2014 #166

home plate wipeout,
ump’s dusty arms
bless that ground and the ants
burst and swarm the mound
where flails helpless onlooker
and these days the juices

are nothing but blood,
tobacco they outlawed
around the time muddy
fall fields were turned into rugs
so mower motors
might reduce fuel

prints which no true
person really spends many
a night awake over;
better to dream…
foliage, maples
going golden,

oaks begging crows
to come and sit
a bit, a hickory
welcomes the usual jittery
critter who has no
time for a crumpet


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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