Browse all poems and songs in the 'Free Verse' Category


Numbers Game: If 9 Were 7

by Stephen Jones

Alexander Joy Cartwright, club member
Of the old New York Knickerbocker,
Declared 9 innings in 1845 –
Something we still keep alive.

Modern baseball’s inventor –
Tired of game disorder –
Called a dream field to order
When he gaveled “9” the number.

Now stirs a business suggestion:
Make baseball’s 9 a 7.
Why?  Because the game’s too slow,
Because younger fans are “no-show.”

Mr. Cartwright worked with geometry,
Not with something fiduciary.
Since when, he might opine,
Is baseball governed by bottom line?

 



Jackie

by Anonymous

He waited
In the whiteness of the afternoon sun;
Black man on green ground.
He waited
In the silence of the tongue
Black man on green ground.
He waited
In the path of his words
White broke his bones;
Black man on green ground.
He waited
As few men have ever
waited
And endured
Before a multitude
as no man before,

O,
To have conquered the white sun,
blinding
To have sailed the sun and ridden
its joy
in tears
And
in laughter.

To have ridden the white sun,
blinding
And to be
struck
struck
struck
by the rising
Of
Your
Own
Black
Sun.

Your crown was white;
…and waited.

.
Found on the Baseball Almanac site.



The Game Without A Clock

by Stephen Jones

Critics of baseball always complain:
“Speed it up.  The game’s too slow. ”
Look elsewhere, they often chime,
For proof.  But to a clock-driven show?

Baseball is not the NFL,
Where starts and stops rush pellmell.

Baseball is not the NHL,
Where fights and goals are the sell.

Baseball is not the NBA,
Where endless timeouts hold the day.

Maybe more common sense could be used,
Maybe more strikes should be called . . .
These are arguments on which fans linger
Long after the day’s game is over.

Baseball, a game of numbers, is in play
In a stadium beyond time’s sway.

 



The Origin of Baseball

by Kenneth Patchen

Someone had been walking in and out
Of the world without coming
To much decision about anything.
The sun seemed too hot most of the time.
There weren’t enough birds around
And the hills had a silly look
When he got on top of one.
The girls in heaven, however, thought
Nothing of asking to see his watch
Like you would want someone to tell
A joke–”Time,” they’d say, “what’s
That mean–time?”, laughing with the edges
Of their white mouths, like a flutter of paper
In a madhouse. And he’d stumble over
General Sherman or Elizabeth B.
Browning, muttering, “Can’t you keep
Your big wings out of the aisle?” But down
Again, there’d be millions of people without
Enough to eat and men with guns just
Standing there shooting each other.

So he wanted to throw something
And he picked up a baseball.

 

From City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology, edited by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Copyright 1995.



Opening Day 2014

by Doug Fahrendorff

Another season
Harbingers of spring
Robins in my yard
This morning
Brewer baseball
On the radio
This afternoon
Snow predicted
By the weekend
Our equanimity
Undisturbed
Winter finally in retreat
Baseball is back

 

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