We are often sold it is cricket’s true home
The gold tapestry we toast hallowed tome
Legends ghost last post told free to roam
Groundsmen boast on outfield wield a comb
Host should do a search on Google chrome
Would yield the strip is most about the loam
Frippery and filigree are so suitably kitsch
Coiffured rest of ground then got a stitch?
Eating kedgeree no pedigree critics snitch
Pundits pounce the bounce does bewitch
Batters flounce in tatters is a serious hitch
Not a titch moves alot watch them twitch
Trounce the culprits it is time for a switch
Not in pulpits being a bit*h MCC’s so rich
Scratch fans itch give us a Test match pitch
Steps up to the plate
Skinny Legs picks up his baseball bat
He points beyond the outfield
Wordku: 5-7-5- words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
I bought a pair of yoga pants
Without the slightest urge
To practice yoga, but it wasn’t
Too much of a splurge.
Reminds me of some other clothes
Designed for active wear.
My ski coat’s never seen the slopes
And I don’t really care.
I walk around in running shoes
And in my baseball cap,
I’ve never hit a long ball
Into any outfield gap.
I even owned some cowboy boots
But never rode a horse
And my husband wouldn’t dare to wear
A “wife beater,” of course!
Daddy, please take me out to the ball game
running the bleachers, enjoying the fame
buy me some warm peanuts and crackerjacks
let the ball fly to the outfield with a whack!
Daddy, can I go play with my friends in the field?
There are lightning bugs, and they easily yield.
I want to chase and run and twirl and spin.
I don't care about baseball, the sport or the win!
A fraction of my sense of humor
retains and loves full blown sarcasm mode.
I have to watch it at work.
I deal with children.
They are experts at it.
At home my husband catches my barbs in his glove
Winging them past outfield to hit the fence
So we can remain in love.
The spring has arrived
In Arizona
and in Florida
The teams get ready
to train for baseball.
That time again
for bats and balls,
batting helmets,
gloves and spike shoes.
The infield
and outfield
get ready.
baseball
is here.
PLAY!
He was born and raised in Mobile, Alabama.
Soon, he was famous all over America.
He played for the Braves in Milwaukee and Atlanta.
Considered to be among professional baseball's elite,
watching him hit homeruns was certainly a treat.
Hank made the chief do a war dance beyond the outfield.
Mr. Aaron did this numerous times with each homer he would yield.
Yes, everyone would soon know this great man's name.
On the first ballot, he made the Hall of Fame.
However, I heard some bad news the other day.
On January 22, this great player passed away.
Hank Aaron (1934-2021)
geese in the outfield
bluejays in the batter's box
stealing signals
John G. Lawless
4/6/2020
I’m not sure
I have the strength anymore
To be discovered
Stepping into the cold black lake of February
Clopping to work in frozen slop
Snow snarling at my ankles
Car coughing
Windshield gritting its white teeth
I wear a body double of fur curved
Like a polar beast on my back
Then the Voice of the Turtle whispers…
And sprinklers spritz in a mist of sunrise
And rows of palm trees unfold as a breezy outfield fence
Blue sky a homerun boundary
Free to swing away you can’t miss
Buckets of baseballs flung to the green sea
Leather-gloved squids
Eight kids per position
Waiting their ground balls and pop flies
Legend to rookie 60 feet and 6 inches from the big show
Chin skimmed and bum chapped with red dirt
Tip of hat flattened to home plate
Get up swing back at that
Unfamiliar crack of doubt
Deep from winter inside you.
A hot sun is a bird perched on the bill of your cap
#10 Numi eternal rookie in us all
Spread your wings and fly to Detroit
The Old English D forever on your chest.
Max is five and bossy beyond compare.
Stand there, he orders me.
No. There! Right there!
I am his grandma, so I comply.
He gets to be the batter as usual.
I am the pitcher and the outfield. No surprise.
Every time he misses one he growls at me.
And blames me.
Sometimes he throws the bat or screams at me.
Grandmas are not good at being coaches I guess.
“That is TWO strikes for you!” he yells at me.
“I cannot have strikes, I am the pitcher,” I tell him.
“Two X’s,” he says. “Two X’s for making me miss.”
I start laughing.
Forgetting that he gets mad when I do this.
From outfield judging eyes await your plight,
though sweat and stupor feign to your ruin.
Now pull up your trousers, cinch your belt tight...
glaring down from mound, pitch straight and proven.
Blurred ball unleashed, pitcher's swift arm uncoiled...
tho' bat be av'rage, the batter may not.
Cauldron-like blood boiled, fever'd swing loyal,
now away to skies, all eyes on prized swat.
Faithfully she watched from merciful stands,
clouds roll away from fancy, fated rush.
His chance to meet life, alone in her hands,
though startled by a bat's powerful crush.
Will you strike true in life's bewilder'g plan,
carried on shoulders of heavenly fans?
Out to the bleacher
We were drawn
By sun burning down,
Melting stubborn
White snow mounds,
While the girls
Still with wintry-pale legs
Trotted the bases
Or lowered to grateful grass
In the broad outfield
And stretched calves out
With spread lean thighs
We somehow knew
Would one day open
That way for love,
So we bee-essed
About doing it,
How much, which one,
Braggadocious banter
Of the uninitiated;
And some cute face
Buried in the shade
Of her batting helmet
From time to time
Would smile through
Wire backstop diamonds
At us, bat shouldered
And gold block letters
Denoting “West High”
Adhering to the contours
Of her nascent bust
While darkness stained
Cloth at shaved armpit
And atop pert fanny;
Maybe, we hoped,
One or a few
Would mount the ladder
Of wooden bleacher
Up to us after practice
And offer thanks that we
Shagged foul balls
By letting us inhale
That perfume-sweat-red clay melange
Only a girl can attain,
Fragrance that lingered with a guy
Late at night
In a desolate bed
During the sublime chaos
Of his spring of life.
Clean uniforms all lined up
One set on each side.
Two flags- state and country-
Salute from across the field.
Swing, swing, swing again
And a thick clink,
Everything moves at once.
The ball- outfield, second base,
First base, third,
Shortstop and then the mound.
Is he out?
You bet, tagged at first.
Good boy.
Batter up, tap tap tap on the ground,
Swing around to ready.
Swing, swing, swing again
And again and again.
That's three, my boy, you're out.
Change sides.
Chipper Jones
has suggested a use for outfield drones
they should accompany the ball
giving a general indication as to where it might fall.
The outfield boy stands waiting all alone,
playing the game that many children love.
From the pitcher’s mound, a ball has been thrown.
The outfield boy stands waiting all alone.
The ball has been hit. See how it has flown
straight into the glowing boy’s baseball glove!
The outfield boy stands waiting all alone,
playing the game that many children love.
Written Dec. 2015 for the Oil Paintings 4 & 5 Poetry Contest of Eve Roper
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