I grew up on vacant lots in the little desert town of Buckeye, Arizona; those bare patches of ground were the places I smiled and laughed the most. We had no boundaries as such, except the daylight; when night came calling, we reluctantly left the game of the day and headed for home. (I don’t think we broke any windows.)

A Game Forgot

Summer day, schoolwork forgotten

Air filled with mindless chatter

Pitcher glares toward home plate

Fielders shout, hey batter hey batter

Ball speeds to the redheaded batter

Louisville Slugger in his grip

Gonna knock that pill outta sight

Trot the bases and give cap a tip

Crack of bat as swing connects

Ball soars high in the air

Cover flutters to the infield

The players, horrified, stare

The sphere unravels as it flies

Crushed by the mighty blow

Over the fence then crashes loud

Through Old Man Wilson’s window

Mr. Wilson looks over his fence

At the quiet…. and empty sandlot

Remnants of a baseball in his hand

Summer day, a game forgot

Copyright © 1998 C. Mashburn

This is one of my older poems, but one of my favorites.

NOTE! This poem inspired a sequel! —>Where Dreams Were Dreamed.

Asked to recall and write about a place from my past that has stood the passing of time and stands out above other places, I pondered and at first drew a blank. Then I recalled the vacant lots in the neighborhood where I grew up, and thought that, yes, they were the places where I smiled and laughed the most. We had no boundaries as such, except the daylight; when night came calling, the echo of mother’s voices called as well, and we reluctantly left the game of the day and headed for home. Read the rest of this entry »