Americans are poetic people...People full of love and life - People who vote, ready to begin again. America demands that we rise - And stand on our feet! - With ryhme, rhythm and reason. Because one thing is sure...Change is between now and tomorrow - Through the vote...The heart of - THE AMERICAN POET - aka - People Of Enormous Truth. - RCW

KITCHEN TABLE ADDRESS

In one day, one hour and one minute - Our nation will go forth in freedom...And, spirit reflect the promise - That every vote counts. Through faith in God and, in country...We rise in principle rooted in constitution. Growing in wisdom and understanding...And measured in government. So, at this time, we gather - At this kitchen table - In this great nation - To test our final arguments, For those who live, Those who have given their lives, And for those yet born. For this is our duty, our right, our honor. Will generations remember what we do today? Time will tell!...For certain - History will remember what we say...At the ballot box.

     Now, this work begins - it begun with kitchen table discussions and, AMERICAN SUMMERS - Sunlight grew the crops of our harvest. Forget the loser for fact that they may - remember to rise again. In the spring of the promise gate, we rushed to feel. Growing a seed for a champiom. By the dock of curtain - calling bay. Poised to win, the happy house built. With our high hopes - full of honey - Into the future of the game today. We feast for a pastime as rich as the soil.

     I wrote this and 60 poems throughout grueling stretches and wonderful innings in my life. All of it - written in real time. They are as live and raw as an actual baseball game. Complete with fouls, bunts, pop ups, bloopers, blunders, hits, strikeouts and homeruns.

     On my third birthday, my maternal grandparents gave me a baseball cap and glove and, my paternal grandparents presented me with a bat and ball - it planted seeds of love, for the game - in my heart. My father taught me "the game" and, he emphasized "the fundamentals." His wise counsel lead me to becoming a Little League, Most Valuable Player - thus, laying the foundation for this work. This labor of joy is produced with love for America, the game of baseball and for you. Please read & enjoy! - RCW

WITH YOUR HANDS

Today, looking up always. For wisdom, understanding now. In the hazy uniform world, In this tried and true place. On a solid bed of clay. Two stepped with giants and eagles. Faught tooth and nail. In a dentist hammering clutch, By bleacher bum rough hands. With their sweaty crossed fingers, Pitc , ters, coaches and fans. Inside throw back jerseys. Printed with colors, that shine. To the probe lights, Shot barely over wall jumps. Wondering and almosts and fails. That told thousand words, Lasting pictures framed from the dozens of one. Plays practice when baskets should catch. Up with the candle. Like winds of old, new doubt. At good judgement, I hope. For you fans, collectors of all. Is a wick and waxy light. The spirit of believers in, The something yet come, For burning sensations, From those dugged out. That will try and win. Like keys of doors and sudden hinge swing and does in, The Thomas of this day.

Swoosh the swordsman, stuffed hot peppers. And the tomato turns bright orange. My grapefruit cadillac pink juiced. This stage of fame. For your binocular view. Now, a paying fan, Gooses, over easy, pan fryed, battled tested: Clap: for this hallow ground, From pitch to spooning folk! Eat: At table my aching desire. To be human best, As the eagle flys, Atop the bobble head of lawyers, contracts and merchandise. Quicken and curious to spend. Over the limit amount, To sweet potatoe pies. Wo - nellie, keep barn in horse. Gift wrap perfect, in trophy silver. The faithful runs and slides. The smooth shaped champagne cup. Hooray, for the boys, Hey brother spared earring dime. In the showering, lovely move. With Writer and camera roll, Covering the walls fly. Who sticks wing notes spreaded from antennas. Around to the whole world. Crew, hurrying pan Right with Left.

In your face, on whitening caps, Law, on closeup, Bob Cat cool as jazz. Overhere, over there, everywhere, flashs bulb, Clawing as lobster and appetite. A dash of butter for my Snap, crackle and pop. On a sailed cork. But gel thick as hair. On combs straight running teetch. Cheers to this royal style.

Kings who hates to lose and loves to win, Dance in hog heaven lockers! The needle Found in a swan song of gruppies feathered and plucked, And cork sure of taste! So many come and go. Smiled and styled, flash to fresh mellons. Work the room and the booze. Swallowing hews over the wire, With pen and hard and smooth: Only the strong go deep space. Of hero and fences bound, Grow long as the rose blooms. And ball follows every willful tale. We enjoy the roll over the hump and send Shiver up the spine of turns, Ooh, for more of that than that, over The wet soft promised lands, Opened with their thirsts - they're ready.

Like attached twins, hip to hip. Oh Yeah! my solid catch with a glove! Hello, bosom buddy, hello, sit and enjoy! Your long ball parade in the red clay. At League sanctioned autumn's end. Welcome to the pastime my fan, my friend. We win! America- With Your Hands!...

CONGRESS GONE WILD

Congress Gone Wild. Stimulus package - Stored in the cigar box under the desk. Except "Mr. October Surprise" - the savior tucked under the lights. The gift of memory glued, like a trophy. The sticky stats on each side, And freeze dried the acts of the bailout.

Once the incredible game was played. And all the fans spilled their emotions, They placed their sound on higher ground. The ground plowed with blood, sweat and tears. The story sweeter than syrup and honey. Connects their pork to the sophisticated boar.

Their pastime captures street spirit, Growing like corn in the spring. And caught a giant fly with the paper, But only the stars, playing great, Box in their chest - feats of kings. They pound their keeper's hopes into a dream.

Ball standard issue of the game. The long ballber lives on. The photographer that captured a capital pose; Still green under their dusty prints. And round old Benjamin's kite tossed out. A bill has rounded the bases of gain.

Dust captains the ship of batman; The lush island of the crusader. Calls up its inhabitants to a crowding parade; And captain slides joyfully from under the glare. When fans flock around the covers. Peep through magnifying glass to their delight.

And once again the sky catches are remembered. And pitch perfect was hot as fire. They saved their golden play for last. Through toss and swing - they deliver a slam. And stir up an awesome image. To give everyone hope in their game.

 

ELVIS PLAYS BASEBALL

Elvis plays baseball in heat. Heat that burns memories in the heart. Fanning new flames by day, news by night. Which is why the old ballpark lights up. And roasts the hot dogs in their towns.

This pastime is why the spring falls to fall. Pass the steaming peanuts; The cracker jacks are better in the box; sit them under the weathered seats. Safe and sound they free the hands; The foul ball is caught in the grip.

Elvis plays the pastime in the sun. Spit on the ball blinds batters, Shade the dug in and the dug out with wiffs. Sit them over there next to jack. Safe and furious they avoid the spilled coke. The ball cap is their protection.

Elvis knows memories will grow shadows of something. Loom the fruits blossoming. Which is why we come to past time, now.

Fair weather fans are called out because they stink. October is sweet. Rain, sleet or snow, we cheer boys. This is their stage, the pine tar bats. The fat sings this nation's anthem. Let's past time until she's over.

Fans are us, we are park rangers. Reminders of a warm spring, A uniformed lover of the game, Since spring camp we fill the bleachers. And become the rooted tree, the branch of water.

We thirst brillance from this priceless diamond, Blue with envy are the fair haired boys, Propping up their seats in the neighborhood sports bars, Watching the series ball fall in our mitts. Order drinks for all with their pride, And search the internet for an autograph.

In October we support our team with presense. True, red, white and blue. And hold our signs in front of the camer; This one is for you and you. This show is no show, it's real. Feel the passion of promise in our team, now. Elvis Plays Baseball!

RAHM IN THE HOUSE

Rahm in the house. A stone player. Crossed between gangster and old school. From the mining of the diamond past. That lets the best and brilliant shine. For clones eating pizza at home.

From a delivery - Standing firm with toppings. In the brick oven where he baked his pie. Shared night and day in a big show. And everybody came to taste and feast.

Like the jungle cat he plays hard. Like the elephant he walks large. And man they call him the man. The loyal clones from the hood. Tune in - when he sends the word. On waves of air.

Over city and town. Getting down to his business. Surrounded in know. Through the saw grass of the tall weeds. Out running the wild throw. With his legs that stand on speed.

BRITNEY SPEARS CHEERS!

Britney Spears - Cheers! Whose sweet sour hit I chase in the Florida sun. Ship of writers and professional live beats, Undergo pain over the pink flamingo, The inspired sheading pounds at the start of the dawn. Who dare be wise? High as a fruit grove horsefly, rabbit as a greyhound - Running, hopping prize. Inside the outside storms, The typical life of the true believer. Drawn down to this promising swamp.

By choice it demands, That melts the farmers doubt and plows seed in the heart, An island place in the hot shape of a star. To race around with teammates the rewards of a camp, Blood and sweat and tears. In thick, sticky, sky light - the open drill springs out. The young and old shout. Slice of the fresh juice squeezed from round wedges. The start and beginning of celebration.

 

LINCOLN STANDS ON THE MOUND

Lincoln stands on the mound. When the ratings were dropping under the gun, He put on his cape and stepped up and he pitched, The home spunned juice and a joke blew them away. He tossed what he knew on the cool hot fan. And the couch potatoes of the laugh factory. Sold his style on its brand he started a trend. And the roots of his hair grew groupies and stylist. When all the stars chill in the green room. Search no more for the change of channel. The nightly groove thing produced by a pro. Creating lines for the choice seat around the stage. Come turn his magic on from that dull fair. The night is jumping on the bands of his wagon. And Lincoln stands on the mound throwing heat.

THREE STRIKES ON BILL

Three strikes on Bill. Roped his horse the other side of a mule. With a work pail where a saddle once rubbed. Sore muscles and brown patch of fingers tied tightly. With a sinker and high heat of flames still burning; The tall timbers of dangling hollywood, That all the glowingly ad libbed oil from lumberjack and saw. Whe he meddled with pitching boy's business in a drill. Where at bat we took the fight higher. Sluggers in the ring of their wet pool. The bridge of egos pride was sword of great throws. And a flash of fire, for the fan in the park; Wow! what can we say but, Three strikes on Bill.

TIGER AT THE PLATE

Royalty by talent I see you reign. You with bat in your hand. You my hero here with a caring care. You laid the wood on them, then you ran. Easily over their roughest gates. Stuffed with dangling chucks of their artichokes. Until the dry mouth of their tongue bit red. Freed at last, and you sled and scored. And now today, we leap to feats as fans. In the moment captured by eyes. With magical sporting dance, Smoothness of hand in the sweet swing. And our complete devotion under your grip, We're one big elephant, so thirsty and full. A pastime familiar - Dare not think to move. While you swung a club across the grain.

Wow! how we worshiped you for your skills. For now for the the autumn, forever - Our dreams were royally on display. With Tiger at the plate. 

PARIS AT SEVENTEEN

Paris at seventeen - Hey BFF, the first base. If the designed Fabric of my unform. Spoke with a shoe let the two speak out. Come sit with head of the hotel and know - My room is salute to our greatness. All records match era of a time, When the competitive player with a dream, published a star, Of his own shout, best and cheers. Before  a crowd in the game for sport, Flash lights and captured a Kodak moment.

If my Letterman mailed, record breaking is uncomfortable. It's for them, not us, for we know mountains. My climb unsure. When you built the house, you held the door, Open for my journey celebration, like a pioneer. A trailblazer and massive heel to drive nine inch nails.

Yes! For BFF's rocking swing. And giant step among mere mortals and models. My friends, I honor your gifts and accept your hand. Thus, we share this moment, this time! When all man made walls are torn down.

AMERICA CELEBRATES

America Celebrates! When spring bats burn and autumn bats smoke. Fan mailed delivered by signals over sky. And natives no longer contained. In currents that wave the flag and banner. Of a league of thousands; Few shower in the bubble bath. In the unlocked cellar, dwellers play, Through night flashes and the high fives. Dry thirst is quenched after long drought.

We are champions! players shout. They clasp a trophy in their hands. High above reach the triumph soars. Twinkles in teary eyes a past-future now. And desk is covered with the reporters takes, On a crowd parading around in the streets.

This thing is new: this ancient ritual. Call comes from the house painted white, In time to thank the champs as they dance. Upon shoulders the victors touch the sky. Is placed a large ring of gold. They see promise and promise kept. Run like the wind through the locker room. And find found respect, and they know. The answers to the fan's cry. Of needs met and the family fed. And pennant clapping over the old ball park. While America Celebrates! 

GEORGE WILL HUNTING

George Will hunting, the fans cheer. Under the inventing sky, on the capital gain hill, And on the day he hunts in the hot sun. where bare arm pitchers cry thirsting still.

To defend and protect pastime they loved in yesteryear.

Dry docks where heavy rollers play, the senators wait. Cooling in the heated pond for water to sail. Though the games on their spring grown calendars are long, gone.

And stuck in the mud's bed, carving now. The yeam with hands of fans for the mission possible, And glory days of the big stick, carried softly.

Who walked in heavy snow melted by hot bats. In the autumn's series, or found in the spring beginning sun. In the wishes shouted so loud that the signs of the forest. Hung to the hitching trees, or run with any hunter. Good as they in the noon spearing diamond plate tip.

Over the hotdogged moons of cheese on their burger. Gloves leaped high and caught the eternal burning coals.

Upon a grill, big game uniforms were a dream of boys. Will to hunt for times past, by George.

SCHWARZENEGGER HITS A GRAND SLAM

Schwarzenegger hits a grand slam. An action star has come. To clean the house at this time just right for the run, A man hard as steel as strong as wisdom. Knocking the top off the wall with his brain - his bronze. Straight in the bull's eye. He slings the arrow with his bending bow.

For he walks with the common touch, And plays with the kings. At the game invented by the boy wonder.

People come hoping. For the guiding light through in the solid wall, Hoping for the moon.

He walks on the cheese cloth to make bread. That satisfies their long hunger. For the fresh foods grown by working farms.

And lifted by power in his arms at last. And without fail. Schwarzenegger hits a grand slam.

THE MIGHTY GUMBEL

Once upon a time. When boys played-around with diamonds. Cut to fit fresh fields. Flawed for a series. On the stage of the world, He stood for something for something great. In wood worn bleachers and bliste . On the throwing fingers of the glove, In hedges he worked with love, Connected with a pastime game, Created in splendor and shinning grass. On deck of giant yacht.

Then wave from a humming bee with honey oats. And inside-the-park homers, In stain clay uniforms marked as teams, As inventor peddling hot ices, Attracted the huddled masses, And put back the rosy faced mugs. With, properly dressed caps and suds, Hopping cold chilled and stored. For the 'Bryant' hotdog foot of the bun, For the chilly, yellow mustard, Covering the hole ridden tee-shirt, Worn on the logo brand of champions. Toasting the mighty Gumbel.

SOXTOBER

Soxtober. All the way or nothing at all. Of the throw, slides and the clutch catches. Rope and collar in the circles of our fame, Plum of a duck cooked meal to eat from silver plates. The spoon mouth in this Autumn centerpiece, The mark eye, and the tanned glove of gold, Fashioned in an antique frame and mug of bubbles. To toast the flowing champagne for winners, And thank the beer boozer drunk on hops. And pale model and give the child some sun. Screen delays the tanning hide of their whipping. By the fast ball of the loose arm throwing all the way, Hooray! for Soxtober.

PUT THE BAT IN KATIE'S HANDS

Put the bat in Katie's hands, She will clearly see, my friends, Season of your bright dreams. In the rating forest of doubt, That all is possible, On the diamond mines, Of love and hope. Before you and yours for sport. One play of the ball and bat, Is connected and split. Into the soaring moment. Like the hit of the drum.

Sound and silence, attracts. Numbers rising above your belief. Of the morning high, Season of your sweeps in the harvest times, Cover field like grass, Thus freeing you and me. And the hopes of all fans. Into the believer. Love, and the game love, and more. Than before and more than yesterday. Is the incentive for 'Today.' To put the bat in Katie's hands and win.

HILLARY AND THE YANKEES

Hillary and the Yankees. This married celebration of two. Who played for warm seasons in snow. On the drive ways of their desires.

Today their passion endures a lot. And Brand and their names soar on a square; In time from every nook and crany. Carrying,'CNN,' 'Sports Center' and 'Tucker Carson' shoes.

A date in the bright sun. They came as one whom their city crowned: The fans adore their play. And the numbers pour into their sandbox.

CAUGHT BY ANN COULTER

Caught by Ann Coulter. With voice that pitched the message captured a nation; One mighty pitcher changed the habit, Increased the good of lives and healed a soul; This one pitcher threw a pitch to life.

The large voice leads to a hope possible, The throat dust is cleared with skill; And champion's cause has put an end to dispair. That gave a meaning to talk.

The voice that pitched the roadmap produced a peace, And confidence grew, and power followed; good is the hero that helps a nation over Bridge by troubled waters.

The one pitcher counts the wins and does not give up or in. The opposing voice nor drop the ball; A heart rules head as a heart loves a cap - night.  A message caught by time who hit a homerun. Ann Coulter - a true pastime hero.

RUSH DRIVES ONE TO RIGHT

Rush drives one to right. Leading alone in a game of giants when spring shines. Light in the windows of his seasonal eyes. His play today open to the rule book. And this chapter's page jumped over the head of lefty. Whose ancient glove was old as nuts and belts, The time of day was clearing skys. And the fans of new beginnings gave a hand of applause.

For stronger with the truth of champion side. Their deep desire where once they hoped would come, Their grass green and hearts fielding the possibility - Of the golden child who answered with his hands his steady heady, Who over the shouts of his distractors lifted his mighty bat. For a fan wins where hit knocks down walls and player stands on word.

ELIZABETH ROCKS THIS CITY

Elizabeth rocks this city. In the sun, roasting and toasting. All day long. On the stadium 'PA' we bring down the house. That erupted from the lava trapped in the open volcano.

Over the home dugout we danced breezing. To the hot tune blaring like bull from the china shop. And agree the calm crowd needs a night of rocking. The sounds of all the pounded pitch over the fence.

Tear a hole in the big open roof, More wide to the sky than damn gates of the Hoover. For our concert to start to the best of my begin, We saw the bat boy swing, we heard the other team sing. Run far, slide high, knock the ball to the moon, And we shall play, rock and roll baseball til dawn.

THE LARRY KING SWING

The Larry King swing. Turns spring to fall: the home run, Ushers in the waiting fan. A souvenir in the glove of a kid. Unites father with son - love in their eyes. Warm up the Autumn night.

A swing in the day hints, The sign of greatness; and the man. Ushers in a crowd as cheer breaks out.

A sparkle in the season of seasons. Is worth its price; the admission ticket. Stays in applauding hands. The tractor that made a swamp an infield. Rewards all its subjects; and all bows their heads, Major in a diamond league.

A bond between fan and man. Is past and present; the here and now. Sticks like white on the rice.

A swing of the turnstile in the old park. Turns yester to what a year; each memory savored. Cracker jacks in the box. A swing turns this mother out, Tears down the barriers between men; And the nation lights up it sky.

TALKING WITH TYRA

 Talking with Tyra. Postive state of mind and life is so good. Team play exposed they are well done. With the ball in the glove and the spring sun; When their caps are colored new and the new caps one, They will have blisters on feet and fingers; Off they go glad they will be happy, With the ride through the coast they will roll again; Though games be lost season will not; And life will have fresh start.

And life will have new meaning. Over the doubting of the past. They travelling along will not give easily; Pitching on mounds when big hurts go down, Trapped in a whirlwind, set in ice frozen; Bat in their hands will shatter in pieces, And the uniform heat melts their dreams; Weaver of twisting arms; And life will have strike outs.

And life will have home runs. Score more today cheer fan out their seats. And roars break sound on the barriers; Where grew a rose maybe a rose so rosy. Petal its stem to the strength of the strong; Though they be sore and heavy as bricks, Corners of the stones show through fences; Climb in the mountain till the mountain reaches top. And life is good talking with Tyra.

WARREN BUFFET'S FAT FREE FRIDAY FAVES

Warren Buffet's Fat Free Friday Faves. Like a glowing light, respect keeps you alive. Your substance and style is a scoll of legend, Desire in your game is painted through your house, Around designer wears, a jewel in a crown, Hail to the king.

Wise like a book stumping, holy man, Lead us to the land promise, Of milk and honey and homeruns. Reminded of the reporters's pen, your work measured. In the long ball! - The dollar and the yen.

Historic like a rocket and astronaut, Blast of matter over the center fence wall, Where Wall Street traders meet and sell pastime. Stock price up like scuffs on the ball, To moon and mars -

Game face with exercise in your diet, Car and the driver, star with the twinkling eye, You, stand the test of time and capsule. Man tries to catch with a butterfly net. In the diamond jungle. Warren Buffet's Fat Free Friday Faves.

IRON MAN BUSH

Iron man Bush appears when natives plant their corn. In rows around the fences. For all time a triumphs over 'Big Ben,' But the 'Father of Time' has placed trust in the way. Under the care of the mechanic body is oiled. How old is the old baseball card in your stack? When the bat swings it has young wings. And mighty pops, and the heart of lions. Again ticking strong, the iron man passes the test of time.

60 MINUTES AFTER THE WORLD SERIES

60 Minutes after the World Series. Wow! Over the hill? The tube is hot and burning still; In a historic moon at full of tank, popular to it fans. And paddles on the river of its times the large canoe of the channel. And the steady child grows Bigger. Than the wanna bees and such who sliding dust in ivy fences. And excitely they surprise. The wiery tycoon on the phone in the cheap seats. To tie the noose tighter. Yet, fails and slowly crawls the dirty floors. In the stadium by bay below the mountain.

Primetime and the cracker jacks smacks, A homerun off the rack. Over the hill and over the whacked Fox's ploy. To the fans on feet, the higher high over losers heads. In a gust of dust. Tune in! 60 Minutes after the World Series.

LETS PLAY IN PALM BEACH

Lets play in Palm Beach. With the kissing of the trophy fine. And the new champions electrical fire. Burning more regal as the night. Bubbles flow over the ring into the wet shower; Lets play in Palm Beach. With the celebration of cheers, With the ballons in the air. And wrapping paper on reporter, And the caricature in black and white.

Lets play in Palm Beach with our friends; All night, til dawn, light explodes. And the old joint turning on the fun, And dancing onto the seats, gives us full-cup. Served by game's ancient fair, The party of now from then, Toast sip at the champagne, To our triumph over yesterday's fear. With this comes independence day.

Lets play in Palm Beach!

TO THE RIGHT OF ROBIN WRIGHT

To the right of Robin Wright. Are you the answer to the prayer? When dry spells are blessed by rain, Content to wait when forecast predicts - Could today be the psychic tomorrow?

When it is thunder where are the faithful? Could it be they forgot their umbrellas. From rack by the door, or keys to the kingdom?

Might it be written that, pound foolish, A new kid goats them on and far, The bright day lifts wind like a kite?

It might be written that doubters are left. That a miracle fell from the sky, Hurtled rock solid? Let the winters write - Where pitchers throw to the right of Robin Wright.

DORIS KEARNS GOODWIN MAKES THE TEAM

Doris Kearns Goodwin make the team. The oriole dances on the electric wire. Over the flood plain waters. Mortal man and blue jay wait eagered to prey. The dinner and feast of a swing. In the planned and thawed dew on the grass of the rabbit. That hops the fence like cracker jack for scattered eggs, A stuffed turkey roast by the sticks of his legs, Cramped in the dugout bunker of bombs and missle, Readies the switch of the lights through a steady flow of air. In a gust that picked a chicken. Dry, as the swamp cabbage sprouts its palms, Grounds to grow at the right, planted time. Simply for fans, one hope of joy plenty, That chosen life whose cheers carry like wind - Loudly in snyc.

With flaw on the diamond and drying clay, Pigeon friend to park in a new year. Searching and hoping in the middle of bees and flowers. Like the snapped crackle of pop. The beer guy and frosted mug. Covered with the salt for peanuts; If the team jokes their way into a win. And hotdogs for everybody, Or fresh chips and sausa; For the first funny spring time net, Doris Kearns Goodwin make the team.

DIAMONDS ARE JEN'S BEST FRIEND

Diamonds are Jen's best friend! Ice in the bucket, the solid gold, Coal from the mine, the pressure of combustion. Country of orgin, the pastime blossom, Holes in the earth that produces the run. Trots around all four for the win.

What now my friend, my trusted jewel, Dug out the ground, the brillian fire, Rock on the finger, the tried and true. Say, say, say, the champion's choice, Fat as cow, the milking machine, Say of the diary, the cheddar costs some cheese.

Fret not the sporting press, my buddy, Fret not the departed fan, my blood, Or the burn in the rubbing salt. Fret not the hill, the constanct climbing, The shower and bubbles, the wedding dance, Forever and ever, say, say, say. Diamonds are Jen's best friend...

REGIS STRIKES IT RICH!

This ancient question of ages. That stayed for time in ice. On the hot plate of my fears.

Now the warm fan reassures. And fan and love makes difference in a game; For every rookie or batter. Hitting dollar signs, cashed in their house.

New picture on the candy covered pastime. The cracker jack box reveals its prize. And hearts melt into the treat. And the victory is rich and sweet. Regis strikes it rich!

TRUMPS KNUCKLE BALL

Trump - knuckle ball in the game. A sinister drop. Between earth and sky. From the beginning of the professor's knock. That opens the gates and seat center. Til the lady's swan song at the park.

Removing fat from  a batter. Twisting candy from the uniformed cotton. That the trainer washed with bleach. In the club house church where he prayed for mercy. Wept all day in dugout bunker. But nothing stopped the bomb.

Flying like the eagle that came to nest. Sinking the ship, pirates commanded once. And sister can you spare a dime. The entire team seems out of time. Hiding when they see that odd apple. Out of Adam's garden glove.

Without speed and volocity. Weighing when it should tip the scale. Waiter in charge - Through the campus circus of the school yards. Teaching the professional student. With old school rules.

HOLY URBAN COWBOY

Holy urban cowboy. His Louisville slugger knocked down the stadium wall, Calf on the range falls as the missle hits, Today's bidder on his future hide, broadcasted pictures on the nightly news. Gives birth to the lunar sign.

The baby calf was feed on natural grass. Organie seed sprouts of the field's harvest, The sweet milk and butter as it churned. The swing of bat was covered in the barn, Only love for game was rooted in the hay. And the unrooted curl.

The center ivy is fashioned in a crown, The jewel that was rests on head, Top on the jar of jam, among the preserves. Of slightly gray hair and uniform in the dugout, Grabs the log in the woodshed pile. And hits in the pinch.

The forgotten bull was ready when they called. The old farmers trousers and tar on the pine, Lighting the sky, wished on the star. And coached the grazing moose from his stall, Tapping spikes are pointing as they dig. For the aerial attack: this 'Saturday Night Fever.'

BETTY DAVIS EYES SEES ALL

The stringes through Betty Davis eyes sees all. Ties my old shoes, that breaks the plates of clay. Dirty my uniform. And I yearn to leave a dusty trail. My time is spent by the spring to fall.

The stringes that held together under pressure. Ties my large tongue; that hides the thirsting buds. Cleans my plate. And I yearn to touch base with earth. My polish is under the right eye.

The arm that throws the runner out at home. Removes the sand; that covers the lasting soles. Shines my tops. And I yearn to hit the fleeing base. My swift of foot is given the baseman's pad.

The tips of cotton stands to the soldiers salute; Patience rubs and swabs, away the crusty mud. Care claims it place. And I yearn to weather any storm. My spikes have kicked a hand around clock.

And I yearn to lace the hightops above the bed.

RALPH LAUREN SWINGS

Ralph Lauren swings. With his pillar and post, like Russian caviar, His left heal cleet in a row, Now launches a heated missle from the plate designers, China in a bull's shop knocks dust from the saw, And a match fuel the fire.

On the right field wall I see the center plot; Today's town marshall and the sweet taffy pulled withing the foul pole.

And a Santa Claus delivers the presents; Noon sun and commander general, rich as the bank, Vault by insurance policy the driver and fired up passenger. Light the sky cloud with hugh bolt.

There is thunder and spark over the circle dome, Dance, clap and soda in the sound of muscle, Gospel shout in the packed park; Bench with collected card and hand welcomes the hero.

At the home, still warm, and leftover from the feeding frenzy. The eagle of prey sails high. When Ralph Lauren swings.

FASCINATING BARBARA WALTERS

Fascinating Barbara Walters on the opening night. Of hgh heels dug deep into the red clay, When fans of the great game come to play. And enjoy the show. Of style and grace of her winning way, Of performance beyond years. When clock raise the arms of the golden bat. To launch and capture more cheer, From whom ever came closer to catching a glimpse. At swan and dove. Endless love. For the masses married to pastime.

On the opening night. When all fans watch and wait, Hoping, clutching the opened glove, For the star, In light shining bright on the field. Of dreams connecting neighbor and neighborhoods, On hand for the thrills. She'll stamp her anchoring brand in the male room. And earn her keep at the plate of kings. And dry the tears of celebs. With every pitch since time. Measured first across her million dollar smile.

FLY ME TO THE SWAMP

Fly me to the swamp. Let rise the ballon of popularity, the blimp's view, Waving to millions, connected to people like me. Pan left, pan right, I soared with my fan. And turned on surfing and the natural high.

I climb the moutain and , equipped, adjusted the lens, Sending a perfect transmission direct to the stars, And where men clapped, I and a team collide. My further proof, on the roof of buildings, I sailed the sky as smooth as a ship.

Flies lightly land on the cans and bottles, Not at all afraid, of good ole boy's giant water. This  - they account to my frined's air brigade, Wonderful are their wing span in the clear sky. Indication that we all beamers, real and broad.

Signaled by unseen radar, the dish soaped, Until, switching on the hitters, I heard opera. On the tube tested to produce swamp chomp heroics, We rocked the sitting patrons to their feet. Where now they stand cheering the team.

About the Author

RONNIE C. WRIGHT is the author of American Gifts, Stayfine America and Christmas In America. He is the world's first Acroneticist and, award-winning inventor of Acronetics and, the Stayfine Diet. A host of Stayfine with Ronnie on PCTN.TV, online. He is an International Scholar Laureate, International Poet of Merit and, INC.5000 Company Honoree. Ronnie is President & Founder of the Fine Fitness Foundation.