Long Dugout Poems
Long Dugout Poems. Below are the most popular long Dugout by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dugout poems by poem length and keyword.
Have fun playing baseball, hint number one
finish the season though you’ve never won.
Can’t win if you don’t play, work on point two
find the skills you need, then practice them too.
The count’s at three, try to pick the right clothes
Not too tight pants and zippers that will close.
Moving on to cleats with thought number four
be sure they fit, that’s what sizes are for.
And rule five: no cussing, use your tongue's brake,
backtalk, name-calling are habits to break.
Watch your temper, ideal number six -
you’re not that feisty cat which your dog sic’s.
As for step seven, it’s long overdue
learn from your mistakes, know what NOT to do.
Keep the dugout clean, we’ll call this clue eight
squelch farts, don’t throw up cause you over ate.
Tip nine; learn when to bunt and when to steal
It makes for more fun, but takes nerves of steel.
One more then done with these suggestions ten -
if you chew gum, spit your wad in the tin.
World Series fades, into new pastimes we buy
...Roll on, past baseball to a creed we can live by,
...Respect for others grants our ego fond goodbye.
October 22, 2022
Caren, whose poetry sings with grand plumage,
swims with bouquets of flowers and such. You
inspire me! And aloha to William :)
HAWAII
Bird of paradise, plumeria, jasmine,
orchids, gardenia, hibiscus, primrose.
Aloha sea — paradise welcomes thee.
Cup of gold, elephant’s ear, fuchsia and firecrackers.
Lantana, glory bush, pineapple and Waikiki.
Queen Emma lily, prickly pear, silversword and sugarcane.
Hawaii islands erupting with ecstasies —
scents that rise the temperature, hues that squeal with desire,
cascading sounds of God’s mirth, adventure on steroids.
Come in, ebb and flow in dugout boats - leis floating
upon the deep-blue skies. Your hearts are pounding drums.
Don’t be shy. Grab this shelf of paradise. Don’t let go.
Aloha friends! Let’s all be friends. Planes fly in.
Koa, coconut, ‘ohi’ a lehua, candlenut, monkeypod,
noni, and lemon-scented gum. Mahalo nui!*
O’ahu, Maui, Kaua’i, Big, Lana’i and Moloka’i —
find your serenity, your northern shore, the allure
of life. Grab yourself a blue hawaii, piña colada,
mai tai, mimosa. Fill your cups with Eden’s fruit.
8/19/2020
*thank you very much ma-hah-lo-noo-ee)
Sitting on this bench For an entire season Committed no errors No strikeouts No sure what`s the reason Made love to the manager`s daughter In the dugout Before the game Maybe this is the answer Where I should be putting the blame Thought I hit a home run When I heard her scream Always knew You were the best on the team Seems the old man Was in earshot of this Told me Your benched For going beyond the first kiss Well I guess There is always next year No more homeruns in the dugout When the old man is near
I should have seen it coming –
but more often the obvious
is yet only viewed through a cloak
of personal affections and
ignorance –
I should have seen it coming
but the heart is a clown
a camp of favorite characters
the real covered-over beneath
enticing glitter of circus-tents and
performance dreams
I should have seen it coming
but light and dark are only
the messengers of vision
love and hate
from the dugout of far deeper passions
And what if one did see it coming?
Is not blindness the free-will choice
of a spirit-soul, God having sent us to earth
oblivious His methods and reasons
giving us literature and faith
in their stead...
Should we think and reason better
than our Maker? Nay!~ Love, needs
no vision, outside itself –
Its own omnipotence and divine
dissolution....
(Feb, 2 – For the I Shoulda Seen It Comin' Poetry Contest of John Lawless)
The fact this pitcher was great nobody could deny.
He could take the baseball and throw it right on by.
His pitches usually blazed through the strike zone.
Frustrated hitters usually returned to the dugout with a groan.
Time marches on, and we can’t live during yesterday.
With age, skill and prowess just deteriorate away.
He soon learns he is not the same player today.
This pitcher discovers some difficulty in winning.
Opposing hitters knock in runs during an early inning.
The manager pops out of the dugout and takes the ball.
Time to bring in a reliever. For today, that will be all.
As a poet who likes to make things rhyme,
It has been a mystery to me why some prefer "Free Verse".
I rarely, if ever at all, understand how to write in that style.
Perhaps, that is why I chose it here.
Like any poet, I have often been faced by a blank page in front of me.
That is my challenge, my gauntlet, the duel in which I must fight.
My words are the bullet, my thoughts the aim, my meaning the target.
You may ask, "Do I always hit my mark?
No. Like a ballplayer swinging at strike three, it just makes an out.
But, walking back to the dugout of my team with bat in hand,
I hear them tell me, "Good swing, get 'em next time".
That is true in writing or painting or any artistry.
Those droughts come too often, quickly upon me, and last far too long.
Whenever I feel the pressure of staring at that blank page,
I just shut down for a time and wonder if I will ever write another word.
Then, some inspirational line comes into my head,
and I realize that it is my turn to step up to the plate again.
It is only at those times do I write what seem to me,
some of the best poetry that my soul will let me put together.
Oh, by no means does it have the sage of a Whitman, Arnold, or Sandburg.
But, it does have something that none of them ever could have.
It has my thoughts, impressions, gifts, talents, soul, and more.
That poem has only the words I was blessed enough to find.
Even if I strike out with this one...it is me!
I have tried to use allegory and allusion
in writing this. Perhaps it is not your
definition of "Free Verse", but it is my swing at the ball.
Nuclear hideout
Deep under the garage in the basement of our building
they are constructing a nuclear, safe bunker, the shelter
is for those with a car and safe tenure, whose duty is to
buy canned food, water and warm blankets.
Those who fully own their apartment will get the best
corner and sit in the committee; those with a mortgage
will be second in line, alas mere renters are not wanted
they will have to find other accommodation.
It goes without saying children and dogs cannot enter.
The construction of the “dugout” has become urgent
due to the war in Ukraine, refugees from that country
have been hired to hasten the work.
After a lengthy meeting among the haves, the decision
was to let in some renters, cooks, cleaners and nurses.
As a top lawyer said: “it is all very well to be deprived
but not so much that we have to do our own laundry.”
I felt the sea on my pulse,
the salt in my brunette,
pebbles underfoot,
the net dragging me.
I felt the familiar ebb and flow,
close to shore,
tippy-toes.
The coconut permeates the dawn,
its scent infiltrating,
its oils reverberating.
I feel the palms bending low,
so low I can touch
their feather fronds;
and fronts clashing.
First drops of the storm,
so tender-pitter-patter,
light thunder,
soft lightning.
Nearby volcano erupting,
you think I’m dreaming
about your lava eyes.
Beach blanket soaked,
settling into muddy sand,
its tartan, tanned
and connecting
with the waves,
overlapping.
The island’s going under -
the thunder, ecstatic;
its lightning erratic.
Surrounded by water,
a dugout
with flapping wings -
the canoe is land.
Lily pads on steroids
float upon deceptive waters -
so pretty I can touch them;
and caiman too.
All that’s ever been
resides in sandy eyes;
I’ve collected seashells
in my mind.
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!”.
She comes to bat with the score tied three to three.
Staring out at the pitcher,
she goes into her stance,
just hoping the ball will come over the sweet part of the plate.
Into her motion, the pitcher winds and fires.
Gathering all of her strength,
her eyes lock on the fast approaching yellow softball.
Like a gladiator ready to charge, she coils her body ready to strike.
Swinging with all her might, she connects
and the crowd goes wild as the ball sails
over the center fielder's head and to the fence.
With the crowd cheering,
she takes off like a young cheetah toward first.
A smile on her face and a gleam in her eye,
she looks up and catches the coaches signal to go to second.
Seeing the ball is still in the outfield
and the third base coach waving her on,
she rounds second and heads for third.
Fans fired up cheering,
mom and dad hold their breath and pray
as she rounds third for home.
Looking up and seeing a good relay throw to the catcher,
she throws on her brakes and reverses to third.
A bullet throw from catcher to third base
has her in a rundown.
Like a ping pong ball, they have her running back and forth,
but she’s not worried with her speed.
Then it happens,
the third baseman overthrows the catcher
and she is off for home.
Heart pounding and breathing hard,
knowing it will be close,
she dives feet first and slides into home base
under the tag to make a home run.
The crowd is roaring in the stands,
jumping up and down, hollering and clapping their hands.
Her team mates run out of the dugout and mob her with joy.
She’s made the winning run to break the tie.
By:5/23/2015
A true story of my nine year old granddaughter making the winning run.