Long Baseball field Poems
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Every so often, my mind wanders back to the summer of my youth, where a specific memory awaits.
Having completed my first year at University, I’ve come home. My younger brother John, fifteen, seems all grown up, so different. He’s gotten taller but it’s more than that.
I'm surprised when he offers me a tour of his new ‘Boyz Only’ clubhouse. I almost wonder if he has missed me while I was away, likely not. The shell of a hand-me-down camper has been converted into a hangout. When I mention that he keeps it surprisingly neat, he snickers and reveals his stash of hidden girlie magazines, safe from the inevitable parental inspection.
I am impressed, and at the same time, I can’t help but feel like I’ve entered a time bubble, a door, a transition. On one hand, it feels surreal; on the other hand, it’s simply an honour to just sit here as a guest.
I talk to John about what it was like to adapt to life in the big city. He talks to me about his recent exploits and his adventures with his friends. It isn’t long before we reminisce about the escapades we shared when we were younger. In our pauses, we’re somehow cognizant that we’re one step closer to adulthood, to what we might call freedom.
In the past year, I haven’t thought much about home and our countryside fields. For me it’s more about what the future has to offer. But on this day, it’s tangible how John and I are setting out on different journeys. He is next in line to fly the coop and I'm sure he realizes it. As we spread our wings, it’s obvious that the gap will only grow.
This precise moment clings golden to me, ever so close to the surface of my heart.
at the forest’s edge
by the old baseball field
youth within reach
AP: 1st place 2024
Submitted on September 1, 2025 for contest 2025 POETRY MARATHON MILE 13 sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 1ST
Kissing you while passing by the school yard,
We're holding hands with your head on my shoulder,
"I love you chérie", is exactly what I told her,
"I love you too", said my love right beside me,
"I love you more", I said to ma chérie,
It's twelve p.m lets go out for ice cream,
Two minutes later we ditch it for hugging,
Right now we're swinging on swings at the park,
We hold our hands out to catch each others arms,
I finally caught yours and still swung away,
I saw you smile and that made my day
It's two p.m, I thought it'd be much more later,
But being with you makes time go much quicker,
By now we're walking with your hand in my hand,
We're at the park and everything's going as planned,
We pass the baseball field and into the old bleachers,
Dirty and rusty but we'll ignore all the features,
Honestly I'd rather kiss her then talk to her,
But then again I wanna hear her till the end of the summer,
Five minutes later we're on top of each other,
We decided we'd rather be somewhere together
An hour passed and where in the middle of three,
And right now we're kissing under this tree,
The taste of your lollipop I thought was strawberry,
Until you correct me for it being cherry,
It's four in the afternoon and we're walking to another place,
I can't help myself from looking at your face
It six o'clock where did they time go by?
I should be leaving but I hate saying goodbyes,
It feels so early but I promise I should bring you home,
I would never let you walk home alone, so
I'll take guard as soon as we're gone,
You're home right now and I should let you go,
You tell me you have to and I just give up,
"I love you", she says says while she hugs me,
"I love you too", I say back so sadly,
"Let's spend tomorrow together", she suggests,
"Of course", I said, I'd rather say it again
We start the cycle every now and then,
And deep inside I know it's worth to do it again
Oh, my, how excited, elated, I would be
to receive sudden financial prosperity.
The true appeal would not be the tangible
but the freedom I have longed to handle.
It is so easy and fun to imagine
the idyllic dream-cottage I would fashion.
If my pen and intent have successful flair,
Perhaps I can transport us all there.
One super, great thing about my new home
is the location in a unique, universal zone,
where society, by law, must leave me alone
and never again cause me or mine to groan.
First, I’d hand my home dreams to Thomas Kinkade
whose involvement my enthusiasm would persuade.
He would build my perfect cottage in a glade;
quaint goose bump appeal with each modern update.
Country, antique and Quaker furnishings throughout
would be joyously bought using my new clout.
I would slowly decorate within and without -
extend the thrill, I would without a doubt.
A Walt-Disney-mind will fashion green grounds
over which perfect billowing clouds will abound.
Cute, gleeful birds will provide uplifting sounds
and precious flowers will pop color all around.
Somewhere on my lush, beautiful property
will be awesome fun for others and me;
ATVs, a bowling alley and bumper cars;
a racquetball court where everyone stars;
a baseball field where rivalry will spar;
an inviting lake twinkling beneath the stars
where fishing and swimming are never barred;
and, a babbling brook playing nature’s guitar.
Every morning will wondrously begin.
Before any voice has even spoken,
a gorgeous song will be piped in,
Cat Steven’s singing, “Morning Has Broken.”
*Image of Make A Paper Airplane by YT.
Pen Am Expression Airplane
Welcome, all writers and riders on board,
Pen Am Expression Toss-N-Throw Jetways,
Piloting, Captain Armstrong Paperweight,
And Co-Pilot Ace Bellwether Coxswain,
Thanks flying this all-expense paid--by you!
All poet and poetess, pens ready,
The younger riders can enjoy their snacks,
Ready for take-off, all seat belts fastened,
Note that the No Smoking Ever signs on
Hi, I am your head stewardess Pam Ann,
And with Rex, our strawberry blonde steward,
Pen Am's very own Golden Retriever,
Now, for your listening pleasure, playing,
The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour
Who're the Beetles, and what is that noise? Ugh!
First, there will be numerous short-hopped flights,
Followed by enjoyable longer flights,
In flight, on the left, our own baseball field,
Junior's holding a picture of Babe Ruth,
Had the most home runs and the most strikeouts,
Was well-balanced and All-American,
Now we're passing the mall, ladies, and gents,
Ah! It's easy sailing through Big & Tall,
There might be turbulence in Wanda's World,
And a brief stop at 31 Flavors,
We'll return, but it's the height of rush hour,
The Bully Boys and Gang of Toys are here,
They have papered up and ready to throw,
First one to land at home plate wins the war!
Paper trays in their upright positions,
Whirlybirds ready for topsy-turvy's,
Captain Armstrong here, I'm ready to throw!
2022 August 22
*7th Place*
PAPER AIRPLANES
~~John lawless: Judged 2022 September 15
When Bobby was just nine years old,
folks loved his winning ways.
He was a little gentleman
deserving of their praise.
His helpful nature and big smile
were natural, they knew.
His family was proud of him.
Life bore a rosy hue.
At school and on the baseball field,
on Boy Scout projects too,
though Bobby was a shining star,
his ego never grew.
Then Bobby changed dramatically
when he became a teen.
Out came a taunting arrogance
no one had ever seen.
The center of attention still--
at his insistence then--
he bragged on his accomplishments,
how great he'd always been.
He ridiculed some other teens,
"The losers," in his words,
"the clumsy oafs who stink at sports,
the dummies, and the nerds."
He soon was sharing center stage
with others who, like him,
enjoyed attention--good or bad--
and acting out on whim.
Then one day his comeuppance came
when his school's team had won
the championship and he was high
on praise and having fun.
He took the credit--no surprise!
But soon the tongues would wag.
He meant to say, "No brag; just fact!"
He said, "No fact; just brag"!
The "oafs" and "nerds" laughed in his face.
The "dummies" yelled, "That's right!"
His dumbstruck fans just stared at him,
now a pathetic sight!
*******************
May centers of attention learn
that positive is best--
which honest, humble people earn,
eschewing all the rest.
July 6, 2017
Look at the baseball field.
The poet’s words, a sword to wield.
To these pleasures I consistently yield.
But heavenly joys I often neglect.
Where are the heavenly spires?
The bosom that protects against the eternal fires.
Where in worship no one tires.
And the holy one’s face is clearly seen.
What is the reward that is beyond our sight?
How are we to navigate through the night,
With an invisible joy as our guiding light?
How can wicked hearts love one who is perfect?
And this thought perplexes me:
The one weeping in Gethsemane.
For his alienation from the holy trinity.
A fellowship not known by mortal men.
And yet my heart tends to go,
Towards the summer, and to the snow.
My love is for things that I know.
But the holy fellowship I‘ve never seen.
I can boast of the poet’s words.
I can admire the fish and the birds.
I can point to harmonies written in thirds.
But the Holy one’s face I cannot describe.
Man in his mind’s eye.
Can conjure up griffins and fairies that fly.
As well as fraudulent gods in the sky.
But a true deity he cannot draw a picture.
For the company of friends we are grateful.
In our camaraderies we are playful.
But we don’t desire to sit at the trinity’s roundtable.
Of that friendship we are alien.
And if there is a heavenly hymn able to touch my ear.
My eardrum may never again resound, I fear.
The face of the savior unclear,
To a mere golem returning to the mud.
It was on my way home from school
From the trail on the hill
High, overlooking the school's baseball field
Where I could never hope to play..
I stood awhile to watch
my brother on the pitcher's mound...
With profound, tangible, and tom-girl attitude
I looked on, with green-eyed envy
It was then I caught my first glimpse of you
Huddled and alone in the drainage ditch
among the sodden seeth of leaves
I turned quickly....afraid you might take a bite
from the heel of my magic Keds
that could sweep my feet away like wings of a hawk...
Instead..like lightning...you were beside me...
Tail wagging, as if we were meant to be...side by side...
Two of us sprinting over the stretch of road
Feet scarcely touching the ground...lickety split....
Down the hill, around the bend...across the nettled field that took me home
Of course...it took a bit of convincing...
Begging, pleading, cajoling,
Offers of impossible and implausable promises...
But YES! I was allowed to keep you!
You were MINE!! I named you 'Ditch Digger'....
Never was I happier!!....
And even better...
was the simple fact...
that for the first time....
my brother looked on with green eyed-envy........
----------------------------------------------------------------
Never seen beautiful angels
sprinkle angel dust on me
as snowflakes on a leafless tree,
and I don't expect them to alter things
when they swoop down with their long wings;
where were they when I faced fears and dangers?
Angel dust has another meaning...
besides the magical power to alter a destiny,
kids of my age used this drug
and went insane, not recognizing
themselves, their personality changed drastically;
some even wanted to jump out of a window.
Sweet angels, leave Heaven and visit me
on the days when wishes freeze on silent lips,
let them resemble snow falling on distant hills,
and deserted roads like the one I'm traveling on!
Let me catch many snowflakes softer than a baby
with soft skin...whiter than daises basking in the spring sun!
A boy, barely fourteen, has been found dead as a poisoned rat
on the bleachers of a run-down baseball field frequented by a hungry cat....
his red eyes were wide-open imploring a merciless sky color rust;
no angel came down to save him: he laid there and painfully died!
Who gave him that powerful drug? Did he want to bite the dust?
He has taken that secret with him...why didn't anyone listen when he cried?
Entered in Gail Angel Doyle's contest,
" Angel Dust "
Written by Andrew Crisci
on 10/18/ 2012
(8/22/12)
When I was a child I climbed the tallest tree that I could find
To see all the beauties that GOD left behind.
I’ve never been to any snow capped mountain
Or ever climbed the highest peak
But he shows me words and lays them at my feet.
I see the baseball field where my friends and I would play
And I see the patch of grass where my head would lay.
I see myself laying there as the world passes by
Counting every cloud that’s high up in the sky.
I feel the summer breeze as it passes through my hair
Ever so gentle- much more than I could bare.
I climbed up higher at least sixty feet above the ground
Just so I could hear all those familiar sounds.
The birds singing tunes to delight the ears
Wiping away all those childish fears.
I gazed across the park taking in all the sights
Watching younger children in the sprinklers
Jumping with delight.
I felt myself getting light headed, but not because of the height
But because of the words which I knew I could not fight.
So I climbed down from the tree , and said a little prayer
For the words he had given me
I knew that I must share.
This was my first inkling for what was in store for me
That was when I knew- I had to write poetry.
© L. RAMS
Summertime memories of better days
Playing outside way past dark
Bungalo was the community pool
Church picnics at Dutch Hill Park
Sliding boards and old metal swings
A box for the little ones filled with sand
There were monkey bars and seesaws
A merry go round that we turned by hand
A pavilion full of picnic tables
Where neighbors sat together to eat
And the old beat up wooden dance hall
That gave little relief from the heat
Usually they had a polka band
Playing polkas, waltzes and rock n’ roll
Wooden floor jammed with people dancing
Those memories touch my soul
Sometimes we’d run down to the baseball field
Play ball until we were soaked in sweat
Or sneak down the woods when we got a chance
We’d all have a cigarette
Then we would walk back to the picnic
Get food at the concession stand
Carry it over to the dance hall
And listen to the band
The picnics lasted until late at night
Neighbors sat talking and having a good time
A hamburger was only twenty cents
And a beer was only a dime
Take me back to those innocent days
Where my memories still roam
To church picnics at Dutch Hill Park
Saints Peter and Paul and Saint Jerome.