Diamond Aesthete

I used to write some poetry several years ago. I am working on some these days. This poem, called “Diamond Aesthete” I wrote about 20 years ago, and it is one of the few I’ve done that rhymes and has somewhat of a regular meter. I want to share this here…

Ah morn, chases sun across the band.

Reminds me of the old man with the radio in his hand.

Most of his neighbors thought yes, the codger’s eccentric. But they did not have

the game’s blueprint inscribed on their bones; baseball’s pull–invoking

spiritual alignment–was heliocentric.

 

The pasttime had long been the center of his life.

The Johnsons would crow that he never took a wife.

Oh, the mysterious sounds that emanated from his garage–

it was a blaring speaker–news of the senior circuit–which

helped him prioritize his tasks, like triage.

Comb the hair, grab the beer, and park the butt.

This part of the house became a sacred hut.

 

Noxious car fumes addled the man’s brain for years. Sometimes

the beauty was transmitted so clearly it brought tears.

The tales of faraway clashes under a quiet sky

proved to the man that not all marched on, someone held

reverence for this theater, by and by.

 

When a contest ended he would scan the dial to find a pre-game chat,

and, as the starting pitchers were discussed, he would purposefully pick up a bat.

The thinness of the handle, and the grain of the finish, were tactile pleasures,

his soul to replenish.

 

He kept a new glove wedged under the wheel of a lawnmower. He could still pitch;

he was more than just a thrower.

He bought a new rag at the start of each season.

To keep the old around he saw no reason.

The children knew to look by the mailbox in spring,

a ball and stick was all they’d need to bring.

 

The old man was the Johnny Appleseed of our nation’s greatest offering…

To create fans of the game, that was the thing.

He would regale the kids with strategies and tactics

they should apply, while descriptions of rhubarbs

over that infernal radio would fly.

 

Then old Pally would play catch with himself under the sun,

he’d fling the ball high, he really had a gun.

Pally was 86-years-old now–he would soon have to return to

that garage, his shrine…

where he kept the beer cold,

the view of the park was unobstructed,

and the first pitch of the Cards-Dodgers game crackled over the line.

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