Randy Johnson Sings Baseball Rhapsody

 

Is this ball field life?  Is this Iowa?

Caught in a downdraft, no escape from Tucson, Arizona.

Open your eyes, bird, look to the pitcher and see—

I’m not a slow boy, slinging this four-seam.

 

Because it’s 102, the radar shows,

little high, little low.

Any way the wind blows,

doesn’t really matter to me, to me.

 

Mama, just killed a bird.

Put a fastball to his trunk, threw my heater

now he’s sunk.

Mama, flight had just begun,

but now he’s gone; I’ve blown him all away.

 

Mama, never meant to make the fans spill their Cokes.

If I don’t start next game, it’s only spring training.

Carry on, carry on.  Since this game doesn’t really matter.

 

Too sad, that bird’s time had come.

Sends shivers down my spine, not sure I’ll

make it the full nine.

Goodbye, everybody, I’ve got to go mourn that dove.

Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth.

I won’t lie.

I wish that pitch had taken down Babe Ruth.

 

Scaramouche, do the Fandango,

strike one-two-three, fist pumping

Galileo Figaro, would have been magnifico!

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Day 17

For Shay’s Word Garden

On March 24, 2001, one of baseball’s greatest pitchers, Randy Johnson, accidentally struck and killed a bird (a mourning dove) when it darted in front of his fastball during a spring training game in Tucson, AZ.  The speed of the pitch was not recorded but was estimated to be around 100 mph.  His fastest pitch on record was clocked at 102mph.

No birds were harmed in the making of this spin-on-Bohemian-Rhapsody poem, of course.

 

Green Apple Tattoo

 

Mom and Dad harvested the green apples

and then took down the tangled trees—

the apricot trees, too,

as they were dying.

 

But the lilacs still bloomed prettily

across the fence line

in our backyard

May to June.

 

In summer, Dad made a target

behind the garage

for me to work on my softball aim.

He always said I had

a good arm after that.

 

At Christmas, Luke gave me

a lilac blossom candle

(even his name means light-giving),

and baseball’s Spring Training is soon to start

here in the desert.

 

All this to say, if tattoos

came in scents, I’d get some.

Green apple, lilac,

old leather softball glove.

 

Little gifts lingering long upon my skin—

bright sparks of memory,

lit candles, shining always,

even in my dark.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Crackerjacks

 

At the mutant hospital

we grilled burgers and dogs

and listened to baseball on the radio.

 

What else could ease our rehabbing hearts?

 

Jimmy insisted on using bamboo chopsticks—

don’t ask me how he does it, but he does.

I nodded, but ate mine from the pocket of my glove.

 

Both of us sighed

knowing the Babe would be proud—

a hot dog between each finger

and a cigar after, or during,

as our preference allowed.

 

The nurse came to tell us to,

“put those OUT!”

 

But “OUT” means something different

when you’re on defense,

so, we just grinned victoriously

at her ever-increasing scowls.

 

From there in the yard,

we dreamed of donning our disguises

and escaping to our own field of dreams.

 

Me, in my beret,

trying to avoid people’s eyes

spinning like pinwheels

and glazing over

when I tell them I write poetry

(don’t look at me like that,

people have been writing it

since the dawn of time).

 

And Jimmy, dressed up

like a Spanish conquistador,

or a brightly colored piñata,

to avoid the inevitable comment

that he’s “too smart for his own good,”

which means he’s too smart for theirs.

 

But that’s why we’ve teamed up—

our gifts being misunderstood.

We know “mutant”

is another name for a special kind of

talent, a genius, a crackerjack.

 

And if you get it,

buy me some—

I don’t care if I never get back.

  

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

  

For Shay’s Word Garden Word List—Shakespeare Bats Cleanup

I used 11 of the given words.

 

Calling the Game

Like Pudge.

Like Bench.

Like Yogi.

Opening Day

on the glistening green

shimmering

diamond,

with dirt under his nails

he scoops

the ball

from his mitt,

tosses back to the ace,

crouches,

gives signal,

waits

for the curve

of his smile,

and spits

o - u - t.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Opening Day 2016. Go M's!
photo © 2016 Jennifer Wagner

A Quadrille poem for dVerse. Exactly 44 words (title excluded), including the word “shimmer” (or variant as I've used here).

Dear April

image © 2015 Jennifer Wagner,

photo of my home calendar

You don't fool me. Though

you start off that way.

Yes, you slosh rain

from infinity buckets,

but you smile

just the same

from the ground up--

jelly bean tulips and buttery daffodils

springing round

like long-lost jewels.

And even though it's time

for the bogey-tax-man,

you balance him

with a month of poetry

and the crack

of a bat and Big League Chew

(Original, Grape, Sour Apple, and Watermelon!).

So, you're not really fooling me, April,

as much as you think you are.

T.S. Eliot said you are

“the cruelest month,” but

at least more often than in March,

there is guaranteed

one Good Friday

and a Resurrection reminder

(coming back from the dead

really can't be beat).

Plus, your flower is the daisy (my favorite)

or the sweet pea,

which always reminds me

of the song my dad would sing,

“Oh, Sweet Pea, come on and dance with me . . .”

riding along with him in his truck--

after which he'd switch it off

to bellow into the CB,

“breaker 1-9, this is Gladiator.”

No one's dad is as

cool and tough as a Gladiator, right?

So,

you don't fool me, April.

I think you kind of like me.

P.S. I kind of like you, too.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics: Let's Write Letters

And, Happy National Poetry month!