Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Knee-Deep In June

Tell you what I like the best -- 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine, -- some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else! Orchard's where I'd ruther be -- Needn't fence it in fer me! -- Jes' the whole sky overhead,

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

For I can snore like a bullhorn or play loud music or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman and Fergus will only sink deeper into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, but let there be that heavy breathing or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house and he will wrench himself awake and make for it on the run - as now, we lie together, after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,

Baseball Canto

Watching baseball, sitting in the sun, eating popcorn, reading Ezra Pound, and wishing that Juan Marichal would hit a hole right through the Anglo-Saxon tradition in the first Canto and demolish the barbarian invaders. When the San Francisco Giants take the field and everybody stands up for the National Anthem, with some Irish tenor's voice piped over the loudspeakers, with all the players struck dead in their places and the white umpires like Irish cops in their black suits and little

True Story

they found him walking along the freeway all red in front he had taken a rusty tin can and cut off his sexual machinery as if to say -- see what you've done to me? you might as well have the rest.

Baseball And Writing

Fanaticism?No.Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing. You can never tell with either how it will go or what you will do; generating excitement-- a fever in the victim-- pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter. Victim in what category? Owlman watching from the press box?

A Best Friend

A BEST FRIEND-Makes a lunch trade with you even if he doesn't love peanut butter and jelly. A BEST FRIEND-Notices you standing alone by the fence and invites you to play hockey with the rest of the class. A BEST FRIEND-Chooses you to go camping with him each summer. A BEST FRIEND-Puts chalk in the teacher's eraser so you're not the only one who has to stay after school. A BEST FRIEND-Smiles and offers a firm handshake when you make the high school baseball team and he doesn't. A BEST FRIEND-Makes you feel just a little bit better every time you talk to him.

The Dog Named Lady

Lady, the dog that looks like a rat Chases a beautiful Persian cat She puts in high gear Running like a deer Then trips over a huge baseball bat. Copyright 2018, Rose Marie Juan-Austin, All Rights Reserved

A Ballad Of Baseball Burdens

The burden of hard hitting. Slug away Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb. Else fandom shouteth: "Who said you could play? Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!" Swat, hit, connect, line out, goet on the job. Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom's ire Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob - This is the end of every fan's desire. The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight.

Enthusiasm

"Don't overdo it," Dad yelled, watching me Play shortstop, collect stamps and shells, Roll on the grass laughing until I peed my pants. "Screw him," I said, and grabbed every cowry I could find, hogged all the books I could From Heights Library, wore out the baseball Diamond dawn to dusk, and—parents in Duluth— Gorged on bountiful Candy dusk to dawn.

The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball

each day mowed and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter acre, the machine slicing a wisp from each blade's tip. Dust storms rose around the roar: 6:00 P.M., every day, spring, summer, fall. If he could mow the snow he would. On one side, his neighbors the cows turned their backs to him and did what they do to the grass.

Baseball's Sad Lexicon

These are the saddest of possible words: Tinker to Evers to Chance. Trio of Bear-cubs, fleeter than birds, Tinker to Evers to Chance. Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double -- Words that are weighty with nothing but trouble: Tinker to Evers to Chance.

Autobiography

I am leading a quiet life in Mike’s Place every day watching the champs of the Dante Billiard Parlor and the French pinball addicts. I am leading a quiet life on lower East Broadway. I am an American. I was an American boy. I read the American Boy Magazine

Half Naked Without A Hat

One hot summer day At the carnival I saw the teenage boy Who had a big crush On my beautiful sister. He stole a kiss from her But he got no luck Before he could land his lips on hers Her eyes were poked

Analysis Of Baseball

It’s about the ball, the bat, and the mitt. Ball hits bat, or it hits mitt. Bat doesn’t hit ball, bat meets it.

Thank You, Mom

Thank You Mom-for holding me in your loving arms every time I cried. Thank You Mom-for changing my diaper and singing me to sleep. Thank You Mom-for holding my hand as you walked me onto the bus my first day of school. Thank You Mom-for trudging through the snow each winter to watch me perform in the school play. Thank You Mom-for cooking my favorite dinner the night I struck out to end the game. Thank You Mom-for calling to say "I love you" the night I slept over Aunt Stephanie's house.

The Hangman At Home

What does a hangman think about When he goes home at night from work? When he sits down with his wife and Children for a cup of coffee and a Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask Him if it was a good day's work And everything went well or do they Stay off some topics and kill about The weather, baseball, politics And the comic strips in the papers

A Message To America

You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with your own back-yard; Each man intent on his private goal, You have no feeling for the whole; What singly none would tolerate You let unpunished hit the state, Unmindful that each man must share The stain he lets his country wear,

Baseball

The game was tied in the bottom of nine A runner on third and two out In the dead still air a mosquito's whine Was all you could hear, then a shout "Do something Ben, murder the ball, For crying out loud get a hit." Ben strode to the plate to answer the call The now restless fans knew this was it

A Letter To Parley

Dear Parley, I know I only met you once, yet I feel I know you quite well, since your grandma is my sister. You looked so healthy and happy that day that it's hard to believe the bad news that you have received.