GREAT EXPECTORATIONS
Bill LowerA little spit,
a little polish.
Hard to hit,
by golly, by gosh.
Oh, what he could do
when to a ball he applied
a scratch or foreign goo.
At times it just up and died.
Gaylord Perry honed his art
and the balls that were his tools.
He made hitters into fools.
Swinging wild at his drunken darts.
Here's to you, Gaylord!
You made do with what you had
and a little bit more than what you were allowed.
Conniving and sneaking was your game,
Daring the ump to call your bluff.
Declarations of innocence fooled not a one.
Where you hid the stuff baffled us all.
When you threw that special breaking ball.
Your tools of the trade:
whatever was at hand--
emery board, a grain of sand,
sharp belt buckle, slippery elm,
Vitalis, Brylcream, just a dab.
A complicit receiver to complete the battery
was oh so helpful to betray the ump.
How much was real,
how much pure fakery?
You were the best, put to the test.
Your bluff was often your best stuff.
With many close encounters of the umpire kind,
more often than not they missed the call.
In the ballgame and the mind game,
you were truly the Doctor of Baseballs.
FOGBOUND
David Hacker
The name escapes me, but the face
I know better than my own.
Some blade cut a small wedge like
Cheddar cheese from my brain and
Put it in some nether-realm,
And the door is shut.
We have always been close as two
Neighbors can be who share rakes,
Garden hose, and spades.
You wave at me, and so not to expose
My lapse, I feign to see some new
Blight on my rose.
When this happens, the blame on me
Most surely rests. When I feel so
Ashamed it's quite awkward at best,
And to you it's surely plain that when
Put to the test, I cannot remember your name!
LONG ISLAND SOUND
Doug Roller
Shore-side on the breakwater, I watch
A boy on the far end fishing, waves
Washing across the granite slag where he stands.
I think it's the season for bluefish.
If I were closer, I would ask him
About the season, and he would know,
As I once knew Mickey Mantle's average and
The hotel rent on Boardwalk and John 3:16.
If I were closer, I would warn him
About the undertow and loose rocks and
Cheap weather-stripping and naked options
And telemarketers selling timeshares,
And I would tell him to stay late
At the end of the breakwater, to enjoy
The sea breeze and the salt air and the
Summer days that circle lazily as seagulls,
Because a day will come when he'll
Watch from shore-side, just as I watch,
Not willing to return there, not even
For the tug of a bluefish on a taut line.
WHOOSH!
Dan Adkison
Wind winds along its way
And gently caresses the day,
Shaking hands with every leaf.
He's a kindly fellow,
Cool, soft, and mellow
When moderation spawns a benign
cyclonic swirl.
Quite suddenly, friendship flees
Provoked by the clash of extremes,
Transforming the breezy Jekyll
into the demonic Mr. Hyde.
NO, NO, NONET
John Lower
A poem of nine lines, the dictum.
Each line loses one syllable.
Each line seems more difficult.
At last the final line
contains but one word,
and that last word
appears as
naught but
lost.
ENON FIELD
James Patrick Wissman
After walking through the scent
Of the peonies thick
Over the deceased and shades
Of pink and red among
The expanse of slumbering headstones,
We were like clouds brushed
By winds as I drove away.
Shades moving above
Shadows resting among the flowers.
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THE DIRTY THIRTIES
Kenneth Roller
The Great Depression's memories are
etched in tones of gray and brown,
Devoid of bright and gaudy hues evoked
by thoughts of other times.
I see the skies all dimmed by dust; an
eerie pall surrounds the sun
Whose distant fires have scorched the
fields, dried up the ponds and farmers' hopes.
Who can forget the saddened eyes of thin-
cheeked, mousy little girls;
Of scrawny boys in rag-tag clothes; of
grim-faced, anxious moms and dads?
The Okies left in old black Fords bound
for the Promised Land out West,
Their forlorn, paint less, lonely homes
now haven for drab, hungry mice.
On every clattering railroad train rode
sooty, roving idle men
Whose hopes were pinned on finding work
or generous folk who'd spare a dime.
Like life outside, the picture shows
wrapped glamour in the opaque gauze
Of celluloid that filtered out the multi-
colored world they filmed.
What brought an end to color-blind can
hardly make us justly proud:
The orange blaze from fiery bombs, and
bright red blood on ocean blue.
The mills of war brought back to work
long-idled men--and women, too.
Their empty, lint-lined pockets filled
with lovely greenbacks once again!
In countless windows hung a flag with one
blue star and sometimes more;
Still other homes displayed gold stars for
those whose sons would not return.
Those reared in days of sepia tones brought
to our world the strength
To turn aside the enemy's dark threat and
light a Technicolor world.
WALK AWAY
John Lower Glowing coals
anaesthetize my mind.
I will not think back upon the day.
Tonight I journey toward tomorrow;
Yesterday is ashes cold and gray.
Wood waiting for the fire holds flames in store.
Tomorrow is the place I fix my eyes.
There is no place behind me I would go.
Tomorrow new life dawns, new hopes arise.
Troubled thoughts are refuse of the past.
Lost causes I will not allow to stay.
Life calls to me, and day is breaking fast.
I turn my back and boldly walk away.
STAGGERED GRIN
Todd Sukany "Beat you to the
b
o
t
t
o
m."
The slalom seemed
endless.
Interrupting,
an impact
startled a bisected
fang into howling.
An imperfect smile,
an exposed nerve,
awaiting the dentist.
WITNESS
Mark Tappmeyer
Why, when I'm through
speaking proudly of you,
your gracious life, do I
feel I've almost lied
by abstracting you dull and plain,
sanitized, effortlessly slain?
Truth is you stood dirtied by the trail,
halted at the thought of nails.
You one night all night mourned
against a boulder, knuckle worn,
your eyes blackened, spirit torn.
WALL
STREET.COM
Curtis Goss
All bets cancelled.
Debts encountered
Finally galvanized.
Hostility incurred
Justly keyed,
Logistically managed.
Newly opted
Positioned questionably,
Resulted satisfactorily.
Tempered understated vitality
Weathered exceptionally.
Yielded zonally
U. S. GRANT
AND THE BUNGLERS
Tom Padgett
The first of many
inefficiencies--
my local congressman mistook my name
and added "Simpson" after "Ulysses"
to give me the initials of my fame.
A military snafu that I knew--
when we began the War Between the States,
my brilliant plan to cut the South in two
was tabled by my War Department mates.
The politics of botchers and
their friends--
in my two terms as President I saw
the legislators work for their own ends
and blatantly proceed to break the law.
Since all my life such bunglers
sealed my doom,
I wonder whom they buried in my tomb.
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