SPITBALL MASTER HAIKU

Homage to Gaylord Perry, 1938-2022

CooperTunes

by Earl J. Wilcox

Stiches seams       grip tight
Gaylord’s secret sauce   in flight
Cy Young       Saliva 

 
Earl Wilcox writes from South Carolina, up the road from where Gaylord Perry spent his  last years teaching his grandsons the fine arts of pitching.

ALBERT & AARON: CIRCLE OF LIFE

by Earl J. Wilcox

Albert—Dominican Babe, hitter of 700 plus

round trippers, Ruth-catcher, Redbird with

a tilted Halo, grace under pressure, base-

circler supreme. Forever in our hearts. Adios.

 

Aaron—sweet, swatter, young Yankee, soul lad

of a team, Maris-catcher, heroic and historic hitter,

biggest apple NYC eye, iconic boy of summer.

Born to play on and on and on and on. Batter Up!

 

Earl Wilcox is the supreme Cardinals’ fan in South Carolina. His most recent baseball poetry appears in NINE: A Journal of Baseball History and Culture.

HAIKU

There were emotional scenes in the eastern Siberian republic Buryatia as drafted men said goodbye to their families. Credit: Ayuna Shagdurova, The Guardian, September 23, 2022

Earl Wilcox is a Korean War vet, a retired university professor, and contributor to The New Verse News since 2005. 

HINT OF AN ELEGAIC SUMMER VOICE

by Earl J. Wilcox

for Vin Scully (1927-2022)

Some say his dulcet tones

Soothed the raucous hard ballers.

 

Some say his mellifluous vocals

Quelled the rabid Dodgers horde.

 

Others say his soothing cache

Of insightful swag saved the day.

 

The wonderful horde of baseball

Lore and treasure allured us forever

 

the day he arrived in Brooklyn &

the era he shined in his city of angels. 

 

We shall not hear again his storied

Trove of love for our nation’s game—

Our man with a voice for all seasons.

Earl Wilcox writes from his retirement balcony in upstate South Carolina. A collection of his poems—It Goes On, Life Poems—will be published in 2023.

WHAT WE LEARN FROM BIRDS

by Earl J. Wilcox

If our baby worm formula is not available—

Backup plans with day-old bugs will do.

 

If the five-year old birdie-boy wants

To be a girlie bird, let him dress as he will.

 

If the teen robins won’t sing or play—or fly

Let them consult Papa Owl, not take codeine.

 

If old lady robin’s days are done, do not

Push her out of the nest where foxes await.

 

Find old bird a comfy hole in an elder oak,

There let Sister Robin live out her days in love.

Earl Wilcox has learned from many birds over many years.

OH, BLACKBERRY WINTER

by Earl J. Wilcox

Late last night, you creep upon us—

cold, chilly rain, winds whipping

across Georgia & Carolinas.

Our pretty in pink peach orchards

shuddered, ready to eat (almost)

strawberries huddle under plastic tarps.

Bright purple and yellow pansies

still hopeful of weeks yet to shine

before the wilting suns of summer.

Our most beloved children—azaleas

and dogwoods—both already dressed

in their Easter bonnets. cringe, nearly

freeze in the cold winter-like night.

Oh precious and sacrosanct blackberry

cobbler, we shall miss your bubbly sauce,

your savory aroma fresh from our ovens.

Hurry along, children, summer time—

when the living comes easy—already

peeps from behind her humid clouds.

Tomorrow she will likely hum her hymn,

teach cat fish to jump.

 

 

Earl Wilcox writes from South Carolina where all flowering creatures are in bloom.

MY PLUS TWO ECLIPSE

by Earl J Wilcox   

Photo by Peter Forister, November 19, 2021 at 04:00, Charlottesville, VA, USA at EarthSky

My plus one last night, Alexa,

awakens me right on time.

I am up—groggy, sour-mouthed,

muttering, mumbling musing,

old guy grumbling despite

a magnificent moonshine worship

moment waiting above my balcony.

 

Alexa plays some familiar Mozart,

as agreed on at my bed time. Out-

side I shiver, huddle in a small chair,

I’m overcome with a sublime scene:

in the fog of near-freezing November

and my dense macular mist, a small,

bright Beaver moon hides half its face

behind a dark somewhat ominous shadow.

 

A distant shrill of sirens, ubiquitous

revving motorcycles break my

somnolent stupor. Even with a cold

arse my heart pounds with warmth and joy.

Unique as this moon light masquerade

provides, earth is the place for me.

It is not music of the spheres I hum

—just some earth-made melodies

by Mozart, our universal plus one

making a little night music.

Earl Wilcox has been humming and howling at The New Verse News for many years.

COMES NOW

by Earl J Wilcox

Picture taken on March 23, 2018, shows a technician working on the clock of the Lukaskirche Church in Dresden, eastern Germany. (Photo by Sebastian Kahnert/DPA/AFP via Getty Images via AL.com)

That time of year

When we fall

Back

When time’s

Breath stirs

Our solitude

When nature’s

Calendar

Does not trick

Nor does our

Body fail

Though

Formidably

Confirms our time

Here changes

Course

Assuredly

As yesterday

Tomorrow

Forever remain

Unchanged.

 

Earl J. Wilcox has been writing for TheNewVerse.News through many turns of the clock.

ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER AGED MOVIE STAR

by Earl J. Wilcox

 

So sorry to relegate your obit

to a short poem which might,

but does not, describe your many

roles with other aged stars long gone

along with their contemporaries—

and yours. 

 

So sorry we don’t even know a single

movie you made, nor do we recognize

most of the stars with which you danced

or lay in bed with or any song you sang

with a catchy tune back in the day. 

 

The news of the day, alas, is too crowded

with stories about starving kids, murdered

brides, corrupt lawyers, not to mention

floods and droughts and hurricanes

and wild fires and earthquakes...

for us to know how much we’ll miss you.

 

 

Earl Wilcox notes with sadness the passing of Jane Powell, Ed Asner, and way too many others to list here, though he will miss them.

I SEE TONIGHT

Earl J. Wilcox has been seeing days and nights poetically for The New Verse News for years and years.

COUNTRY SONG FOR MY BASEBALL TEAM

by Earl J. Wilcox

Photo by Jeff Curry/USA Today via Sports Illustrated.

I know I can divorce you,

being unfaithful and untrue.

 

This late June—barely real 

summer yet—you tease me

with a rare afternoon win,

heat up the Division for a day

or so, cause me to sweat &

and swear I will never leave you.

Lately, tho, you break my heart.

I feel deceived when you bring up

players from the farm team, send

down better hitters you’ve been

flirting with. Last week, I

almost went to seek a lawyer

 

when you simply rolled over

for a bush-league, slutty team.

What happened to our spring trainin’

plans, hopes, and dreams, that you’d be

 

faithful this season, give me your

best, not waste scarce money on

 

players like that stud from out west--

You know the one I mean—look what

 

it got us. Hank Williams was right

about cheatin’ hearts, they do tell

 

on you, make us feel so lonesome

we could die. I’m getting’ in my truck,

 

pick up some brewskis no matter what

some say, there’s a lot of crying in baseball.

 

Growing up country in the American South, Earl Wilcox thrives on Cardinals baseball, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and some Elvis.

SWEET APRIL SHOWERS

by Earl J. Wilcox

Larry Parks lip-synching to Al Jolson singing "April Showers' in The Jolson Story (1946).

Already primed by fading February

snows, brash, thrashing March

winds, come softly sweet showers.

 

Make us mindful of your spring spirit

here where pandemic surviving souls

surely long to go on pilgrimages

 

to the beach or baseball game. O,

sweet showers fall gently today on

dogwoods and azaleas in our back yard,

 

where sparrows and chickadees still

sleep with open eyes, as in Chaucer’s

day & cardinals and Carolina wrens

 

build beautiful nests. O blithe spirit

of mockingbirds, we seek only blissful

martyrs of courageous care givers,

 

vaccines’ power and glory, blessed

assurance that this April thy showers

nourish and sustain this good earth.

 

 

Earl Wilcox dedicates this poem to the spirits of all who did not live through the pandemic to see this spring’s colorful flowers nor hear the mockingbirds sing or feel the comfort of a warm April shower. 

BY ANY OTHER NAME: SPRING TRAINING ANGST

by Earl J. Wilcox

If some kids played it on the Pittsburgh

streets with only a Wiffle ball, a crooked

stick, and one lad to keep it from the gutters.

 

If they played it on a loamy garden patch

in an Arkansas village with a ball made

from old socks around a ball of twine.

 

If kids of any age and many sizes

played the game on a sandlot

in Las Terrenas, Dominican Republic.

 

Even if the Japanese kids decided to

practice ten hours a day just to make

the team for the family’s pride.

 

If the boys of summer began practice

in winter, in a game that no longer

uses bat boys, has no fans in the stands... 

 

And if this game has no hot dogs or

peanuts and Crackerjacks and many

players wear kerchiefs and masks

 

And if they can no longer blow bubble

gum or eat pumpkin seeds or swat each

other on the butt after a terrific play.

 

And if the balls and strikes are called

by a robot squatting behind the screen

in the stands or hovering in a drone.

 

We will still call this game BASEBALL.

 

Earl Wilcox dedicates this poem to the late Lawrence Ferlinghetti, whose "Baseball Canto" remains the iconic tribute to our national pastime.

BERNIE’S MITTEN MEMES

by Earl J. Wilcox

cozy papa bear

snug serene independent

patriot supreme

Earl J. Wilcox somehow stays snug and serene in South Carolina.

Editor's Note: Sen. Bernie Sanders has raised $1.8 million for charity through the sale of merchandise inspired by the viral photo of him and his mittens on Inauguration Day. —CNN

ALL PRAISE TO VACCINE SCIENTISTS

by Earl J. Wilcox

Özlem Türeci, left, and Uğur Şahin of BioNTech. Backed by Pfizer, their vaccine is 90% effective in stopping people from falling ill. Photograph: Wolfgang Eilmes/FAZ Foto via The Guardian, December 6, 2020.

Metaphors pile up to describe

our anticipation as we await

the first doses, await the vaccines’

power to save us. Doubtless we

elderly will not live long enough

to know the whole story of how

and who and where the scientists

worked and worked to develop

the long-awaited medicine.

Alert! Octogenarians! Give up

today’s nap, rise in praise of vaccine saviors.

 

Earl Wilcox in his late 80s awaits the vaccine in South Carolina.

WORLD SERIES HAIKU

Earl Wilcox has been publishing baseball poetry for three decades.

TODAY

by Earl J. Wilcox

Today when I awoke it was very dark outside.

Today when I got up at 5:30 AM, it was cold.

Today I fumble putting in my hearing aids.

Today my glasses help little with macular degenration.

Today my bladder wants to empty before I arise.

Today I struggle to put on my pants, my shoes.

Today the cats wait patiently to be fed, petted.

Today I see dimly the coffee pot, the faucet.

Today I munch a protein bar, put on a mask.

Today I find my walking stick, unlock the door.

Today I stumble out the door, my knees resist walking.

Today it is still dark as I move toward the street light.

Today I shudder, cough and sneeze, wait for a ride.

Today I hear kids and cars and school buses pass by.

Today a friend stops for me. I hobble to his car.

Today I find his car is warm, his voice hopeful.

Today we ride to a community center across town.

Today I can barely hear or see the place we seek.

Today I wobble down the pavement, smile, anxious.

Today a friendly voice asks if I am “doin’ OK?”.

Today I walk inside a warm hall, hear low, calm chatter.

Today I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait.

Today I wonder if the line will open a slot for me.

Today I arise, my cane is calmer than I am.

Today I hand my photo ID to someone at a table.

Today I am helped to a small machine I barely see.

Today a friendly voice asks if I can see the screen.

Today I barely read, barely hear, barely stand.

Today I feel a rush of joy and peace.

Today my friend puts a small sticker on my sweater.

Today and tomorrow the sticker says I VOTED.

 

This week at age 87 Earl Wilcox voted.

ODE TO THE OCTOBER PUMPKIN

Earl Wilcox is a regular reader and contributor to The New Verse News.

PAEAN TO AUTUMN

by Earl J. Wilcox

Whitman manuscript at Duke University Libraries.

None would have believed last fall—

a serene, simple season of coolish

weather, baseball season winding

down, tailgating, leaf peeping,

early frosts all—sublime memories

of a time before now: wildfires, 

hurricanes, Covid deaths, floods, 

earthquakes, melting ice caps, 

hummingbirds astray and lost,

migrant camps afire, baseball

season so bizarre even umpires

get the blues. We need more

Whitmans, fewer Plaths, a couple

of Frosts, a seashore Oliver. 

Even an old-fashioned Wordsworth

or Shelley might spirit us away

toward winter already on its way

on this first week of autumn.

Earl J. Wilcox has sung his share of September songs.

TOM TERRIFIC: A SMUDGE IN TIME

 by Earl J. Wilcox

Tom Seaver 1944-2020

"Tom Seaver" by LeRoy Neiman

Still watching baseball in his ninth decade, Earl Wilcox is a regular reader of and contributor to TheNewVerse.News.