Map of Austin Poetry #301-1
Featured Poetry Supplement
Theme: Take Me Out To The Ball Game
Upcoming Themes:
#301-4 Money
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Batters up to the plate for this issue:
1. Baseball by Margaret Ellis Hill
2. Arrived by James M. Thompson
3. Chemical Reactions by Michael Levy.
4. Rain Check by Gary Mex Glazner
5. saturday arc by Lynze
6. Outfield by Ryfkah
7. At the Old Ballgame by P.T. Paul
8. In Reserve by Mike Gullickson
1. Baseball by Peg Hill
The bat connected; sound
surfaced near Orion's sword, sailed
night right into rings of Saturn.
He had studied cliffs of air, curved
drifts, the angle of mirrors and wood.
Had scrutinized glowing orbs,
tantalizing treks through cradled pits,
and pock marks, drew
colors' kaleidoscopic circles.
No glass house for this display,
no dusty spectator in the bleachers,
she kept gently rolling in his hands,
and smiled as he walked out to the mound
to deliver his first pitch.
© 2003 Margaret Ellis Hill
published in The Rattlesnake Review, March, 2004
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2. Arrived by James M. Thompson
Cable ready
for the stats on ESPN
the long lists
winners, losers
averages, earned runs
strikeouts and more
a game in numbers
under the diamond
sparkling trends
and the lucky socks
rally hats, chickens
all tumbled
in long afternoons
and remembering
a doubleheader with dad
Sam McDowell
and the Indians
and a triple-play
against the Senators
when baseball was played
in DC
and winning or losing
was not as important
as being there
in the sun
with dad.
© 2004 James M. Thompson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3. Chemical Reactions by Michael Levy.
Red eye special ... east to west
Wish-filled carriage
Non-stop to the gamblers holy grail
Viva Las Vagueness
Zealous embryonic touch down..
Gratis wielded stretch limo....
Travel as the crow flies
Enter the magical game-dome
Uncertainty spins the wheel of fortune
God-like temple of pleasure
Forty-eight hours without sleep
Sacred Mecca of decadence
Mechanical atomic robots......
Play less mechanical machines
Magnesium of speculation.......
The grand phosphorous lure of chance
Diamond card nitrate players
Savor the pull of sulfuric greed
Whimsical magnetic cosmic money
floats into omnipresent fantasy vaults
Figments in a wampum tomb.
© 2004 Michael Levy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4. Rain Check by Gary Mex Glazner
The streets fill with blue and red game colors.
The Cubs are in town! Programs get your programs.
Sammy Sosa hits a home run...
Then the drizzle starts. The umps call time out,
25 guys dressed in identical blue outfits
roll out an immense sheet of matching blue plastic.
The downpour stops. Here comes blue crew
pulling away the safety skin revealing the diamond.
Then a cloudburst so hard, devotees begin to scream catastrophe.
Hey everybody, since the games rained out
lets go to the new Contemporary Art Museum,
Slowly the cheer builds: Art! Art! Art for Arts sake!!
The stadium empties, led by a crew of one hundred docents,
the mob marches to the minty-fresh art pagoda.
First we stop at the giant bat sculpture
in front of the Social Security building, dance an anti-rain dance.
Ron Santo is a monk in the abbey near the Sears Tower.
He takes a break from praying to lead us through the maze
of collected baubles. A huge gold ball sits in the lobby.
The fans hit it with tiny bats.
Ernie Banks speaks of the artistic and erotic
inspiration he derives from pouring Neats foot oil into
Michelangelo's left handed first baseman's mitt.
Conveying the ecstasy of the double play,
as a sexual/emotional, popcorn, peanuts, beer here!
"Play Ball!", using a pile of red plastic objects for the mound
and cubist paintings for the bases.
The museum comes alive with rapture.
Cubs fans waving impressionist flags.
Banks slides into a Picasso, "safe!"
The ultimate rapture experience is hitting a home run
followed by death. "Going, going, gone."
In the tomb of the dugout a black hole divides
the dead from the mourners. The living from the beyond.
Step up to the plate dig cleats in.
Elbow up, here comes the pitch,
start swinging, wood solid contact.
Line drive falling safely on the cemetery grass.
If you were in Chicago that day, headed for Paris,
delayed by the record storm, you missed your connection,
missed TWA Flight 800.
Missed the exploding ball of hatred or error.
Here is your rain check.
© 2004 Gary Mex Glazner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
5. saturday arc by Lynze
the ballfield rolls up on the edges
blue sky, red uniforms, green & orange fields
all tinged with sepia,it's tournament day -
jousting with sticks and tones and stones and minimal
armour. i know every baseball poem
has been written i know every game's been played.
so? not this one, not yet.
i keep telling people baseball's like poetry.
if they don't get it, that's not my problem, is it?
the home team's cheered and oh say can u see
to the memorial of war which flies in the baybreeze
like a video on tv,
the boys stand with hats in hands over hearts
as if this means
something, as if there is still something
salvageable in this country,
the batcrack the glovesmack
advancing in a diamond within an arc
while overhead the sun shines hard on all of it
the boys sweat and slide
glide to bases steal with pride
they're losing, our
team, the score's a jillion to one.
anything can happen in baseball
anything, if you can just
keep in the game. but there are
mercy killings. the boyz
in the dugout, they're still talkin
comeback ,planning strategies
against the fourth string pitcher
on the winning team, the team with faceguards
and serious about ball fathers
in serious about ball
leagues. three- million- per- game incubators.
justin sez "he's gonna
commit suicide" points
at the pitcher who slams a fastball
high outside "he's gonna get injured
and disappoint his dad's dream"
on davis island, the wind picks up
the flag waves north, towards
cultured lawns of townhomes ,
if you build it they will play fundrasiers
the tan and fit mothers, hair breezy blonde,
capris by monet, the docker's dads & polo shirts
shiney eyed shiney red white blue stars
with the players names
across the bleachers overachieving support
from red white n blue SUV drivers
against a sandlot champion team
who had a lotta fun this season
playing ball like a flock of cardinals
chasing each other when no one's it.
© 2004 Lynze
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
6. Outfield by Ryfkah
He preaches in forked tongues
a slinking serpent wrapped
around her heart
Play ball
blares across satellite dish
The Angels play the White Sox
She weeps
a broken doll whose eyes
turn in and arms swing limp
Bases loaded at the top of the Fourth
A grand slam
The fans cheer
A life to divide
She thinks about their season's
tickets Something to fight about
Smirking
© 2004 Ryfkah
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
7. At the Old Ballgame by P.T. Paul
"Come on down to Birmingham,
Come on down to Birmingham…"
Tuxedo Junction crooned to the crack
of a Louisville Slugger
as the right fielder hoofed it
in the bright June sunshine -
over the Burma Shave sign…and gone.
Sloss Industries still trailed by three
and U.S. Steel would not give it up,
but the pups were hot and the beer ice cold.
"Fire" Trucks was there, signing score cards and balls,
and, sitting right in front of us,
Joe Weaver ate a snow cone.
"Excuse me, Sir… Mr. Weaver, can I have your autograph?"
His smile stretched the leather of his cheeks,
but the hand he held out did not falter.
"What was it like? Back then? Did U.S. Steel really win?"
Just a blink and the smile faded.
"That was a long time ago, you know?
A lot has happened since then…"
You could read it in his face, like a roadmap of history;
World War II, the Great Depression,
memories of losses too great to comprehend…
so you let it go - "Like they say,
it's not really about whether you win…"
"That's right…" he nods, and turns back to the field
where young men wear his uniform and run his bases -
and he smiles, again.
That's how you play the game.
© 2004 PTPaul
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
8. In Reserve by Mike Gullickson
" I think I have something left"
I tell THE MANAGER,
although my arm aches
as if I had hauled a wheelbarrow
full of rocks
up Spyglass Hill,
as if I had bowled with a five hundred pound ball,
as if I had raised my fist in the air
too many times.
This afternoon I hold the ball...
two outs and a full count
the bases loaded
I am just one run in front.
I feel the seams , try to dig my thumb
into the hide
hoping to bend the air
to suit the pitch.
I watch the batter take practice swings
measuring my delivery, measuring my stance
sure that today it is his turn
to be a hero, his turn to meet the ball
in a defining moment.
I think of how many times
it has come down to this...
one pitch-
one opportunity-
one chance to prove
I have something left.
The crowd stills,
The focus narrows.
I look at third base
take a full windup
and let go....
© 2004 Mike Gullickson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grateful thanks to all who contributed.
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Much love,
Stazja
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