Browse all poems and songs in the 'Stu Shea' Category


Series Unction

by Stuart Shea

Everyone has theories
About why this World Series
Is packed with non-stop offense—

“The baseballs are slick
The pitchers can’t stick
Their nails into their surface.”

We know that these hitters
Don’t get the jitters
And can deal with sophisto defense—

They just loft the ball
Right over the wall
And make all the pitchers nerface.

 



Slipping Suds

By Stuart Shea

What’s happening to those Brewers?
To those blue, gray, and pee-yellow Crewers?
As the Cubs make the plays,
All Milwaukee now prays
Their year doesn’t go straight down the sewers.

 



Voices, Still

By Stuart Shea

Mr. Scully hangs up his microphone,
Dick Enberg does as well.
Bill Brown retires from Houston’s booth,
Ain’t it the truth–
Things ain’t like they used to be.

Things ain’t like they used to sound.
The men who call the games
Don’t have the varied background
Of the older famous names.

Oh, the older famous names,
With their gravitas and experience,
They understand the common sense
Of silence.

Now they’ll be silent forevermore,
Closing the door
On a time and a style that will never return.

 



For Jose Fernandez

By Stuart Shea

Shooting stars are meant to fall
Whether in view or hidden,
It’s always such a shock to us
When, seemingly unbidden,
One does,
Just because.

 



The Mets Have a New Outfielder

by Stuart Shea

Brandon Nimmo
Sure ain’t no dimmo.
Don’t come from Pismo and
Don’t use no gizmo.
When viewed thru a prismo,
He just wants what’s hismo.
And if he hits like a wizmo,
The Mets will not quiz mo’.

 

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