Spring Training

I was writing this last April, taking part in a hard fight with many avid bards (and an all-star grading). As it’s March again, I bring it back. Happy Spring!:)

All limbs in whirls that lash, craving maintaining.
A small rain falling in an arid land, draining
What was a farm. This day it’s scalding, blazing.
This fall, I cry, will flash with wins amazing.
In a mad wind, kids flip backwards and wind
Till arms display what avid fans will find.
I pass as a baby, rattling silly stats
That sat amid this mix; minds, balls and bats.

I’ll sit in any chair, skip that which is shaming
Past failings, past draws. It saps will, blaming
What was. In this dry warmth; again I’ll start
Planning against panic, playing any part.
Till that day wins banish a final wraith:
I am a fanatic, invisibility sparks faith.

Slide, Utley, Slide!

This blog has been dormant for some time, despite the amazing baseball that’s been going on this year, and my life has been changing a lot since then too. The blog may well go back to being dormant, I don’t know.

However, after the NLDS Game 2, John Thorn put out the call for song parodies of this 1880’s classic, and John Thorn doesn’t have to ask twice.

I played a game of baseball down at old Chavez Ravine
The crowd was intermittent, and the heat was fierce and keen
A nobler lot of people there might have chanced to play
But you would never hear that said from teammates in LA.
The game was quickly started while I sat on the bench
Waiting for Mattingly to call upon a would-be mensch.
Hernandez drew a walk and then it was my turn to bat,
Eked out a quiet single and there was no need to spat.

Slide, Utley, slide; the fray will never end
Slide, Utley, slide; your havoc they’ll suspend
If your blows are just too crushing, and you aren’t duly blushing
They won’t take you to Flushing; slide, Utley, slide!

Twas in the seventh inning they called me in, you’ll find
But once I got to first, moving along was on my mind.
But something was the matter, sure I couldn’t see the ball
But my slide into the base broke down Tejada’s leg and all
I was running down the baseline, I figured that he tripped
For when I tumbled into him, he got severely flipped.
‘Twas a most unpleasant feeling, though at first they called me out;
We both were ratlled, and that’s when the fans began to shout;

They overturned the play so to the base I got to go
The way they took Tejada out, it must have been a show.
On Gonzalez then depended the victory or defeat,
And he came through to show the world that we would not be beat.
Five to two was the score of the game when we got done,
But when I got suspended I thought that was much less fun.
The news got home ahead of me, they said I couldn’t play;
The fans told me that I should sue, and then began to say…

World Cup Found Poetry: “Ribbon” (Germany/Argentina)

Like tigers, and they win
to enjoy the sunshine
with a ribbon tied around
the Redeemer statue:
a troublemaker-in-chief.
Don’t wear any, of course.
Wednesday o’clock;
that rat-tail hair style.
That looks like gold dust,
a lot of tears.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Key” (Netherlands/Argentina)

Daylight is saying its final goodbye.
A kickboxing expert
in the vocal ascendancy.
may just be the tears of a heartbroken
grinding intensity,
because there’s blood on that
golden key.
The reason for the flood:
bluff and double-bluff.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Yellow” (Brazil/Germany)

The movie Monsters
both wore yellow,
haunted by what happened
(whatever you want to say)
the day they took the Tube.
The frustration isn’t
a morbid fascination;
otherwise there’s no space.
You and I are pinching
cause I’m running out of words.
This towel was,
struggling with illness,
a place to hide his face.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Property” (Netherlands/Costa Rica)

The honest guy card
still makes him feel young.
There’s no hotter property than
its volcanoes.
Continuing to explore
a titanic struggle.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Creaking” (Belgium/USA)

How famous a movie
slightly creaking
with cold feet.
Trouble now, it’s Hazard.
On his chest, that’s a new one on me.
The sometime-saxophonist
can plot a route
on an island.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Kiss” (Argentina/Switzerland)

The kiss of what? The kiss of life!
Dancing from him,
the tightly-stitched
big boy pants.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Accordion” (France/Nigeria)

Pedaling furiously:
telegraph his intentions
to hit the high notes.
An accordion factory
to face the music.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Diet” (Costa Rica/Greece)

Like a hot potato
that gets passed down from generation to generation.
To have a cigarette;
have they got that spark?
Baying for blood
off the canvas,
battered into submission
on a diet of scraps.
Missing that little bit of imagination.


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