Browse all poems and songs in the 'San Francisco Giants' Category


Unimaginable . . .

by Celeste Johnson

Word spread. Crowds grew. The Giants won on
“Happy Lincecum Day.” Joy suffuse. Happiness shared
Hopes grew . . . at least on the days when the Slight,
Quickly becoming the Beloved, One took the mound.
Poetic motion, Electrifying Stuff. Baseball was fun again.
And off the field the one rapidly becoming known
Only as “Timmy” was engaging, goofy and entirely unique.
Skater caps and a smile that lit up his entire face
Happy emotion pouring through letting us know
He was marveling at this as much as the Faithful.
He slipped into our hearts and gave us joy . . .

That was then, and this is now.

Staring at the finality (at least for now as the heart
Never stops hoping for Reunion.) But for now
We must accept that the Beloved may not
Grace the Orange and Black and the Gem
At Third and King will lack its brightest little star.
Unimaginable, but reality does not bow to the
Unimaginable simply because We wish it,
Unimaginable, that another color should blur
In front of our eyes as mesmeric motion unfurls.

Unimaginable . . .

Supplication only partially granted
We must move on. There will be others,
There are others now that don the Orange and Black,
To make us smile, to bring us joy even.
And we will love them. But there will be
A difference. Not all difference is bad and this is not
But it will not be the Beloved, the Slight one.
The One who brought hope to the baseballing heart
Of the City by the Bay. Hope that crystallized into
Three glowing rings that we will always cherish.
The Beloved, our brightest little star may not grace
The Orange and Black again, but the love remains
Imprinted upon the heart and we can only hope that
Joy returns to his own heart and the mound once again
A wondrous place. So it is Goodbye and
Somehow “Thank You” are words too small to
Encompass the gift of Time and Memories given,
But they will have to do for now.
And always the love remains strong. Forever Giant.

 



Peavy and Cain (Or Two Days of Rain?)

by the Village Elliott

What to do about Peavy and Cain?
Will they both become winners again?
Or would Jints be smarter
To make Heston fourth starter,
Then on every fifth day pray for rain?

 



First Place Poised (2016 San Francisco Giants)

by the Village Elliott

If Mad Bum, John, Jeff stay on fire,
Bullpen does the job Jints require,
Brandons Crawford and Belt,
Posey, Pence earn their gelt,
Team’s poised for long race to the wire.

First place team’s looking good in the field,
But if mid-summer, those dinged ain’t healed,
They’ll have to acquire
Those whom they require
To plug any leaks Giants need sealed.

 



Panda Fan’s Lament

by the Village Elliott

As Giants’ Panda fan since his birth,
Loved the way Pablo played full of mirth–
Ate from both sides of plate,
Now he can’t hit his weight,
Sad he’s unfit to play with full girth.

After the Giants got Panda’s best,
The Red Sox will pay for the rest.
Jints dodged bullet by not
Matching loot Panda got.
Sox fans moan, Giants’ faithful feel blessed.

 



Hanging the Bunting at Wrigley

by Gene Fendt

“At 8-1, the Cubs are off to their best start since 1969”
–news story, April 15, 2016

They’re hanging the bunting at Wrigley
.    a hundred years after the Babe;
so many have waited so long for this day
.     it’s hard to believe what we see.
My childhood knows Santo, Kessinger, Beckert and Banks,
.     the trade of Lou Brock, the umpire’s mistake,

facing Giants and Pirates and Hammering Hank,
.     the line-up of Bench, Morgan, Rose and Perez,
the grace of Clemente before he was dead,
.     the stare-down of Gibson, Bob Veale and Koufax’s crank:
Lou Boudreau on radio made it appear
.     as Athena to Hector, when Achilles was near.

The world is unworthy of childhood faith,
.     the utter incorrigible truth of its love,
its weeping for heroes defeated by fate,
.     its Aprils and Augusts, stolen bases, gold gloves.

All that is over. It’s daytime, there’s ivy,
.     it’s got God’s own green grass,
the bunting is hanging, and so soon you’ll see
.     God himself in his garden, all home at last.

 

Gene Fendt has taught philosophy for 29 years at the University of Nebraska, but grew up in Wisconsin listening to WGN, “radio home of millions throughout mid America.” His poetry most recently has captured the Princemere Poetry Prize (2015) and won the Gemini Magazine national poetry competition.

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