When I was young, my family and I would frequently travel to St. Louis to visit our Grandma and cousins. My grandmother would make it a point to take us to a Cardinal game each time we were in town, and I was always so excited about going. She was such a loyal fan, and I couldn't have been any happier than to be at those games. --Brian

 

The Ballpark

Brian Frisch

 

 The bat cracks, as clean as the break

of a ripe limb from a douglas fir.

Under the lights, the arc of the ball in flight

decorates the night sky.

 

Shamrock green grass, freshly cut,

leaving lines as sharp as a checkerboard.

This is a lawn. Precise. It stands

as erect and proud as a four-star general saluting

his heroic men and women with a tear in his eye.

 

The stadium itself, attractive

as a one-hundred-year-old Cathedral in a city where the white money is

going...going...gone.

For these majestic parks are not limited to just baseball.

 

Grandmothers are happy here.

They become newborn children who never left their crafted rooms.

Here they can see the most perfectly painted

clear blue ceiling.

 

Oh, what's the score you say?

Ask grandma, she'll probably know.

But baseball is the last thing on my mind.

 


This is the first poem added to my web site that was submitted by a visitor to the site. That is very cool. Thanks, Brian, for sharing your work. ---Steve