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September 29th, 2016

Poetry Corner

Spring Training
By Wayne F. Burke

I did not like playing baseball
in the Spring
because it was cold
in New England in April
and catching the ball in
the palm of my glove
felt like being burned
and hitting the ball anywhere other
than on the meat of the bat
felt like I’d splintered my fingers.
It was in the heat
when I felt best
when the sweat oiled my
limbs
unhinged arms
and I grew wings
to sail
with the white ball
over distant fences
to undreamed of lands.

Little Weed
By Travis Papineau

I know,
Little Weed,
How you feel.
All you wanted
Was to live your little life
In the shadow of beauty,
When some
Faceless hand
Snatched you,
Roots and all,
And hurled you away
From your home.
As you are gathered
Along with your like
And exiled,
You ache to be
Back where,
Inside,
You know you belong.
Trust, Little Weed,
I know
How you feel.

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