jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the category “Baseball”

22 Apr 2018

no time for baseball


it’s the bottom of the ninth
and nobody’s keeping score
and though the lights are on
the stadium is nearly empty

in the comfort of my own home
I can’t reach the game on am radio
instead switch to fm and listen to
jimi hendrix covering bob dylan

early morning news feed arrives
bold headlines scream no-hitter
followed by abbreviated stories
regurgitating tales of mass destruction

weatherman breaks in unannounced
low lying fog chemically unbalanced
possibly canceling the school day
if not the entire baseball season




april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry, War Poems and tagged , , , | Leave a comment
04 Oct 2017
2 Comments

crickets singing in the basement


playoff game streaming inside
television set connected to the internet
sound muted in favor of tom petty’s
sirius xm radio channel 31

crickets in the basement seem to be
keeping time with each selection
undoubtedly unaware of the
natural order of things

how they made their way into the house
I have a pretty good idea
and as the game moves into later innings
I begin to wonder how they’ll
ever find their way back home



october two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry and tagged , , , ,
29 Sep 2017

the wisdom that is Bob


I heard they were selling tickets to Mars
down at the corner of Oak and Divisadero
but by the time I got wind of what was
going down it was too late
the little bastards were all sold out

soon thereafter I was relating my
disappointment to Bob over a few beers
and a few shots down at The Page

meanwhile on the big screen Giants
score ten plus runs in the fourth
off the Met’s lefty starter
the scattered-brained afternoon crowd
going just a little bit too ballistic

you know old boy
(Bob goes on to say)
there are no tickets to Mars
it’s just some punk rock concert

yes I say in between swigs
whatever you say Bob



september two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Aliens, Baseball, Poetry and tagged , , | Leave a comment
27 Sep 2017
5 Comments

trying to be less informed


everybody’s keeping score
whether it be with chips or dowels
bowling pins or price of gasoline
pegged to some financial instrument

man made natural disasters
don’t go down by happenstance
official recordkeeper bullied & bloodied
quarantined for centuries
rats and cockroaches running amok
inside and out and multiplying

everyone knows how it all ends
so what’s the point in keeping score
especially when there’s a perfectly good
baseball game streaming live
just about anywhere you can order a beer



september two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry and tagged , ,
21 Sep 2017

radio free america


play-by-play deejay
dominating the airwaves
feets stomping and voices shouting
ordinary citizens rejoicing in city square

they pipe in radio from the clouds
or so the children are told
it’s absolutely magic they cry
dancing the night away

far away high-stepping drum majors
lead troops out of war zones
prisoners bound and singing
bringing up the rear

meanwhile baseball diamond
becomes makeshift refugee camp
address announcer recounting
nineteen sixty-seven world series



september two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, In the City, Poetry, War Poems and tagged , , | Leave a comment
28 Apr 2017
11 Comments

working through the off-season


she stitched and sewed all winter long
meticulously
almost feverishly
covering cork and rubber and yarn with
whatever kind of hide she could find
having promised her boys of summer
the only way they would not play ball
would be due to the most severe
inclement weather



april two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Micropoetry, Poetry and tagged , ,
01 Aug 2015
4 Comments

Revolutionary béisbol


They put Castro on waivers and
brought up his little nephew
to replace him
but only trouble is
neither could manage
to hit their weight

Last time the southsiders came
to town they filled the seats
and then some
even the Hilton across the street
was brimming with Americans in
balconies drinking Bucaneros
and smoking Cubans

But back home things were different
for this makeshift
patched together band of brothers
and if they have visions
of putting together a postseason run
it’ll never happen without
reigniting their fan base
desperate for a full-blown
revolutionary assault
including nickel hot dogs
and peso beer nights



august two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry and tagged , , ,
18 May 2015

it rarely rains at the coliseum


it was getaway day at the coliseum
and dogs and soda and suds were
all half-price

there were lots of suits commingled
among many of the more casually enthusiastic fans
and even the public address announcer wondered
if any of the banks were open for business

some early inning runs quickly increased
concession sales

late comers rushed to the beer tent
before finding their seats

the rookie southpaw had a no-hitter
going into the fifth
and the place was all abuzz
like it hadn’t been in years

the afternoon matinée couldn’t have been
more perfect
until the roar of the crowd
called forth the god of rain delays
who just wouldn’t go away

and gradually (but with a fight)
the stadium lost all its life
as if nothing had ever happened



may two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry and tagged , , , | Leave a comment
13 Oct 2014
13 Comments

good riddance to october rain


I don’t remember autumn being this wet
she said

I blinked my eyes and looked outside
thinking to myself what an
absurd thing to say

it’s not that wet I said it’s just an illusion

it’s wet enough they canceled tonight’s
baseball game she said

real men play in the rain I said

you’re an idiot she said and walked away

I raised my glass and made a silent toast
to rid the world of absurdity
and rainy october nights



october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Nature, Poetry and tagged , , , , , ,
29 Sep 2014
2 Comments

waiting on deck


september’s death
rests inside a fielder’s glove
her final breaths elongated
lilting and fading
elegantly purposeful

she would not be happy
knowing what follows next
her boys of summer in full costume
exhaling the uncertain air and
parading out past twilight
clumsily swatting bats




september two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry and tagged , , , , , ,
15 Jun 2014
4 Comments

triple-header


out in the field we wielded sickles
carving weeds into baselines
and summer into baseball

when word got out about the
neighborhood transformation
prospects from near and far arrived by
foot and on bike with gloves and caps
and bubble gum and bats

curious seekers trickled in
spectating the self-governed exhibitions
sitting on lawn chairs and blankets
munching popcorn and cracker jack
and sipping five cent lemonade

as the winning run crossed the plate
dinner bells could be heard
echoing through the streets
a signal of sorts to choose two new teams
followed by the first pitch to the third
and final game


june two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry and tagged , , , ,
06 May 2014
2 Comments

bottom of the ninth


at the sound of the bat
feet flee from first base to second
body suddenly veering toward the outfield
as the infielder kicks the ball
quickly picks it up and stretches and lunges
trying to tag the third out

untouched
the runner stumbles onto the bag
looks up at the tying run
crossing home plate

but wait
the second base umpire is making a ruckus
his hands waving
madly in the air
arms sweeping in circular fashion

now standing
the runner on second hangs his head
knowing the game is over
called out for running
out of the baseline

players and coaches run wildly
to and fro
either screaming ecstatically
or in angry disbelief
some thirty thousand fans
casting lots for the umpire’s head
their perfect day ruined by human conjecture


may two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Posted in Baseball, Poetry and tagged , , , , , ,

Post Navigation

← Older Entries
%d bloggers like this: