Light Verse Poetry

Passing the Time:
Baseball through the years.

Inspired by the late Ogden Nash, I write light verse poetry. Here is a sample focusing on America's Pastime, baseball. Artwork by Jazz De La Cuesta.

A’s eternally April.
The month all nines share hope.
When cloudy postseason dreams
Are afforded much rope.

B’s bunting beautifully.
Simply laying one down.
Catch third-sacker unawares
And he’ll look like a clown.

C is front-facing catcher.
The man in piebald mask.
To receive a full nine frames
‘Tis no simpleton’s task.

D is determined daring.
Boldly stealing a base.
Poach like Rickey and Tyrus.
Run, like hell, for first place.

E is egregious error.
The dread old-fashioned boot.
To ink a Gold Glove for short?
You’d best pony some loot.

F is for flaming fastball.
On the black, at the knees.
Could you just hang me a curve?
Oh just hang me one, please!

G is for gashing gapper.
Splitting outfield with ease.
Often crushed off a heater
Slugger sitting dead cheese.

H is for ballpark hot dog.
Grand victual of the game.
Oh, it also means showboat.
Reggie J’s middle name.

I’s inching-along inning.
Both the bottom and top.
In a sport without timepiece
At three outs shall we stop.

J is Jackie Robinson.
And a shout to Branch, too.
The unabashed pioneers?
There remain but a few.

K’s bobbing, weaving knuckler.
Fickle pitch without plan.
All suppose they can hit it.
In truth, very few can.

L’s Latin America.
Spanish, too, loves this sport.
Julio Cesar Franco
Proved a lasting import.

M is for muscled mashing.
You know? Hitting it out?
Beyond outstretched defenders
Leaving nary a doubt.

N is for numbing numbers.
Egghead fans love their stats!
Those advanced sabermetrics?
Not just hits per at-bats.

O is for each October
When fierce juggernauts meet.
For fun at the old ballpark
Fall Classics can’t be beat!

P is for the prized prospect.
So wet behind the ears.
Unused to colossal crowds
He gloats in raucous cheers.

Q’s quintessentially quick.
As in snap-throw-to-first.
Picked off napping? Or leaning?
A million fans just cursed.

R, as ever, is for Ruth.
And just what’s in his name?
Were it not for grand Sultan
Would we still love this game?

S is skippering lineups.
A real tough job to hack.
And no man did it longer
Than the great Connie Mack.

T’s for timely twin-killing.
The pitcher’s choicest friend.
‘Tis his damning, induced way
For your rally to end.

U is unctuous umpire.
Austere man of the rules.
Treat astute blue with kid gloves
For he suffers no fools.

V’s—verily—victory.
So let’s go win five score!
But why say they we’ll squander
At least, oh, fifty-four?

W is cold winter.
That cruel, numbing Ice Age.
Ah but how spring doth thaw us!
And we turn frozen page.

X marks diagrammed diamond
Where we first heard sweet call:
For still few words sound better
Than a simple play ball!

Y’s yesteryear’s long-yearned youth
And games long since gone nine.
Although fame may be fleeting
My memory’s just fine.

And Z zigzags us to zapped:
Season’s done. No more play.
But there is always next year.
Always Opening Day!

©January 2013 ~ A.P. Harreld