If baseball is like poetry
And, most days I think it is,
I’d have to think a minute about
What each poem truly is …
The Alternate Rhyme — The “ABAB” Scheme
The Yankees give poems of Odes Epic;
A Murderers Row meaning great and not gruesome.
The Twins poems? There’s no need to nitpick,
They write Couplets – because they are two-some.
Write, Write, Write
Poetry, Poetry. Baseball, Baseball.
Play, Play, Play
Two Haiku. For You.
The Orange and Black Rebuilding.
Win Again Some Day.
* * *
The House that Ruth built.
That stadium was torn down.
No corporate suites.
Miss Adelaide Crapsey
Isn’t Crapsey a funny word?
It’s Chaucer’s poem,
Rhyme Royal, pure and pretty.
It’s the Royals home,
KC’s the city.
Though it’s a pity,
At twenty-some back,
Hard to get back on track.
Bullpen Pitchers, my heart goes pitter pat,
Smooshed, hip to hip, on your outfield bench.
Awaiting your chance to face an at-bat;
Don’t let Mookie Betts homer o’er that fence.
Fastballs and sliders and sinkers and curves;
Spaghetti legs, long hair, unruly beard.
Loading the bases, you’ve frazzled my nerves;
Wild pitch, blown save, it’s just what I feared.
You’re all kind of oddball, goofy, and sly;
You prank, give hot foots, tell off-color jokes.
You shake off the catcher, rear back, let fly;
Walking and balking, you give your fans strokes.
We’re now to the twelfth, the game is still tied;
No matter what happens, I know you tried.
There are no Big League boys from Nantucket;
No hurlers, no fielders who pluck it.
The closest we’ve seen
For this rhyming scheme
Are those Red Sox who play in Pawtucket.
Free verse has no rules.
This is free verse
And, nothing rhymes.
The Orioles won Friday, 13 to 0.
Saturday they won again, 13 to 0.
They are the only team
In the Big Leagues
To ever win two shut outs
In a row
And score 13 or more
In each game.
This season is bad.
But, we’ll always have that.
(I never said I was a poet.)