There once was a team overseas
Who fielded with power and ease
At Flak Kaserne they played
And a loss they did evade
With a season that aimed to appease
The Finance squad stood fifteen and oh
With one final ball game to go
They expected a win
Until fate settled in
And sullied his confident glow
A liner came sailing towards me
To left center where hesitance be
One pause in the chase
Let the ball slip past my face
And under my glove, I set the ball free
The bases were cleared in the ninth
And victory vanished from sight
Though fifteen-and-one
Was still proudly won
That play being relived in my mind
A blush. And sweet of breath;
From out her own
Thymey and thick fielded
Aired nursery.
Earth mother's, a mother's
Seed. Lately sprung.
Fair stalk! One less, since then
Spun round, swarmed of
No held back visitor!
Butterfly. Bee.
Joint recalled. Flooded; drowned.
Rains, tears among.
Reedth speaketh me listen
to this creaking squeaking tree
it make a bassoon proud
to speak out loud in detail
the things I see.
Speaketh me as wonderer
here in the edgy field
the moans and groans of
a tree so large
could frighten a person
to chills
fright not weary one
as I know the happenings here
the fibers within
bend with the wind
this trees end could be near
dense the wood
strong fibers too
might I brag that
it's a Black Ironwood tree
most dense of all the tree's
it was a present from
a host, a hoist that
gifted me.
It shall be felled
harvested
and made into tables and chairs
you look at me with
disappointment
do you wish the wind to prevail
oh i understand
you wish it to be fashioned
from this tree
a bassoon for those envy us
crafted for the world to see.
It expense will make
all who want
stop with a look upon there face
envy of unobtainable things
Envy and Grace
profound lyrical themes used
to explore the balance tween
artistic ambition, comparison,
Passion and redemption
I drape your darkened night in sheets of white,
Making you shiver under my dense flakes;
To hide your blighted roots from mortal sight,
I pour my drifting crystals in your lakes—
Your whispered warmth in return is all it takes.
The wind I fashion blows with silent chill;
I bury all your tender skin in wool.
Your fun, I shift beside the fireside’s thrill—
Warm drinks I set by your warm hands to pull,
Though I creep cold-footed, still my smile is full.
I hide the tilling of your soil beneath coldness,
And blight in the seeds of your barn I heal,
So that your planting season stands clothed in boldness—
A whispered promise I set beneath your heel,
While from the sky thick drifting flakes I steal.
My mission finished, then I give you way,
For grace in me to meet the gentle sun,
Who dries the sweat concealed in warmer day
And widens paths for open-fielded fun—
But not until my quiet work is done.
Underdog Alleluia
By Mark D. Stucky
Why do we love underdogs?
Why root for ragtag Rockies
and scruffy low-rated teams
coming from behind to win?
Why adore unlikely triumphs
against impossible odds?
Our culture can still remember
underdog-filled Bible stories,
from David and Goliath’s battle
to the meek inheriting the earth.
And America was once an underdog,
rebelling against earth’s mightiest empire.
Although Britain wielded superpower might,
and colonists fielded motley militias,
somehow, against improbable odds,
America survived and thrived.
In the centuries since,
the story transformed.
America became Goliath.
What will be our story now?
(First published in The Purpled Nail, 2 June 2023.)
(Photo by Kara Carelle on Unsplash.com.)
Poetry is a busy crosswalk downtown,
when everyone moves together with elbows
held a little wider than normal.
Poetry is a middle-aged man, creased
and folded, sprawled out on the neglected
weeds in Woodruff park, eyes wide shut.
Poetry is the free fruit for children
podium in between the produce
and clearance aisles, oranges
and apples withered to marbles.
Poetry is a crying baby
at the 3 o’clock movie theater.
Poetry is a young boy in the park,
battered by curiosity, in a fight to the death
with furry flowers, their guts filling the air
with each oaken swing.
Poetry is giving a nod to the mailman.
Poetry is the unintentional eavesdropping
of the worst idea for a screenplay
ever fielded.
Poetry is the gait of a man recently
in love, thinking of hands
suddenly adored.
Poetry is the enigmatic ether that fills
the summer air so thick you have
so do the breaststroke just to
get back home.
And how can you ever think to write it
if you are stuck inside behind
grating blue screens or
painfully white paper?
Have you lost an EVERLASTING love like me?
Did you assume your love would last to eternity?
Well my answer is an emphatic yes to both questions!
And I’ve fielded so many suggestions
But it’s sheer folly to think that wonderful memories could fade
I was a foolish idiot to think my life was eternally made!
The love of my life was gone in a flash
But I keep having wonderful dreams and memories to rehash
I was a very lucky man to win her hand
That’s why her faintest little wish was always my EVERLASTING pleasure to command!
...and then darkness fell through a rocky bottom
of lost innocence in the light of waning truths
an aperture tore away the veil of discomfort
tranquil as if nothing had happened at all
shutters gathered speed at fast click
exposed a lens out of immanent focus
yearned for reflection and solutions
counted images’ framed encounters
a flash escaped a dew shield of tears
mounted a memory in black and white
fielded depth on the surface of images
transcended shades reason feelings
time warps of poignant recollections
rearranged an impermanent future
like poetry in constant motion
the photo knows no secrets ...
How many minions, I wonder, are out there?
I read the signs and their narcissistic prayer.
Some feel righteous and hallowed indeed.
Preaching their hapless sanctimonious creed.
Ecstatic euphoria, stripped from backs of others.
Would you act this way in front of your mothers?
Shame on you! People are suffering and dying.
Your petulant demeanor is crass and mystifying.
More good poets are leaving because of you swots.
They're isolated indoors, stomachs tied in knots.
Emerging to read your vile comments and mobbing.
Your arrogance is fielded. Minions stop hobnobbing.
The forward momentum forevermore,
An effervescent stream of dreams assured,
Of the well deserved former nevermore,
Lapse a fielded laden course neutron star,
Revamp a passage from star map secured,
The forward momentum forevermore,
Recommend Cat's Nebula repertoire,
Best viewing pleasure that one best ventured,
Of the well deserved former nevermore,
All around thank you from this superstar,
Now that is a measure to be endured,
The forward momentum forevermore,
Excuse me, beg my pardon Morning Star,
Craft not built but for the truly matured,
Of the well deserved former nevermore,
It's all keen you being an avatar,
Because we have arrived home reassured,
The forward momentum forevermore,
Of the well deserved former nevermore,
Date: 09/04/2019
howmanysyllables
19 x a perfect 10 = 190
Midst fielded bloom
Soft pastel skies, horizon’s shade
So cool the breeze on flowing hair
With skin of whispered poet’s phrase
Now dreaming of a heart to share
~
Alone you stand midst fielded bloom
Beneath the wing of windswept dove
As fragrant as this rose I send
Delivered with undying love
Good morning Soupers
predicated on verb hose noun sense
with brain matter makes me astute
and this union with the trappings
of virtual reality tub boot
would be akin to heaven
within the domain of this atheist - ole coot
whose purr add ventures scripting verse
sit aisle feeble rhyme with no reason
moost definitely hi yam not terse
aye speculate yar facial reaction
(understandably) would be
toe step from this purse
son i.e. Daff Punk Matthew Scott Harris
when ma time to ride luxuriously
in a plushly jeweled hearse
carrying thigh cremated ash
disagrees with me credo, ethos,
faith no more much less brash
since be yen entombed
in a coffin resistant to crash
vis a vis atoms either
forcibly split (divorced)
or tum marry in a shotgun flash
(fission or fusion respectively)
exhausts precious natural race horses
cruelly whipped
stinging fresh fielded gash
where putrescent hide of Equus resembles hash
sheesh, how in the of Judas Priest
did hie veer off into the least
common denominator,
which absolute value increased
the totally tubular confusion
into a worthless jumbled gobbledygook feast.
I seek not its light
I cast my eyes towards the sun,
beyond the darkened fence, the fielded midnight thoughts,
watching, through clouded images, knowing eventually
I will witness the birth of a new day
I reach with my smile in a curved line
seeking a destiny still unknown but written
in verses of future phrases,
which will come to pass…in multi-colored inks of affection
I send my heart on waves of scented mist,
collected from the corners of my world,
flowing free from silent words and favored gestures
of desire’s endless intentions
I hand my love to nature, freely, willingly…
so that it may be delivered amidst
blooming jasmine and truer promises…to you,
before another dawn’s light finds your beauty and you awake
I cast my eyes towards the sun…yet I seek not its light,
nor its warmth…for all I seek is you
Good morning Soupers
No more will his visor slam sideline here,
but forever the HBC our fans will cheer;
he forged a team that fought for glory,
and fielded a squad that was SEC worthy;
while he did not garner a title in hand,
the garnet was tougher in football land;
he taught his players to be better men,
sandstorm polished, a house to defend,
he got the best both on and off field,
now we wonder what his legacy will yield.
**********Note: The Game is over********
The second batter put th ball
Over the fence
No one knew where it went
It screamed and it screeched the sky
And burdened it's silence with light
--------
Their was an Angel in deep middle field
It was also an Angel of the LORD
He really fielded it hard....
------
He swept so high
That he breech the sky
He braved the breath of
Death and Eternity
But, He make it back eventually
------
He cast that ball in the name
Of the Lord
But, He didn't cast that hard
And as it turned out
The game was won
In the name of the Father
And the Holy Son
And this is how we have
To end this pun!
Poet Author
Gary FIELDS
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