by Rick Young | Mar 23, 2014 | Poem
Jim Lemon was a Senator who never was elected.
He played with great Roy Sievers. Though they lost, they were respected.
George "Boomer" Scott played smooth first sack and smothered many rallies.
He killed Rick Wise and, for his size, had power to the alleys.
Lee May hit fastballs a long way, with curves was not so keen.
He bounced around from team to team, was short term Red Machine.
Bo Diaz bent behind home plate was best described as able.
He died while trying to fix his dish, a perfect ad for cable.
by Rick Young | Mar 22, 2014 | Poem
Ramon Martinez always said brother Pedro was better.
He was no slouch himself, had twenty wins and a no-hitter.
Glenallen Hill played outfield flies as if they all were sliders.
He may have used some steroids and was quite afraid of spiders.
Dick Ellsworth once won twenty-two games and played for five teams.
His baseball card in sixty-six showed dead Ken Hubbs, it seems.
Cory Lidle was a righty with a rep as brash.
Got traded to the Yankees and died in a freak plane crash.
by Rick Young | Mar 14, 2014 | Poem
Victory lane has gone insane.
We’ve sold off our gold for spare parts
(and broken ecologists’ hearts).
The losers are spilling champagne.
The world is awhirl with false starts
(and watching the crash simply smarts).
by Rick Young | Mar 10, 2014 | Poem
All file cabinets look the same
to one in the shoveling game.
I was yanked off the mainland,
fitted with a tight armband,
told to alphabeticize
words I didn’t recognize.
If I worked for just an hour,
I could take an ice cold shower.
Then, they said, if I worked two,
they would let me sniff some glue.
Random order seemed to reign.
Boss wore masks and looked insane.
Papers filled up several rooms.
I was really zonked on fumes.
Next I knew a fire started.
In the smokescreen, I departed.
Found a boat and rowed to shore.
I don’t wanna file no more.
by Rick Young | Mar 3, 2014 | Poem
Big die. Small die.
Paper playing field.
No balls.
Sharpened pencils plot
solid strategy.
Behold the charts!
Numerical gods.
The roll and click
of recognition.
Snake eyes and
boxcars rule.
Another imaginary
victory
in the dream season.
