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Play Ball
by Kristina WoodhillThe first time
exploring hands
found
the right length of stick
lying potent
among what some
might have claimed
for
the next
warm moment
in a blackened
smoke-choked cave,
rummaging hands that
at the same time
found
a rock with
heft
and dreams
of traveling
other than by
way of rushing torrents
pushed by outside forces, desires,
or underlying overheated grumblings;
that first serendipitous
up-toss of rock
tap of stick
to rock
rock to air
to air some more
long enough
to consider wings
long enough
to converse with wisps,
breezes, whispers of hints of
what lay beyond,
the outfield fence was born
and the crowd's roar began to piece together its mighty crescendo 03/14/2018 Author's Note: In searching for and writing a baseball poem for our meet-up challenge, I ran across online in Spitball Magazine a baseball poem by our own Bruce Niedt - Manzanar.
Posted on 03/14/2018
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 03/14/18 at 01:25 AM Nice poem Kristina. I like the spacing and buildup to the crowd. As per Bruce, sounds like synchronicity at play. |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 03/20/18 at 11:25 PM I too fell into the stream of the poem right away, the images taking me back to many trips I've taken to see mountain streams with those rocks and sticks and to ball parks with their sticks hearing the cracks and the ball coming right my way seated in the right field bleachers. It was a delight reading and experiencing your play. Thanks. |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 03/21/18 at 11:14 AM Kristina. I love this poem. It brings me back to my youth, when all we had to play baseball with were rocks and broomsticks. I can still hear the sound that the combination made. I can still see that rock sailing over imaginary fences and through not so imaginary and all too real windows, which we never had to pay for, given poor boys are too quick on their feet to get stuck with the bill |
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