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


Imagined Commentary During a Game

by Stephen Jones

During a game, a commentator —
an ex-ball player — once said:
a manager’s job is hard.

“OK, so you’ve got twenty-five
children in a dugout …
and each one wants to be
treated just so different.

“I mean, it’s hard … I mean,
they all love to play the game,
right? But when you got children,
I mean, grown men who mebbe

“don’t wanna grow up, well,
then the manager’s got to be
part teacher, part mentor …
and also some kind of juggler.

“And all this while skating on thin ice —
dealing with egos and tantrums
and you-name-it?… No, no thank you.
Hey, believe me, I’m glad I got the

“chance to play in big league games —
that’ll never go away — but dealin’
with all that other stuff? No way.”

 



Baseball Is . . .

by Stephen Jones

A contradiction—

of lazy clouds which
like counted sheep
unroll slowly overhead,
and did-you-see-that plays,
routinely made, which
flicker like lightning
beneath the skin.

Baseball was—and is—
born slow,
with metaphors for a head,
but when least expected,
it will rage—a storm.

 



Of All the Double Plays

by Raphael Badagliacca

Swing and a miss
Snap and a hiss
Strike em out
Throw em out
Wins the day
Without a doubt

 



Ongoing Failure

By jessicaj

Baseball is a game of failure
I hear people say this daily
Last Friday
I was talking to a guy
About the road to the Final Four
He wants more ESPN
More college hoops
More NHL, NFL, and MLS
At first I’m nodding along
Then I started envisioning
An invisible painting
Hanging before me
A blend of 90% fescue
With freshly raked dirt
Demarcating the infield
Suddenly my mouth waters
I can taste popcorn salt
Smell yeasty beer
Hear drunks arguing
While another batter
Gets punched out
Meanwhile I’m thinking
This isn’t productive
I’m just sitting there
Growing older
Having spent my money
On a long drive and
Expensive parking
But for a few hours
I’ve been transported
Transformed, I’ve escaped
My burdens at work and home
Have accumulated
The ballpark is grimy
Even the new ones
Are gray slabs of concrete
Baseball is a business
Chewing up players
Sucking them dry
A capitalist enterprise
Time is so precious
Why would I waste it
Contemplating the futility
Of a rainy day at the ballpark
When I could be
Getting ahead in life?
But I have a secret:
I know why
The caged batter
Swings

 



That Ball

by Nicolas Neal

That ball.
Its color?
White with flecks of brown.
Its seams?
Red.
Faded red.
That ball.
Leaves the pitchers hand.
It twists.
Taunts.
Can turn the mighty to the meek.
The meek to the mighty.
It makes you.
It grips you.
It mocks you.
It sails slowly.
It journeys its way to my bat.
It keeps you up at night.
Is the perfect antagonist.
To any batter.
The sad part is.
I like it that way.

 

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.