By Stuart Shea
When they’re still playing ball
But your team has gone home,
A part of you just wants
The winter to come.
Redbird Droppings (World Series Game #1)
by Hilary Barta
It was dreadful, like cat and canary,
But the redbirds fell Splat! from their aerie
They disgracefully blundered
And their ace, Boston plundered,
Knocked dead by the bats of chin hairy.
The World Series – Game 1
by Stephen Jones
The Baseball Tavern on Boyle St., in Boston,
Must be hopping. The fielding question aired
On ESPN put aside, the Red Sox seem poised
To beard-brush St. Louis red birds aside.
Birds vs. Beards
by Stephen Jones
We don’t need ballistic pairing.
Will birds be in beards, nesting?
Or will Boston trump Cardinal flapping?
Whatever . . . it’s a series worth watching.
Baseball Time
by Philip Pecorino
For those who can fathom the beauty in the game,
there is surely is nothing lame
to say that baseball time is close to divine.
It starts when you get there and ends when you leave, nothing more
.      beautiful to conceive.
Start when you get to the field
and stop when to darkness you must yield.
Get under way out back much sooner than later
to end when you get called in for dinner.
From the beginnings that rest in memories of sandlot plays on to
.      glorious major league majestic displays,
the rhythm and temper of the game,
though never quite the same,
feels quite right,
whether in day or night.
Start seasons when the season’s leaves spring out from branch and
.      vine then end when they’re falling as winter season comes calling.
It all seems so natural as if designed supernatural.