Peanuts & Cracker Jack

Paul caught a fly ball.
He caught it by a mountain stream.
He assumed is was a foul ball.

He looked around
but no baseball field was in sight.
No ball court or other athletic facility was in sight either.

Paul pocketed the ball
since there were no visible ballplayers
to throw the ball back to.

For a moment he thought
he might be a character in a Kinsella baseball story
but this was New Mexico not Iowa.

He thought God might being playing catch with him.
Or the disembodied voice from Field of Dreams.
To have a catch, he corrected himself.

Paul took the ball out of his pocket
and tossed it as high as he could.
The ball did not reach the low clouds.

It did return to earth a few feet away.
Paul stumbled on a rock
trying to catch it again.

He fell and bumped his head on a different rock
which refused to take responsibility
for Paul’s hearing Take Me Out To The Ball Game.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Holiday Lights Still Strung Across the Living Room

Paul kept so much about himself
that was lovable hidden
in odd places about the house
the chicken coop
and stables.

Sometimes the neighbor kids
hunted for those aspects
like Easter Eggs
but never found them
because sitting by themselves
those qualities
had no substance.

One should not
hold against him
that he chose to hide those qualities
thus appearing broken
to the eye that looked
only skin deep.

It is his life and he gave up
grand stand seats
at major league baseball games
to live here—
let alone feeling
the turnstile and all the hands
that pressed the bar
before his.

It was spring with daffodils in bloom
when I found shoveling heavy snow
for his older neighbors

placed in the bottom
of an empty cookie jar
up in the attic
when what I sought
was a souvenir baseball
with Cal Ripken’s signature on it.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


Paul does not like poetry.
Paul does not like other people’s poetry.
Paul does not like some people’s poetry.
Paul does not like incoherent rambling poems.
Paul does not like thinly stretched rhyming poems.
Paul does not like overly green nature poems with yarrow.
Paul does not like putting green poems.
Paul does not like new mother changing soiled diapers poems.

Paul does not like apple pie poems
unless the poet provides slices of apple pie to all attendants.

Paul does not like Spanish grandmother
making tortillas by hand poems.

Paul liked those poem categories the first twenty times
he heard them, but has grown weary of them
over the poetry slam seasons.

Paul likes hot meals better than poems about hot meals.
Paul likes sex better than poems about sex.
Paul likes walking in nature better than hearing nature poems.
Paul likes playing baseball better than hearing
Mighty Casey at the Bat or Tinkers to Evers to Chance.

Paul supports his independent book shop
by purchasing copious amounts of small press
and university press poetry books.

Paul reads each poetry book once
then places them in a sidewalk poetry edition little library box.

Paul keeps one out of every one hundred
poetry books he purchases to collect dust on a bookshelf.

Paul has become his own get off my lawn poem
when it comes to poetry.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Vine Ripened

Paul takes
an evening walk.
Albertsons offered them
as free samples
in aisle seven
by the frozen foods.

He wishes
orange wedges
like after
Little League
baseball games
when he
was young.

Or if the produce
had free samples
of fresh love
on a stainless
steel tray
by toothpicks
by a girl
from marketing
who wore
a dangerous

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Sunday Night Baseball

Paul arrived with a garden sized trash bag
full of dirty clothes, an orange peel
and the start of a story he got lost in
somewhere toward the middle
where the hero seemed like a pudgy kid
with hairy feet and a stolen ring.

The clothes were not his clothes.
He found them along the road
and on the sidewalks on his way over.
Serendipity caused him to bring along
the garden sized trash bag in his left hip pocket.

The orange peel was actually two half orange peels
he picked up in our yard
unaware that we cut up one orange a week
and put it out for the song birds
on the belief or mistaken belief
it makes their songs sweeter.

The middle of the story is set in Middle-earth.
Which is something of a translation of the Norse
word Miðgarðr for this earth.
The one we live on now
with its pandemic and catastrophic hurricanes
and rise of authoritarian rhetoric
by people massively uncomfortable with change.
Like climate change.

So the pudgy kid is actually a hobbit.
A creation by J. R. R. Tolkien.
In this case Frodo.
As is the story and the ring.
But the moral is pertinent to our earth.
The evil of the world is defeated
when the common man decides
to take up the burden of setting things right.

Paul washes the clothes from the garden sized trash bag
so we can drop them off at Goodwill
or another five-o-one-c-three resale shop with agency.
Dianne invites him to stay over for supper
since it is easy to add another bratwurst to the grill
and there is enough sauerkraut and potato salad
to go around.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Ninety MPH

Two boys line up against each other.
One on the pitcher’s mound.
The other in the batter’s box.

Sixty feet six inches
takes point four seconds from the release
of the ball from the pitcher’s hand

to reflect light waves to the batter’s eye
as it rises high and tight
heading for his chin.

It is a message sent about territorial possession
and who really owns the batter’s box
and its chalk lines.

The batter has point two five seconds
to process the ball in flight
and decide whether to swing

let the ball pass into the catcher’s mitt
or get his face out of the way
of the spinning white sphere with red seams.

If the batter is in the slightest way distracted
his motor flight response jerks his limbs
a little too late

and the ball imprints its seams
on his cheek or jaw
or (if he is lucky) his helmet

and the crowd’s collective breath holds
an astonished note as dust rises and settles
to see if the batter does the same.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


I looked for Paul under the nautilus shell.
It was one of his favorite hiding places
when he felt the gods were upset with him.

My second thought was the bar
where the cocktail waitresses dressed like angels
with the false promise of falling.

That failing I tried the bushes
where the white-crowed sparrows liked to gather
and discuss bird feeder banquets.

Then I remembered it was Saturday afternoon
and a baseball game played out in the park
with bleachers brimming with uproarious little league parents.

There he was quietly stealing signs
but keeping the information to himself
instead of giving one side or the other advantage.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


I was six when I was taught
to wash my hands with soap and water.

That was the age I was tall enough
to reach the sink and the bar of soap.

I learned to fill the air with reciting
one of several poems from Now We Are Six

that took at least twenty seconds
to scrub my hands long enough.

I did the math to calculate
that boys three times older than myself

fought the Vietnam War
and died in the jungles and on the hillsides.

In the TV news reels I saw
only a few of the soldiers had clean hands.

This began my daily protests.
Not about the Vietnam war.

But about washing my hands before supper
after playing baseball all afternoon.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Bush League

Lisa walked over to the park across the street,
carried a can in one hand and a brush in the other
and a hand cloth in her left hip pocket.

She painted a big red X on the grass about half way
from the shortstop position and the bare spot
where the left fielder would stand.

Lisa left a note stating: My prophetic dream
marks this spot to be where a meteor
will strike in a fiery blaze of heavenly glory

Even with the outfielders and infielders avoiding
the big red X with the superstitious fastidiousness
of a player on a forty-nine game hitting streak,

William, Lisa’s bloop-hitting nephew, increased
his batting average by only four points
during the two weeks it took the grass to grow

tall enough for the park services lawn mower
to clip away all the foreboding.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


I divorce my brain fog.
I divorce my tear smeared history.

My North Sea storm tossed vessel.
My sandy longing seeking the far shore.

I divorce my random disappearances.
My Civil War battlefield archeology.

I divorce my overindulgences
in dark chocolate and baseball.

I divorce my passive-aggressive taunts.
My afternoon sports talk television.

I divorce my willful ignorance.
My voiceless suffering.

I divorce my penchant for wishbones
long shots and Hail Marys.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney