For the Blues
\nA trail worn at the corner
\nwhere the street and dyke meet
\nleads down to a little league field.
\nWillows shade the players as they play.
\nAs if the balls were lead or sodden,
\nthe shadows splash both pitchers
\nin the heat of their brash bravado.<\/p>\n
Both teams scream at and taunt
\nthe batter. The informing fragility
\nof each cold and nervous universe
\nof flesh magnifies the action
\nin the childrens’ smallness.I remember
\nthe same dread from days in gym class.
\nSpheres then were serious business.<\/p>\n
But now I sit on the dyke, high above
\nthe game. From here and at this age
\nI notice the lines more, the chalk
\nand fences. I’m more interested.
\nin the umpires, why they volunteer
\ntheir time and patience to keep
\nthe music of the spheres alive.<\/p>\n
One batter rips a pitch in his eyes
\nout to center field, where Bobby,
\n(whose name is called by all the Blues,
\nand all of the Blues’ boosters),
\nobstructs his vision with his glove,
\nreaches up, sees his guts spill
\nout on the grass with the bounding ball.<\/p>\n
At least in the presence of adults,
\nhis teammates are nice about it.
\n“Next time, Bobby, you can do it.”
\nHe shakes his head as if he only
\nhalf believes them. Right about now,
\nhe’d rather dig a hole in the ground
\nthan stand there and look dumb.<\/p>\n
I stand up and brush myself off.
\nIt’s time to get on with my walk.
\nBut next time, Bobby, something
\ncomes your way; you’ll laugh about
\nthe ball you dropped, or you’ll read
\nthis poem someday. You’ll smile,
\nand field the lines cleanly. <\/p>\n
The Wind<\/p>\n
I see them from a long way off,
\nspread out in the v of their pristine
\nflight formation. They’re Canadian
\nhonkers, not mallards. I’m sitting
\nat the top of the right field bleachers
\nwhere I can take everything in,
\nthe box of the fenced-in game,
\nand beyond, the dyke, the river,
\nthe parking lot, the care-worn houses,
\nwhen over the left-field fence,
\nat a tangent to the stadium
\ncome the geese riding the wind.<\/p>\n
The geese sweep everything clean.
\nTheir feather-filters siphon the sky.
\nDirty things while on the ground,
\nthe last of Dickens’ urchins as they
\nwaddle and cry aloud, how they
\nredeem their lives when they lift
\nfrom the ground! And now their level
\ncoasting towards me trims my cynicism:
\nthey fly ten feet above my head, their dark
\neyes gain purple as they near, I can see
\nthe two feet they keep between each other.
\nHow do they know who leads? How do I?<\/p>\n
It’s the power of suggestion I suppose.
\nOne takes off and the others follow,
\nspreading themselves apart for aerodynamic
\nreasons. I tun and watch the geese land
\nflapping by the river. The other fans sit
\nunder the roof, or have their eyes entirely
\non the game. Why don’t I? This is the way
\nit should be, or the difference levels off–
\nI mean, the game on the field, for instance,
\nwould be hard to play if all nine men stood
\non the same spot. They spread out to cover
\nthe possibilities, a bouncing grounder, a long fly.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
For the Blues A trail worn at the corner where the street and dyke meet leads down to a little league field. Willows shade the players as they play. As if the balls were lead or sodden, the shadows splash both pitchers in the heat of their brash bravado. Both teams scream at and taunt […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":740,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-19830","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t