—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
CUB’S PARK, ONE EVENING
Evening, a clear skinned sky, the outfield
green, well trained, and happy, the infielders
gathering the breeze, winds in motion.
We had box seats, close enough to see
the face of the guest of honor throw the first ball,
my son at my side, his first visit to the park,
wild-eyed and cheering, never sitting still,
everything a ballet of motion, the right fielder
throwing a runner out at home, the short stop
reaching for a spiking ball, a long ball curving away,
the pitcher grabbing a line drive—it had to hurt!
The Cubs did not win that game, nor the next,
but none of this mattered to him, nor me.
The lights came on, the theater continued,
the players larger than life, the crack of the bat,
the cracked bat flung away, the jar of a hard-hit ball,
the slash of dirt against uniform sliding into home,
the wash of everything, and he felt the game,
the smiles of the players, the very breath of baseball,
the way it was alive, the way it was important.
Evening, a clear skinned sky, the outfield
green, well trained, and happy, the infielders
gathering the breeze, winds in motion.
We had box seats, close enough to see
the face of the guest of honor throw the first ball,
my son at my side, his first visit to the park,
wild-eyed and cheering, never sitting still,
everything a ballet of motion, the right fielder
throwing a runner out at home, the short stop
reaching for a spiking ball, a long ball curving away,
the pitcher grabbing a line drive—it had to hurt!
The Cubs did not win that game, nor the next,
but none of this mattered to him, nor me.
The lights came on, the theater continued,
the players larger than life, the crack of the bat,
the cracked bat flung away, the jar of a hard-hit ball,
the slash of dirt against uniform sliding into home,
the wash of everything, and he felt the game,
the smiles of the players, the very breath of baseball,
the way it was alive, the way it was important.
GREEN GRASS
Sunlight littered left field with large swipes,
ivy covered walls christened green and darker green,
the outfield a perfect place for a picnic and the infield
a diamond of sweet grass and art.
We were two of the lucky ones,
able to enter the park late afternoon
after the crowds were gone, the garbage picked up.
Near the shadow of wall in center field
she put down her blanket and large picnic basket
and we ate large dogs on homemade buns,
the mustard burning, drank too many cans of beer,
and when we were silent, heard the cheers.
Later we touched the great walls,
raced around the bases, played pitcher
and catcher. She could throw the ball,
but me, mine never made it home.
Sunlight littered left field with large swipes,
ivy covered walls christened green and darker green,
the outfield a perfect place for a picnic and the infield
a diamond of sweet grass and art.
We were two of the lucky ones,
able to enter the park late afternoon
after the crowds were gone, the garbage picked up.
Near the shadow of wall in center field
she put down her blanket and large picnic basket
and we ate large dogs on homemade buns,
the mustard burning, drank too many cans of beer,
and when we were silent, heard the cheers.
Later we touched the great walls,
raced around the bases, played pitcher
and catcher. She could throw the ball,
but me, mine never made it home.
SLIDING INTO SECOND
The bases not loaded, but could be,
our best hitter coming to bat,
not fourth in the lineup I don’t know why
but seventh, and today two men on
and we can do this—the sun a lemon rind,
the clouds a willow wisp of breeze—
the perfect day for a perfect play
and now he swings, connects,
and I am off as soon as I hear the crack,
but the shortstop snags it,
his throw to first unerring,
and now the throw to second base
quick as light, but I feel quicker,
hear the ball smack his mitt,
the dust rise from his move to the base,
the sound of me slipping under his reach,
and then a billow of everything,
cheers and chaos, dirt and debris
and the umpire shouting way too loud:
You’rrre ooout! But it’s still a perfect day.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE GAME OF CATCH
—Michael H. Brownstein
Come.
Let us stand in the shadow of sunlight
under the emerald sea blue sky,
feel the breeze of the bat.
and play catch
you and I.
_____________________
Our thanks to Michael Brownstein for his odes to baseball season! I can hear the crack of the bat, see the green grass, smell the popcorn and those hot dogs…
Tonight the Sac. Poetry Center’s Weds. Night Writing Group meets on Zoom with Facilitator Laura Rosenthal, 6-7:30pm. Find out more about how to attend on their website: sacpoetrycenter.org/.
And this Saturday, July 24, 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance features Evan Myquest (Eve and Mike West) and Lelania Fowler at 1169 Perkins Way, Sac. Host: Tim Kahl. Please bring a mask if you are not vaccinated.
_____________________
—Medusa
The bases not loaded, but could be,
our best hitter coming to bat,
not fourth in the lineup I don’t know why
but seventh, and today two men on
and we can do this—the sun a lemon rind,
the clouds a willow wisp of breeze—
the perfect day for a perfect play
and now he swings, connects,
and I am off as soon as I hear the crack,
but the shortstop snags it,
his throw to first unerring,
and now the throw to second base
quick as light, but I feel quicker,
hear the ball smack his mitt,
the dust rise from his move to the base,
the sound of me slipping under his reach,
and then a billow of everything,
cheers and chaos, dirt and debris
and the umpire shouting way too loud:
You’rrre ooout! But it’s still a perfect day.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE GAME OF CATCH
—Michael H. Brownstein
Come.
Let us stand in the shadow of sunlight
under the emerald sea blue sky,
feel the breeze of the bat.
and play catch
you and I.
_____________________
Our thanks to Michael Brownstein for his odes to baseball season! I can hear the crack of the bat, see the green grass, smell the popcorn and those hot dogs…
Tonight the Sac. Poetry Center’s Weds. Night Writing Group meets on Zoom with Facilitator Laura Rosenthal, 6-7:30pm. Find out more about how to attend on their website: sacpoetrycenter.org/.
And this Saturday, July 24, 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance features Evan Myquest (Eve and Mike West) and Lelania Fowler at 1169 Perkins Way, Sac. Host: Tim Kahl. Please bring a mask if you are not vaccinated.
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
