Long Home plate Poems
Long Home plate Poems. Below are the most popular long Home plate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Home plate poems by poem length and keyword.
Ironed Shadows
Her hands lay smooth
the coveralls worn thin
now wrinkled
once charged with earth
Mended armor from
courageous prices paid
embossed with crosshatched mending
stands raised in triumph
A home plate remembered
by innocence long abandoned
players made humble from
a boy's first slide for life
Vapors rise
from sprinkled droplets of water
beneath handled hot steel
making ready once more
the crusted yet unknowing weave
for kneeling of a different kind
Facing forced submission to other games
a purple-robed relentless hand
feeds rewards from gilded plate
accompanied by quiet silver tongue
Such are the scoring points of yet another kind
Youth's pure white
once starched crisp
ever ready for combat
now labors thread bare
atop the shoulders and arms
riding the reach for caramel-lathered memories
chased down with silver chaliced promises of still further kinds
Where is the love-smooth ironing hand now?
Costumes of rumpled thread
made anew by ironed caresses
now like the ether of memory
drift up past the seeing eyes into untethered emptiness
Tread carefully
lest you become wrinkle-free expediency
sliding voraciously into digital home plates
forever kneeling faithfully before promised obsolescent rewards
delivered smilingly from tarnished silver platters
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.
A corner, a place that's often unseen.
A peripheral spot, could be where two walls.
convene.
It's a vantage point, from which we can see,
the world around us, in a new degree.
A corner can be, a place to hide.
A spot to take refuge, from the world outside.
It could be a space to pond'er, to intospect,
at this nook, to drink of, think of
sort through thoughts inc.
and emotions to sync at the brook
of reflecting pool of converging things.
A corner can also, be a place of warmth.
Where we snuggle up,
and feel secure from harm th.
It's a cozy book end and spine,
where we can relax and unwind,
And renew our spirit, till peace we find.
A guidestone throne womb bones made of mental.
bones.
In a corner, of our mind, our little aftermat trace,
of abstract designs (of the Divine)alone.
A retreat from fast-paced race.
It's a spot to recharge, and to revive,
at the four winds face.
A corner is more, than just a place,
It's a metaphor, for life's little home plate.
A peripheral jut, where we can find peace,
and piece it as from meal to completed
Eureka puzzle, masterpiece.
So if you're feeling lost, and in need of rest,
just find a corner, and let your worries divest.
Take a moment to pause, and to recharge
at the collective commune of connectivity.
You may come out, stronger from the grounded
blueprint of schematic symmetry.
Taste a little corner of Heaven in the things
that impendly depend on the mystery
of a focal point periphery of convexity
complexity
bulge of converging point of urge
at its thinking place, from mini complex city-path
Sanctuary of
space.
Ironed Shadows
by Odin Roark
Her hands lay smooth
the coveralls worn thin
now wrinkled
once charged with earth
Mended armor from
courageous prices paid
embossed with crosshatched mending
stands raised in triumph
A home plate remembered
by innocence long abandoned
players made humble from
a boy's first slide for life
Vapors rise
from sprinkled droplets of water
beneath handled hot steel
making ready once more
the crusted wafer-thin reason
for kneeling to a non-questioned answers
Facing coerced submission to other games
a purple-robed relentless hand
feeds rewards from gilded plate
accompanied by whispering silver tongue
Such are the scoring points of yet another kind
Youth's pure white
once starched crisp
ever ready for combat
now labors thread bare
atop shoulders and arms
riding the reach for caramel-lathered memories
chased down with silver chaliced promises from still wider mouths
Where goes the love-smooth ironing hand now?
Costumes of rumpled thread
made anew by hot-pressed caresses
now like the ether of memory
drift up past the seeing eyes into untethered emptiness
Tread carefully
lest you become wrinkle-free expediency
sliding voraciously into digital home plates
forever kneeling faithfully before promised obsolescent rewards
delivered smilingly from reflective platters
tarnishing quickly
The sunlight beams down on a warm spring day
and the blues abate on a warm spring day.
March snowflakes morph into April showers;
and shoots start sprouting, on a warm spring day.
A cacophony of birds can be heard
chirping for a mate, on a warm spring day.
And yellow daffodils pop from the ground;
at a frantic rate, on a warm spring day.
Nesting birds take turns sitting on their brood
incubating eggs on a warm spring day.
Butterflies emerge from their chrysalis
and try out their wings on a warm spring day.
Dandelion seeds, rigged to parachutes;
gently float aloft, on a warm spring day.
And the crack of a bat hitting a ball;
rings out from home plate, on a warm spring day.
When the home team has a five to two lead,
a dependable bullpen is what they need.
In the ninth inning, they want three outs more.
A relief pitcher has to shut the door.
Losing the lead for the team is crappy.
The hometown crowd will leave unhappy.
Such an incident happened the other night.
The events that transpired were a bizarre fright.
The “closer” was expected to deliver from harm.
However, he incurred spasms with his arm.
Unavailable, other pitchers took the mound.
Not one competent pitcher could be found.
The bases became loaded before we knew it.
All the runners scored, and the home team blew it.
The fans were sitting there dumbfounded and staid.
Six runs crossed home plate before the final out was made.
Therefore, the home team lost, and that was history.
Unfortunately this season, it has happened too frequently.
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.
He advanced to home plate
hesitant
out of time, out of place, yet
tantalizingly familiar somehow
A spirit, no number on his back...
Pausing, he tipped his cap to the crowd
a period-piece from long, long ago
Who could he be...
He squared himself, bat waving menacingly
and then he swung -- pure poetry
a swing for the ages
the ball arcing higher, higher...
As he rounded first base
into the afternoon shadows
his legs faded away
then the rest of him...
Who's to say we hadn't seen
Babe Ruth that day
Who's to say
Babe Ruth, who played from 1914 - 1935, rewrote
baseball's record book top to bottom during his
career. He still is arguably both the greatest
player ever to play the game, as well as the sport's
most enduring legend.
"Take me out to the ball game"
that anthem of great fame,
one lyric is clearly off track-
"I don't care if I ever get back".
It's the only game after all,
where the defense controls the ball.
It's so unique, so revealing,
that's what makes it so appealing.
Who could abandon a game they love,
without permission from up above?
It would take a lot to walk away,
from a game millions love to play.
True, we all want to get to home,
on the way often stranded alone.
To really score, it's what you've earned.
That's what life teaches, what we've learned.
In our culture, there's a special place
for people who are born on third base.
Fortunate ones, who thought they'd hit a triple
whose actual efforts never made a ripple.
Got in the right schools, joined the best clubs,
Mommy and Daddy cushioned all their flubs.
In their lives there was little pain,
on their parade, it never does rain.
So unaware of their illusion,
they miss the obvious conclusion.
This is how truth goes off its rails,
creates some of our societal ailes.
Here everyone should be safe, nobody out:
that's one thing America's all about.
Your team success is never under debate,
if no one gets to cross home plate.
So as we set these words to rhyme,
always respecting our nation's past time
that spawns character in those who play:
we need leaders who think this way.
The final score is always just the same,
not win or lose but how you play the game.
This was an important game in a pennant chase.
The runner thought he could score from second base.
The ball was hit like a bullet into center field.
The other team was hoping another run this would yield.
The coach sent the base runner around third.
The center fielder threw the ball straight homeward.
Our stalwart catcher waited for the throw at home plate.
We were hoping that the ball would not arrive too late.
Our catcher caught the perfectly thrown ball.
He stood there adamantly like a brick wall.
The umpire saw that the catcher tagged the runner out.
This was the best play of the game without a doubt.