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
the summer breeze blows the curtain
from the window pane.
He has become unaware of the snapping of the clothes
on the line from the hot dry Midwest breeze.
The distant trains breaking
the sounds as they clack through town.
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 of the baseball bat 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 homerun 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.
RIP April 2012