SPRING TRAINING
Robin, ready for the game,
Struts among the puddles,
Sporting black masked face
And red chest protector.
Jonquil, in uniform of green,
Does pushups through the grass
And huddles on the field
With members of the team;
They raise their golden bats,
Swinging as they all
Heed March’s airy call.
Bluebells on the verge,
Cheering to be heard,
Dance before the sun --
Spring Training has begun.
Art by Tania Radda, Artist
"Spring Training" 2006
The following poem is something I posted last summer. If you've already read it, please don't feel obligated to comment. This is my train ticket for the TFE's Poetry Bus:
DANCING TO THE CLACK
Take a bit of creosote,
soak a wooden tie,
press it on a gravel bed
and spike it in the ground.
Do this and do this
‘til all you can see
as far as you look
looks like piano keys,
moving to a pencil point
far down the line.
Now you are ready to
lay a penny down,
or even better yet,
to dance to the sound --
heel first, toe next,
heel now again --
arms spread out,
ready to fly
west to
where you can see forever,
not just around the bend,
where the sun comes up
right out of the land,
where the sun goes down
in the field behind,
where you can hear the whistle
long before you see,
long before you think it’s time
to think of heading back,
long before you run along,
pacing with the clack,
arms pumping
knees rising
cheeks blowing
chuff chuffing,
long before you hook your arm
on that rusty rail,
long before you swing on up,
grinning from the feel
of the run and the journey
and the warm metal bar
crooked in your arm
as you watch from the car
the smooth, flat land that
rolls beneath the wheels.
Just a bit of creosote,
soaked into a tie
pressed on a gravel bed,
spiked into the ground,
just one penny flat,
or even better yet,
just one kid dreaming
of dancing to the clack.
