY SON, wrapped up in blue : HE is so CUTE.
Pale blue eyes, a little pug nose, small but certainly HANDSOME.
I lift HIM up, hold HIM in my arm, HE is so small; HE is so CUTE.
I look LOVINGLY at HIS Grammy ; She is small, Therefore cute.
I look into my GRANDSON‘S smiling Eyes , HE is so CUTE.
I put my pinky in HIS hand and feel a squeeze; a SMALL SQUEEZE.
IN HIS other hand : The first squeeze, I found was just a Tease.
YOU have a very strong grip, MY Small, CUTE, Little MAN.
WE have ourselves a Southpaw, a very strong LEFT hand.
The sparkle in MY HeartBeats’ eyes, She lovingly holds HER Grandson.
Amongst the stars in the Arizona SKY, gazing upon His face: wondering WHY?
A NEW born: be they Boy or Girl is always born : SMALL and CUTE.
In 15 years the CUTE is gone: the Small replaced BY tall.
The CUTE replaced by Handsome, GRANDMA STILL Beautiful: BEAUTIFUL!
Dedicated TO " MATT "
Lord willing
I'm gonna get it by any means
Bust my hands up and nights I lose sleep
I'm a get it even if I gotta bleed
Ain't no stopping this locomotive
U gone see
I got the magic potion
Secret elixir it's called devotion
Committed to the thought of hope and
It's potent
The drama that comes
It's can be so thought provoking
How it's so ever flowing
Like poetry in motion
Gotta stay on a pivot
Make the concoction even with ingredients missing
And when one way don't work gotta southpaw switch it
Be humble at times but move so vicious
It don't gotta fall together
But it still gotta pass thru trenches
Still gotta be relentless
Been thru the waves of the demented
That's how I know threaded for this
I'm better than this
Even if I a had genie I wish for nothing much the patience
To match the perseverance
Lord willing
Lord willing
The good Lord gave me the will so I'm exploit this gift then......peace
He is a San Diego native southpaw.
One of the best young pitchers I ever saw.
The Phillies chose him first in 2002.
In 2006 was his big league debut.
He has made his presence felt with all the teams.
He can baffle the best of hitters, it seems.
With wins and strikeouts, he will be the team’s ace.
Nobody can knock “King Cole” out of his place.
He will be pitching with many home crowd cheers.
May he delight Phillies fans for many years.
Higgledy-Piggledy Pop;
Make the madness stop.
Empty your bladder,
On the boob tube blabber.
Yackity Yak, Yackity Yak,
Our sanity is under attack.
Spin, Spin, Spin, the thing;
The world defined by the southpaw wing.
Chapter VI explained it all;
60 million died at that ball;
Higgledy-Piggledy Pop;
The madness needs to stop.
Round Mudville Market, foul air was omnipresent
butchers rent fowls’ necks to make tenant's rent,
the scene that was seen was most unpleasant.
As sunset fell, we watched through evening light,
as Casey mighty Casey held his stout bat tight
while striving poet searches to right words write.
Seems a southpaw would tear up bravado's montage
Casey’s legend scorched by unknown pitcher’s flamage
and tears like diamonds sluice down his visage
As darkness gathers, a lone bat flits round diamond site
with Casey wiff, the bleacher rift, for sure a sorry sight
as we quaff stout, raise glasses high, E. Thayer's tale recite.