Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
by Stephen Jones
All the marbles explosive
shuttled day-to-day each
& every swing a pitch
changing now the switch
to summer to the hard ball
arcing high a home run.
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For more of Stephen’s poetry and photographs, check out his blog.
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Posted 5/29/2009.
by Todd Herges
Bright dawn blue sky
Cubbies play at 1:05.
Dad, Mom, sons, daughter
Head like lambs unto the slaughter..
Ride aboard the red line El,
Hope that Z will throw it well.
See the green, the grass, the board,
Hope Dad’s cash he will not hoard.
See the wall, the bricks, the ivy,
Hope that Z K’s Junior Spivey.
Smell the stale beer, puke, and links
D Lee’s sitting – Dad’s heart sinks.
But then Aramis hits a double,
Spoils the no-no, causes trouble.
Up in the booth a new guest sings
But not like Harry’s echoed rings.
One son for extra innings thanks
This day was one for Ernie Banks.
As Holly wraps it up so well,
The family knows the day’s been swell.
Then back aboard the loud red train
To the hotel – it looks like rain.
Glad it held off for these few hours,
Maybe thanks to higher powers,
Hack and Harry and Chance and Brown
Stand in the clouds and look straight down
Into the green grass lined by Waveland,
Sheffield, Addison – Chicago’s Graceland.
They held back rain, they hold back tears,
Been over a goddamn hundred years.
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Posted 5/28/2009
by Jay Raemont
Cubs in the Playoffs?
Maybe if the sun don’t shine
On poisoned ivy.
What is it they say?
Pride goeth before the Fall.
And so too, the Cubs.
Will this be the YEAR?!?
Many millions only hope–
Please do it for Ron!
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Posted 5/27/2009
by Charles Ghigna
In memory of Jack Marsh,
second baseman, Yale University, 1943
Before the bayonet replaced the bat,
Jack Marsh played second base for Yale;
his spikes anchored into the August clay,
his eyes set deep against the setting sun.
The scouts all knew his numbers well,
had studied his sure hands that flew
like hungry gulls above the grass;
but Uncle Sam had scouted too,
had chosen first the team to play
the season’s final game of ’44,
had issued him another uniform
to wear into the face of winter moon
that shone upon a snowy plain,
where players played a deadly game,
where strikes were thrown with each grenade,
and high pitched echoes linger still.
Beyond the burned-out foreign fields
and boyhood dreams of bunts and steals,
young Jack Marsh is rounding third
and sliding, sliding safely home.
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Charles Ghigna is the award-winning author of more than 40 volumes of poetry for children and adults, including Score: 50 Poems to Motivate and Inspire. Find out more at his website, Father Goose.
Posted 5/26/2009
by Gregory K.
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Tonight we’re at a baseball game:
The minors (double A).
But I don’t care! it’s me and Dad –
My siblings stayed away!
My soda couldn’t be more flat.
My Cracker Jacks taste old.
The peanut vendor never came.
My hot dog caught a cold.
But Dad and I are having fun.
In fact, it’s quite a blast.
We’re talking, laughing, telling tales
As innings move on past.
He tells my why he loves the game,
Each hit, each out, each run.
I tell him why I don’t like math.
He says, “Like Dad, like son.”
I tell him that I had a crush,
How weak it made my knees.
He tells me how he met my mom
And when to try a squeeze.
I ask about a stolen base
And why folks like to dance.
He tells me tales of baseball greats
And all about romance.
Dreams, home runs, and silly jokes –
They all come up, and more.
Tonight we’re at a baseball game…
And we’re not keeping score.
Gregory K. is a screenwriter, poet, and volunteer school librarian. You can check out more of his work at http://gottabook.blogspot.com.
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Posted 5/22/2009