Sports

9 Words

short poems about each Cleveland Indian's game
Darren C. Demaree
#1

Pitching gem lost
in the beard,
extra beginnings, rough.

#2

Sipp of steam,
even Blue Jays
refreshed by disparition.

#3

Unwilling
to win?
Indians stop
burying
themselves,
raise arms!

#4

Armed with wiffle gear
strong swings
persuade no hardball.

#5

Fighting cold,
the geology of talent
layered black, white.

#6

One inning, a small kingdom,
but there was revolution!

#7

Red pulsing, Jack
left unopened Royals
to watch, defeated.

#8

Kansas City fountains,
La Dolce Vita
with more splashing.

#9

Faux ace fades,
masterful lineup
rallies past

Millwood’s zombie.

#10

Near the sea,
Cleveanders swing,

swim, flail,
whimper. Bubbles.

#11

King Felix can’t rule
from bench,

King Tomlin reigns.

#12

Not so pretty,
not a dancer,

but she’s ours.

#13

Kipnis, keep us
close
& then,
a closed hand.

#14

Faux ace, no ace,

the joy of uncertainty

misapplied.

#15

Maybe finding victory
against shuffling mess

means less? Nope.

#16

Asencio bowed.
The violence
of Royal swings

confused Kotchman.

#17

Thin washes,
the opportunities

for victory, abandoned,

left stranded.

#18

One trumpet burst
beneath the clouds,
Asdrubal steals halo.

#19

Water pushed, directed
to polish diamond.
Indian’s nap weather.

#20
Faced Lowe,

Angels low.

Weak Michael
improvises

man’s swing.

#21

Tripped
& fumbled,
we needed
an enveloping,
more rain.

#22

Indians walk,
walk, walk, walk,
finally hit the ball.

#23

First place
& the distance

to second,
thank Kipnis.

#24

The burr, the bat
& Gomez is good

enough.

#25

The pitch hung forever
& then was hit forever.

#26
Darvish forgot
to strike out
everybody.

Ubaldo means
matador?


#27

Humber
humbled
by practice
fastballs,
even Weak
Michael
feasts.


#28

Rough conditions,
even with hesitant steps,
Tribe finds lightning.

#29

It could have been
a different end
than lessening.

#30

Unmoving slider,
hung like a peach,
pulped by Chicago.

#31

Such cacophony,
the boos, Indian’s bats
resounding in Boston.

#32

The heavens
for a quiet performance
from Ubaldo Jimenez.

#33

Three hits?
Dry hands,
clapping,
attempting
to make rain.

#34

Fat, lost, naked,

complete peril,

ripped through

by Boston.

#35

Gomez brilliance
lost in Pestano’s anger,
saved by Choo.

#36

In flux, the impact
of ageless arms,
ensures possibility.

#37

At this point,
King Felix
has no jewels left.

#38

Quick changes,
the celebration, now,
is four days long.

#39

That crazy man,
Zambrano, smiled,
talked to demons,

won.

#40

Weak Michael
& the Confused Eight
are enough, barely.

#41

The only fire
came from Perez,
who didn’t pitch.

#42

In full shape,
the applause
for a contender
echoed.

#43

Great national media,
awakened to our boys,
celebrate enlightenment.

#44

Given nothing.
Taking enough.

Victory again,
over the Verlander.

#45

Some lesser play,
some lesser men,
some injuries. Beaten.

#46

Some fun,
a little too much pain,
safe word?

#47

More horror movie
than sporting match,
something with piranha.

#48

No time left
for Lonnie
to prospect.
Gold? Gold.

#49

With no jungle,
how is Masterson
a powerless Kurtz?

#50

Not televised,
the box score
read like
a kidnapping.

#51

Steady Lowe
& an unquiet

Kipnis, stars,
buoys, force.

#52

Tomlin, practice
fastballs are wooden
ships, afloat in fire.

#53

Blunt(ed) talent,
the sound of wheels,
touching no dirt.

#54

Three triples
& a sober Jekyll,
enough to win.

#55

All carnival,
Weak Michael
became strong,
sealed the win.

#56

All those lovely chances,
tender buttons
blindly poked at.

#57

That penny is a dime

& Damon’s home run!

#58

Quick, rough,
we were barely involved
in that game.

#59

Such pitching.
Such Kipnis.
Victory
in distraction
from Santana.

#60

Native energies,
Cleveland trumped
by older brother’s
steady dominance.
#61

Easy to find
ceiling

when lifted
by own

underpants.

#62

The best of it,
Choo, should
still wear black.

#63

With no glaze,
only sun light,
this is Masterson.

#64

In person, I needed
distance from this

unrelenting barrage.

#65

Drummed by suspect,
former prospect,
disappointment,
rekindled in Cleveland.

#66

Budgeted,
it takes ornery

to triumph.
That was ornery.

#67

That was
a fucking trumpet sound.
Well played, Asdrubal.

#68

That series
was a parade.
Masterson’s
costume
was fantastic.

#69

Even Ubaldo
was wild
with smiles
in calm Texas.

#70

That slow, sad,
uninspired music
is mostly for Jeanmar.

#71
I, too, have been chased
shamefully out of Texas.

#72

A face
contorting

with stupor,
prostrated

to actual
power.

#73

Such quiet
men.
In a game
often spirit
wins.

#74

Hesitation,
a fresh fish,
so wet, awful
for baseball.

#75

Bowed,
flexed back,
good

our athletes
have strength,
too.

#76

Sidearm astray,
Chisenhall gone away,
no love in Baltimore.
#77

An ode to Choo
would surely lead
top hand.

#78

Frosting of frostings,
Aaron Cunningham,
hit a home run.

#79

A ghost?
Our offense
wears no
white sheet,
disappears.

#80

That smell,
undiagnosed,
could be
the stink
of victory.

#81

Fit to fight,
this team
is ornery again.

Good.

#82

Cowboy, used to spurring himself,
rode comfortably, without incident.

#83

A steady unknown?
Never trust the sea
in Summer.

#84

Such a lineup
used to be mentioned
by rappers.

#85

As is custom,
Perez must shave,
allow new beard.

#86

Diamond, ice,
ice, diamond,
ice, ice, ice,
diamond, ace?

#87

More scars
than memories,

that good time
was bloody.

#88

A whole lineup
unaware their hands
are swinging towels.

#89

Victory
like a picture

moments
after the smile

hurts.

#90

It’s one game
is echoing

from a familiar
October.

#91

Time folded up,
allowed weak aim
salvation by bomb.

#92

Feller is dead.
Price is alive,
very, very alive.

#93

In fights,

the old man

gets one punch

only.

#94

Believe
in the choke
when the hands
strengthen,
spasm.

#95

Tomlin’s big year
has one bird,
the winged baseball.

#96

Shoulders pinned to ears,
we live with the confusion.

#97

Despite the sidearm
hiccup,

we looked
like eager contenders.

#98

Poor Asdrubal,
so full of promise,
flailing in stasis.

#99

Knocked back, knocked
out,

we took Verlander,
spun him.


#100

A brutal romp,
Tomlin, his pickled shoulder
declared worthless.

#101

Barrel-chested, hollow
to echo through July?
This season ended.

#102

Brushed aside
our low blood

has no August
revival.

#103

Purpled, the ego,
a great pitcher
with no arm.

#104

That fire
is burning
around us
& inside?
Decline.

#105

Unromantic, wide
waterfall, crushing

every attempt
to temporarily rise.

#106

Not a fight,
not a game,
more like
surrender.

#107

No cheap advantage,
it’s talent, decisions
on talent, management.

#108

Loss. Loss. Loss.
Loss. Loss. Loss.
Loss. Loss. Loss.

#109

To have the snake
swallow you whole
takes endurance.

#110

It’s a hollowing,
that lack of hope
never leaving.

#111

Like a deep enough breath,
only what’s next matters.

#112

A small wave,
inched closer
to a real sun.

#113

In a boat, wind
matters, not rations.
Ghost breeze.

#114

Banjo Brent
& the giant,
not a band, enough.

#115

With the invention
of a quadruple A
league, champions!

#116

Devotion to the tease,
Masterson lives
to show promise.

#117

If he looks
hurricane,
his wind
should be great.

#118

Normally, a man
with many names
has special skills.

#119

Frayed edges, pulled
by enemies,

now, only a pile.

#120

He must have a stomach,
the general, for defeat.
#121

There is no coal,
no mine,
only dead birds.

#122

We remember
the game,
not how to win it.


#123

Inelegant days,
full of sunshine

to highlight
the debacle.

#124

Red cheeks,
no grass stains?
This is the canvas.

#125

In a place, reeling
in front of company, fools.

#126

Hallelujah!
A found holiday,
with one present
for everybody.

#127

Effort like buckshot,
the uniform tug
resonates, is telling.

#128

Our team
is a whistle,
strong
& short,
evaporated.

#129

In his anger,
in his shame,
Acta remains
resolute.

#130

Sunned,
un-eager men

in sad dance,
bolted to sport.

#131

The body,

an instrument

of sport.

This music

nauseates.

#132

In the smoke,
the fire appears
to be safety.

#133

Not a fighter,
not a champion,
one good punch.

#134

Decided in long field,
our young men
have languished.

#135

Next year’s rotation
has a long, ugly
dance card.

#136

It’s a sketch,
a skeleton

without muscle,
it’s hope.

#137

Prepared for the grief
stage of loss, anger rises.

#138

One man
with his blood up,

Canzler,
belted, claimed.

#139

At the highest level,
ordinary men
appear to whimper.

#140

That neck snap
back step back,
game is over.

#141

The steps remaining,
they are all taken
with elegy.

#142

I am hindered
by my disappointment
with Ubaldo Jimenez.

#143

Baseball,
a slow mayhem,

has crawled
into clown show.

#144

Like an old lover
speaking kind words;
LaPorta performs.

#145

A tent
without

a pole,
trampled

fabric,
zipper-less

burial.

#146

A folded ace
flipped up,
flopped.
No chips left.

#147

Chisenhall, might be
one answer to many,
many questions.

#148

No elbows
blocking
the fall,
last place
is calling.

#149

Sunk, our bodies warming
to the drown, the deep.

#150

Surely,
a meaningless

victory,
like jello,

is sustenance,
nutrients?

#151

Fifteen losses
by an ace. This
is losing times.

#152

Jimenez must have
wronged the wrong
vengeful, voodoo lady.

#153

Fifteen runs, a fish
that jumps
from the bowl.

#154

Youth waivers, stumbles,
emotes like a fountain;
Pestano embodies.

#155

Kluber
& the passed over crew
win one game.

#156

This season needs to end,
so Masterson can sleep.

#157

New captain, old captain,
the sea is choppy, sailable.

#158

How many almost wins
create a good trash monster?

#159

Like a roll

of two
good shoulders,

muscular

delighting.

#160

These losses
have started

to feel like
beatings. Stop.

#161

Then, a firework,
arriving from no where
expecting audience.

#162

That nail
& only
a whisper?

New Tribe,
please.