We have walked into
our beginnings as far as
we can go…
now the sea calls us each to our purpose,
all that is left is to climb…
©Christine McNeill summer 2004
(dedicated to Jonathan the most wonderful
Opening day, it’s now time to play the game found in cornfields and parks.
American way, a game that will stay, the home run you want before dark.
Hammering’ Hank, Mickey, the Yankee Clipper, Smokey Joe, and all the greats,
brings every little boy hopes and dreams as he enters for the first time their gates.
DiMaggio and Galvin echoes at the bat as America starts the baseball season’s fun.
Major Leagues, Minors, town teams and little leagues all strive for the famous home run.
A moment of summer in sweltering heat, the sun changes position at your back,
Let’s cheer our team and share a time of America with peanuts in a paper sack.
One, Two, Three Strikes “You’re Out”, they yell as another approaches the bat.
Root toot, toot for the home team, as the dust cloud forms at the mat…
copyrighted: 2001 CMM
He has become unaware of the snapping of the clothes
on the line from the hot Midwest breeze,
the distant trains breaking the sounds as they clack through towns.
He fingers his baseball glove, following his imagination,
of diamonds that glitter from home runs
and glistens from sunsets after loaded bases.
The smell of leather takes him to locker rooms,
sounds of cheers with
the snapping this time of baseball bats hitting the ball.
Symphony sounds that make up dreams
that feed the body and soul of the little boy
at his desk, freckled face; looking past.
Past the ‘Hopalong Cassidy’ lamp sitting on his desk,
past the plaid sheets spreading his bed,
past the books that pile in waiting for homework.
He imagines all sounds real with promises;
“What a home run that was!”
“What a pitcher I am!”
Swirling winds of dreams of a little boy
at his desk, in his room,
in the Midwest…dreaming baseball.
Copyrighted: 2001 CMM
(Dedicated to a friend who played in the Minor Leagues, wrote of baseball and ethics.
RIP 2012. Also, to my son who loved the game of baseball.
Closer and closer the earth worms wiggle in welcome,
bringing a hallow depth of wet disrupted places.
Spring’s garden now silent from the sun,
now further into the soil given way.
There are welcomes new beginnings
from the yellow petals
Copyrighted: 2009 CMM/ photo 2000 CMM
deep in reason, deep in thought.
No one to match his statistical mind
no one dead or alive, so far in time.
Mozart’s fingers crossed over the keys,
giving them melody and symphonies.
Practiced till his days were long
celebrated now in concert and song.
Freud who delved deep in the mind,
knew he had found the perplexed kind.
The id, Ego, and Super Ego distinct
put them together, the missing links.
Yet we look for original thought,
seeking harshly by scientist wrought.
Brilliant in their ways of thinking
only disappear among the sinking.
What is to say, what is smart,
if we only finish with what we start?
Or apply what is already known,
moving an inch from where its grown.
Time and space and Neanderthal man
has carried history from where it began.
Intelligent mind and the brain has grown,
yet still with intellect so little is known.