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featured poemS

THE TROPHY CAGE 

Somewhere in a dark dusty corner of a decaying building,

Stands a tall mahogany veneered trophy case surrounded with glass,

Trimmed in gold with a story to be told.

Behind the glass roadblock are rows of bronze trophies

Meekly echoing the triumphs of sporting exploits,

Their cups overflowed with tears of neglect,

One by one they vainly beckon to share their glorious past with the masses.

Quarantined from sport’s mainstream,

They are outlawed into the cage,

Meanwhile, their metal bodies precariously vibrate,

To emit a siren’s welcome, only to be ignored by those who pass.

Over time, once glittered with achievement,

The trophies became tarnished with neglect.

Their brass bodies pitted from daggers of racism,

While off-color remarks smudge their once shining exterior.

Trophy after trophy, dusty with untold stories,

That once gleamed with excitement,

Are now quietly spirited away, one by one.

While they are only a shadowy remembrance of a once bright life,

The remaining cups thirst for visitors,

As they plead to surrender their countless stories.

From dawn to dusk, they stand tall,

Reaching skyward for acceptance,

Absorbing the elements from a blind society,

Never to see the light of recognition.

Unable to penetrate the glass barrier,

The trophy cups become empty of ambition.

One by one, randomly,

They crumble before their next confession.

Their achievements are visible, yet unseen behind the glass façade,

As they are never touched with accolades from the sporting gods.

Who has the keys to this dark dungeon?

Who will discover these caged trophies?

And expose their unheralded glory?

Or will they live in an everlasting purgatory?

-Larry Lester, July 2021

WHEN THE GAMES RETURN

When the games return

we will not hide behind the mask.

We will race out onto the field

to bask in fellowship and embrace

the sky, sun and the four bases below.

There will be no fear in the air,

no sickness in the stands. There

will only be cheering and clapping

and a knowing that baseball is what

matters and our dreams are round

and hard and at times get caught

in our gloves.

When the tarp is lifted and rolled

back a sudden beauty will appear.

It will be the memories of what

we missed and what we love. It will

be baseball. It will be prayer.

- E. Ethelbert Miller, December 2020