Spreckels lake

Sutro Tower looms in background, receiving signals from the gods.

When radio-controlled boats rock the water,

I yawn, drift, nod.

Mariposa street

Painting everywhere.
Taggers overflow.
With butterflys’ brillance.

Zellerbach building

Perfect building
Perfect trees.
One winds you tight
Wind in willows sets you free.

Three rivers stadium – 1975

Hot. Humid.
No sun.
I loved Sanguillen.
Swingin’ at whatever looked good.

Willie

Mays didn’t talk race
Though the risk was so much less.
It would have been misplaced
His game was what would impress.

Windy fields

Battling gusts
Outfielder tests his mettle
Keeps his eye on the ball
Not wanting to fall when he pulls down his prize
Receive applause from fans
But especially the guys.

Poetry in motion

Ty ran.
Determined to win.
Willie’s run was fun.
All the joy in him.

Purity and progress

There was no time limit,
But in those days darkness was the clock.
It wasn’t until night ball that the game might never stop.

Changing of the guard

Ruth eclipsed Cobb’s sun.
Today’s America had begun.

Cobb envied Ruth’s swing.
Poetry in motion that made Babe king.

The black prince

Learned to play first like it was ballet.
Grew up in the Santa Clara Valley,
Where each March,
When the season started,
Light and clouds shifted above blooming orchards,
In unforgettable interplay.