In the Game

Stop the ball.

Hands high, shoulders low

Eyes focused like a huntress.

She defends the court.

Shuffle and run; run and shuffle

Denial is her purpose.

Ball!

Hungry, a split second to swipe

She pounces on a lose ball.

Banging against her opponent

Bone slamming wood

Skin scorching the wax.

Dish it off.

Pass to the guard

Her knee is bruised,

Burning from the slide.

Sweat trickles at her temple.

Strands of hair dance as she moves.

Pop a pass.

Swing it right and cut.

Reverse the ball back around.

Weave through and set the pick.

Zap, the ball slams her hands

Drive the lane, quick and sure.

Delicate of the glass.

Step high and power up.

Soar above the hands.

She rolls her wrist with grace.

A gentle kiss in the square.

Her eyes shine then flicker.

Stop the ball…

Helmet to the Stone

Late October, on a cool Friday night,
the battle done for the season.
A young man in gridiron gear
stopped at a rock at the base of a flag
placed in memory of a dedicated coach
and put his helmet to the stone.

The polymer plastic gritted against
the great rock, and its chiseled words.
He held it there, his head down in
a private moment of silence.
Not far away, fans marched by seeing
him with his helmet to the stone.

The player, sweat soaked and muddy,
bloodied knuckles, hair plastered to his head,
stoically poised, a picture of youth,
of hard work and of love for the game,
reflected heart, pride and sadness
with his helmet to the stone.

Letters cut with steel deep into the rock
say a name and date of a man
who passed on a legacy of character
to all the players who took the field with him.
Late October, a player, a boy at heart, 
proudly, reverently, put his helmet to the stone.

(a verse for Duane)
Years later, early July, some hot days.
The battle fought, another hero gone.
He played for the love. He played hard
As an Oriole, Chippewa, Crusader, and Patriot.
His heart held community and family close.
“Five more minutes,” helmet to the stone.

Blue Eyes Looking Forward

Standing tall, chin firm, ready to go

Blue eyes, looking forward, bright and bold

Proud and playful, the smile does show

Standing tall, chin firm, ready to go

Free spirit, launching with wings aglow

Beauty and brains break the mold

Standing tall, chin firm, ready to go

Blue eyes, looking forward, bright and bold

A woman of strength is stepping forth

With dreams to achieve, the world to change.

Her heart beats firm with immeasurable worth

A woman of strength is stepping forth

To make an indelible mark upon the earth.

Stars and possibilities are within her range

A woman of strength is stepping forth

With dreams to achieve, the world to change.

This style of poetry with the repetition and rotation of lines is known as a pantoon.

A poem was requested by Alicia (center) and Liz (right) as their graduation gift. This is their poem, but it does include Rachel (left), who graduated a year earlier

Set It Up

SET

Commands coach

As the guard crosses mid-court,

Arm raised, two fingers out.

Two, he yells, running the offense.

Forward cuts to the high post.

Center drops down the paint.

The ball passes left,

Reverse, swing it round.

Shuffle, step, pick is set.

Turn, bounce pass…..

IT,

However, had started on day one

When coach called all to the base line,

Running passing drills, lay-ups,

Conditioning with sprints.

Then it became the go to play,

The bread and butter routine,

Going for the bucket.

Only here, it varies with

Three on the clock, down by one.

UP

Goes the ball,

From the fingertips with patience

To the hoop with urgency;

A title on the line.

A touch on the glass,

Held breath, roll on the rim,

A cheer from the crowd.

Completes the play that took a season.

A Teacher of Art

Today, he was sitting on the bench,

Sketch pad and pencil in hand.

The wind ruffled the paper

While clouds dimmed the world.

I have seen him about the town.

Sketching, drawing, painting

In bright summer dancing in color

And dismal winter of charcoal gray.

I sat next to him and glanced at his work.

His hands were sturdy, the fingers gentle.

“Wouldn’t it be easier in a studio?” I asked.

He adjusted his pad, hand flickered on.

Paints have to spill,” he said.

“Brushes have to hit, tickle, and wave;

Pencils cut, trace, kiss, and break;

And easels get knocked down.”

“Color must be grabbed, smelled,

Rubbed between fingers and tasted.

Form dances, skulks and caresses.

Light and shade play hide and seek.”

 He closed his pad and pocketed pencils.

“Yes, it would be easier in a studio.”

With crinkled eyes, he threw me a wink.

“But, then how fun would that be?”

This poem is a part of the Wordz collection.

We Play the Game

Our silk we wear has a sash
               of grass stains and dirt

from battles royal.

Bruises blossom dark and purple,
               mixing with last week’s yellow
               and green to make our bouquet.
We wear a crown, but it is nothing
               more  than headband or prewrap

jeweled with sweat.

Soft slippers? No.
               Bright laces don our cleats,
               Double knotted, tough.
Our regal presence on the field
               is a bruised jaw set firm,
               tasting grass and grit.
Heart and Determination
               burns in our eyes,
               a sigil to our oath.
We are pledged to teamwork,
               a sisterhood of Go!
               Crusading for victory.
Yes, we are girls,
               Beautiful and Bold,
               And we play the game.

The Toughest Job

Just a few days old, a precious little life.

The husband stands next to a tired wife.

Its time to rest, this she does know.

Carefully, with tears, she lets go.

Bright September morn, a boy kicks a stone.

Impatiently waiting,  he wants to stand alone.

Mom stands back, Dad says the bus will show.

She waves at his grin as she lets go.

Bands and books hype the late August.

Dad aches from luggage, his back will adjust.

Mom smiles bravely  but moves away slow

Her child to the ivy halls, she lets go.

The height of June, flashbulbs pop bright.

A man in black, and a woman in white.

A dad brings her down, passes her hand aglow.

The two moms look at their babies and let go.

Dads smile and nod and make a joke or two.

Although similar, he has a different job to do.

Done with grace, though it hurts her so

A loving mother’s toughest job, is letting go.