This poem was written on 21/03/96. This was in the Persian Gulf in a time of turmoil. I loved it and give it a 9. Without further ado;
Someplace Newly mowed grass scents the air Today young and old make new memories, reminiscences. A dilapidated chain link fence, With its sharpened points dulled and downward bent. A shed: few two-by-fours slapped together with rusty nails, A piece of plywood, to keep from getting drenched, overhead. Doubled just a little ways away. Three pieces of canvas, two plastic, dot some dirt, Fine rock free earth shaped in a square, laid on a corner. The grass looks of checkerboard pattern, Between the dirt and tatters of fence. Behind the larger piece of fence squats old sun baked steps. No more than ten high to no ascent do they rise. "Boo's, hisses, cheers and kisses" come flying from this lofty spot, Just depending on how things are going, cold or hot... Out on the grass and dirt nine boys and girls stand Postures ranging from concentration to blank and bland. This is the end, game is even Last chance to win this evening. Tense, watchful eveyone awaits. A piece of leather and cork describe a slow arc; "CRACK" Comes the sharp sound as the ball meets the bat. Moms and dads go mad, scream loud and shrill; "Tommy, Jane Johnny throw the ball to Will ! " " Run little B. you can make it home free..." A mad scramble for the ball, few trips and falls Some near bone breaking collisions, were they not children. And around the bases a little boy runs. This is a game, a game for fun. Into home he rounds third base, Arms and legs in a mad race. The ball comes in from center field, Skips once and bounces into the catchers mit. A dust cloud covers runner, catcher and ref. The crowd gasps and holds its breath. Out? Or score the winning run? This is a game, made for fun. D. Sitar
