Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

those early years
my youngest son
baseball
a child prodigy

always the finest gloves
wanting to teach him;
work a little oil into the palm
play catch
nestle a ball in its gut
tie it off for a week

but I cannot,
possessed
I think the glove
my childhood
my failure on the field
feeling all the gloveless gifts
from an indifferent dad

I work the stiff leather
by myself
pounding caresses
into a feverish night
hours I beat the regal skin
pump it like a boxer
prep it for the fight
bury my face in its safety
breathe in its tan
and soul exits
through surprised ears

my newborn
turned into a masterpiece
taught to sleep
like a soft rag
then catch a flash of light
in the quickness wind

the gilded time
upon his hand
across the diamond days

the tarnished time
my gloveless family
neglected

little did I know then
it is the leather
and not the game
that I love

very sensitive work, scott.

I love this piece, scott
right in the pocket

when I was a kid, I was a shortstop
my problem was, I made it look too easy
the coach wants to see sweat
it lubricates the leather

Remember Neetsfoot Oil....i think that was it...we'd rub that stuff into
the glove then put a baseball in the pocket and rubberband it, and leave it over night.....of course scott, your poem isn't about baseball
at all ....but you're right, there's something about that leather.

I love this too....a wonderful read... I read it while on the road these past few days...it's just so....I dunno, it makes me feel really good.
And awed.
Thanks for it....
H

Thank you all for your generous remarks. I just sent this to my X and my other two sons (the neglected)

The best father's day poem I have read in a long time.