Sports

9 Words

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

Fresh labor,
we estimate

our unburdening
with victory’s

exaggeration.

#2

Weak Michael
tap, tap, tap,

taps, Reynolds,
breaks glass.

#3

This bar fight
ended with too many
straight rights.

#4

Plural,
the failure
to hit,

find good
action.
Crumpling.

#5

Youth scatters focus,
and all muscle twitch
becomes dance.

#6

Ecstatic in game, it was
demonstration,

a chest pounding.

#7

Not shadow
nor echo,

Ubaldo’s

right arm
is puddle.

#8

They acted like boys,
played like boys,
without authority.

#9

Sound as sound, tight
breath releases, builds
to roar.

#10

Shudder to flow,
the good blood
was all ours.

#11

Fast wrists,
the birds
were blinded
by burly
achromatics.

#12

Ubaldo, again,
brought feathers

to fight
a hungry bear.

#13

Unfastening, the declarations
of satisfaction
are for cheaper beers.

#14

Stale balloon,
partially afloat

from opening day,
popped tonight.

#15

We want
to be in ocean.
This is fog.

#16

Like an ecstatic wave,
a fit passed, to relief.

#17

That dance,
the swivel

turning to saunter,
such parade!

#18

That light,
swinging from a chain,
has stayed radiant.

#19

Thin and wild,
the wind after rain
flags vulnerabilities.

#20

Reflectors line highways,
waiting for electricity
to share momentum?

#21

Unidentifiably damaged,
for this split second
we are suspect.

#22

Given and taken,
the only memory
will be victory.

#23

Don’t wait for music.
Wait for dancing.
Look! Dancing.

#24

Such fireworks,
a glorious barrage

can welcome
parades everlasting.

#25

We could be wildlings.
We could be decorated
madmen.

#26

The rising fire
tore through

the prize fight,
enveloping.

#27

The folks know
when lights shake.
It excites them.

#28

Reserved play,
witnessing

the game,
a team

tightly hinged.

#29

Muscled through,
we never asked beauty
to play baseball.

#30

We could hang
our rotation
on McAllister’s
coy smile.

#31

We’ll take black magic
and blinding egos
as victory.

#32

Visible men,
doing work,

crowded
by success

not magic.

#33

This circus
was all tent.

We had
no animal.

#34

I think we won.
I blacked out
holding breath.

#35

A real ornament,
we have risen!
This is sunlight.

#36

Some of the best displays
are quiet until celebration.

#37

Intractable bastards,
they of they rabbit punch,
finished Hagadone.

#38

Heel to heel,
our energy
appears paused,
rocked, traveled.

#39

That caliber

of leaving

a beating,

creates angry
witnesses.

#40

One full night
without taper,

a night
still expanding.

#41

Even the lost
lead hinged, took
wind for us.

#42

Hectic season, in constant
motion, shaken into
focused expectations.

#43

The Ballad of Yan,
great distraction
from the bullpen.

#44

Without murmur,
they relented

to the supposition
of talent.

#45

Ubaldo’s
culpability;

the substance
of a loss

is real.

#46

Ornery as unfolding,
the emotional angle
drowned in fireworks.

#47

Turnabout, most times,
is a smack in the face.

#48

It’s dramatic,
when your bully

gets bullied,
beaten, buried.

#49

Expected weight,
our lightness

in important moments
is vulnerability.

#50

What’s not lost
is how poorly
Santana is catching.

#51

At least
is enough

in May

to lose
always.

#52

Tight, shouldered,
that was not release,
that was percentages.

#53

In professional fights,
one round

can sway the cards.

#54

Whether too wet
or too asleep,
no fireworks popped.

#55

If Ubaldo stays
this Ubaldo, this
team traps tigers.

#56

Light dashed,
most

of our good
action

was ejection.

#57

The ongoingness
of small play
in big games, callow?

#58

The unimproved
standing and no breaks,
a floundering umpire.

#59

The division lead
is a vanishing point,
raw imagination.

#60

That casual defense
allows us
to get bullied often.
#61

When birds
vanish

it’s a loud sound.

Hello, thud.

#62

The silence
is anger. The hope
is a whisper.


#63

Forearms against high windows,
test?

Everything, earlier, looked tiny.

#64

Not a breath
of fresh air,

sublime light
enveloping.

#65

An enormous dream,
the weight continues
to slowly disappear.

#66

Controlled,
we have energy

again to be nine
focused.

#67

Rush back, rush
back, we never
had hold steady.

#68

Kipnis
& Kluber,

how bumpy
& beautiful

this game.

#69

Carlos,

at this level
we play

all nine
innings.

#70

Every name given
to this team,
evades us thereafter.

#71

Slowly at first,
then faster,

Weak Michael’s
smirk exploded.

#72

Less flower
than lit cigarette,

Scott Kazmir
bloomed smoke.

#73

These red flashes,
Kipnis’ ramping energy,
is now un-blinking.

#74

Great pitches, smacked
and defied,

Carrasco,
is quadruple A.

#75

Weak Michael,
just Michael?

Enough Michael
to beat Baltimore.

#76

A loss always itches
without distraction;
Kipnis is spectacular.

#77

Every game,
a demonstration of physics.
Kazmir was force.

#78

A fatal flaw,
this defense

over a season,
disqualifies.

#79

The rattle never stopped.
It was an exhausting win.

#80

This was the early team,
coming back, coming back.

#81

Clapped together, climbed
together, maybe they
can renovate expectations.

#82

A poem
with heroes

a game with
a Masterson.

#83

Design and another design,
many stories, a good ending.

#84

Young arms
refuse momentum,

they are afraid
of culmination.

#85

Fly off it,
victory shaken
with open fists,
vanishes.

#86

Continuously overwhelmed
by the Tigers clarifies
our abstraction. Lesser.

#87

When company holds
knee to throat,
efforts are brief.

#88
Where there is no fire,
our bullpen sets fires.

#89

Bullpen still limping,
they moved better
than Nick Swisher.

#90

Sometimes the lake
is real magic.
Ubaldo went swimming.

#91

By nine, the baseball
resembles blender attempts.
Thanks, bullpen.

#92

A creeper vine,
finally, with a bloom,
welcome Danny.

#93

A little vibration
from Kluber shakes
the dust completely.

#94

Present,
as in presented

a Chisenhall slam,
unexpected,

overwhelming.


#95

Thirteen hits,
so much rattling,
it almost became music.

#96

Four hits
is a chalky floor
to lay on.


#97

We would win
any five inning game.
Nine innings?

#98

Justin Masterson
is a heavy
wing, our only wing.

#99

Those weren’t gutted oranges,
those were bombs Seattle hit.

#100

This theme
of almost

will be
the Indian’s

epitaph.

#101

Runs flow
in bundles
with unexpected
power; Kazmir’s

unburdening.

#102

Almost all
folk heroes

are small men
performing

greatly.


#103

Too bare

to not be
beautiful,

Masterson
was artful.

#104

This sort of pitching, again,
gives the audience adrenaline.

#105

The hips and shoulders age
first. Giambi’s beard homered.

#106

Two fists, gravel,
the ballad of Yan
constructs victories.



#107

Even ocean lost,
enough tide can
bring beach drinks.

#108

If you own lightning,
you own bewilderment;
Raburn’s rationale.

#109

Elevated,
their feet spun,

a cartoon
character,

losing
momentum.

#110

Gifted, such speed,
Michael Bourn speed,
can dictate terms.

#111

Kazmir,

a small bet

on a big arm,

treasure!

#112

That fist stayed
in our stomachs,
made us puppets.

#113

You want fireworks
in the end,
not a shrinking.

#114

Tigers fans
don’t write poetry,
they don’t need to.

#115

Raburn’s distraction
does little to help
this callow team.

#116

Here come
the old

tides; anger,
sadness.

Worse,
acceptance.

#117

Quickly, our bones
turned

hollow. The shaking
is noticeable.







#118

Gasping
can be

collection,
weight

shifting,
or

pride’s
hurrah?

#119

Even the possibility
of a welcoming breeze,
overwhelming pressure.

#120

Looking up
spread languidly,

the winner
of slow play.
#121

Timelessness
becomes pointlessness

if the event folds
before celebration.

#122

It’s more
than loss,

it’s absence,
the missing

ecstatic.

#123

It’s Die Hard
pitching.

Always
incredible

that Ubaldo
survives.

#124

Heels in ocean,
that’s what we
know of riptides.

#125

Ardorless
& still
distant

from touching
important,
a light.

#126

Survival
is always

a triumph.
Even narrowing

hope shines.

#127

When I see
any part of flower,
that’s bloom.

#128

Home is
lonely pool

if you have
no energy.

#129

This daily business
when good, easy,
is celebration, affirmation.

#130

Four errors
are a scar on
a smiling face.

#131

Saws
of the season,

we are wood
too often.

#132

You feel
these losses

as absence,
failure

to feast.

#133

Good swearing,
and the rest of it
was apathetic.

#134

Bourn, etc.,
were witnesses,

twenty yards
from their demise.

#135

Sometimes what wants
to be remembered
is the obvious.

#136

A puncher’s chance
in a baseball season
is nothing.

#137

We are in the lake
waiting for the ice.

#138

No longer tapping
the hose’s metal rim,
warm water!

#139

All of us
would take

a punch
for Yan.

#140

Core shaken,
that deep stir
awakened
our good ego.

#141

Coined without threat,
could there be
more victory songs?

#142

Good baseball teams
should never have
a sleeping shape.

#143

Sunk partly,
if Perez

keeps offering
defeat,

they’ll oblige.

#144

Triumph gone,
taken from home,
but not stolen, won.

#145

Are we preparing
to paint trees
from winter homes?

#146

The hope
is the dam

breaking
sinks

other towns.

#147

Now, it doesn’t
matter how often
you almost lose.

#148

More magic
than miracle,

Ubaldo pitched
with deft spectacle.

#149

We don’t have
to fear electricity
if we’re lightning.

#150

Absent nerve
to take

the opening,
we pool,

watching.

#151

That scream
could be an un-damning,
an important future.

#152

Slight against
the strong wind,

our best,
Kipnis, vanishes.

#153

I want a Carson
statue built
& rarely seen.

#154

The only difficulty
was the weather
which also helped.

#155

Without defect
of ability

Kazmir appears
as warm decision.

#156

Like wolves
emerging

from forest,
we took

every lamb.

#157

Time, place
can tempt, pass;

Giambi strangled
the moment.

#158

Fourteen rounds
of victory,

now, to earn
some dancing.

#159

This game
was a promise

that never
again Perez.

#160

Heart swollen
with victories,

those seventeen
hits? A smile.

#161

A single teaspoon
away from good
cure, let’s finish.

#162

There is no silence
allowed in Cleveland
tonight. Dance!

#163

It was a parade
ended in
a blind alley.