June means lots and lots of baseball! And you can't get a better baseball poem than Casey...
Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that - We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped- "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore. "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand; And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud; But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
I'm dreaming of warm sandy beaches. I'm dreaming of days by the pool. I'm dreaming of fun in the afternoon sun, and week after week of no school.
I'm thinking of swim suits and sprinklers, imagining lemonade stands. I'm lost in a daydream of squirt guns and ice cream and plenty of time on my hands.
I'm picturing baseball and hot dogs, Envisioning games at the park, and how it stays light until late every night, and seems like it never gets dark.
I long to ride skateboards and scooters. I want to wear t-shirts and shorts. I'd go for a hike, or I'd ride on my bike, or play lots of summertime sports.
My revery turns to a yearning to draw on the driveway with chalk. It's really a bummer to daydream of summer while shoveling snow from the walk. --Kenn Nesbitt
June to me means kids at home all day, coming in and out and making the house a mess. And oh yes, me doing more things with the kids, more things outside, and less cleaning of my own. I love summer break, because if it gets messy, I am still home the next day and not at school and I can CLEAN IT LATER:)
Messy Room by Shel Silverstein Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair, And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp. His workbook is wedged in the window, His sweater's been thrown on the floor. His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV, And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door. His books are all jammed in the closet, His vest has been left in the hall. A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed, And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall. Whosever room this is should be ashamed! Donald or Robert or Willie or-- Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear, I knew it looked familiar!
In my head I hear a humming: Summer, summer summer's coming. Soon we're going on vacation But there is a complication: Day by day the problem's growing- We don't know yet where we're going!
Mother likes the country best; That's so she can read and rest. Dad thinks resting is a bore; He's for fishing at the shore. Sailing is my brother's pick; Sailing makes my sister sick; She says swimming's much more cool, Swimming in a swimming pool. As for me, why, I don't care, I'd be happy anywhere! In my head I hear a humming: Summer, summer, summer's coming. Soon we're going on vacation But we have a complication: Day by day the problem's growing- Where oh where will we be going?
The old man must have stopped our car two dozen times to climb out and gather into his hands the small toads blinded by our light and leaping, live drops of rain.
The rain was falling, a mist about his white hair and I kept saying you can't save them all, accept it, get back in we've got places to go.
But, leathery hands full of wet brown life, knee deep in the summer roadside grass, he just smiled and said they have places to go, too.
What kind? I ate a melon its color wasn’t green. It was the biggest melon I had ever seen. Orange was not the color, and yes it was so good. It was a Watermelon! I bet you would eat one if you could.
9 comments:
June means lots and lots of baseball! And you can't get a better baseball poem than Casey...
Casey at the Bat
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
It's Summer !!
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The sun is shining
Temperature is climbing
I have a daydream
with coke and ice-cream
I watch the children playing
from the early morning till the evening
I smell some roasted meat
There's a barbecue in every street
Everybody is having fun
Enjoying the warmth of the sun
It's summer from dusk till dawn
Pass this page on, before the summer is gone
-- Unknown
Hannah Hutchinson
Dreaming of Summer
I'm dreaming of warm sandy beaches.
I'm dreaming of days by the pool.
I'm dreaming of fun in the afternoon sun,
and week after week of no school.
I'm thinking of swim suits and sprinklers,
imagining lemonade stands.
I'm lost in a daydream of squirt guns and ice cream
and plenty of time on my hands.
I'm picturing baseball and hot dogs,
Envisioning games at the park,
and how it stays light until late every night,
and seems like it never gets dark.
I long to ride skateboards and scooters.
I want to wear t-shirts and shorts.
I'd go for a hike, or I'd ride on my bike,
or play lots of summertime sports.
My revery turns to a yearning
to draw on the driveway with chalk.
It's really a bummer to daydream of summer
while shoveling snow from the walk.
--Kenn Nesbitt
June to me means kids at home all day, coming in and out and making the house a mess. And oh yes, me doing more things with the kids, more things outside, and less cleaning of my own. I love summer break, because if it gets messy, I am still home the next day and not at school and I can CLEAN IT LATER:)
Messy Room by Shel Silverstein
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
This poem is titled "Vacation"
Vacation
Author: Mary Ann Hoberman
In my head I hear a humming:
Summer, summer summer's coming.
Soon we're going on vacation
But there is a complication:
Day by day the problem's growing-
We don't know yet where we're going!
Mother likes the country best;
That's so she can read and rest.
Dad thinks resting is a bore;
He's for fishing at the shore.
Sailing is my brother's pick;
Sailing makes my sister sick;
She says swimming's much more cool,
Swimming in a swimming pool.
As for me, why, I don't care,
I'd be happy anywhere!
In my head I hear a humming:
Summer, summer, summer's coming.
Soon we're going on vacation
But we have a complication:
Day by day the problem's growing-
Where oh where will we be going?
Bed in Summer
By Robert Louis Stevenson
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
Birdfoot's Grampa
by Joseph Bruchac
The old man
must have stopped our car
two dozen times to climb out
and gather into his hands
the small toads blinded
by our light and leaping,
live drops of rain.
The rain was falling,
a mist about his white hair
and I kept saying
you can't save them all,
accept it, get back in
we've got places to go.
But, leathery hands full
of wet brown life,
knee deep in the summer
roadside grass,
he just smiled and said
they have places to go, too.
Summer:
What kind?
I ate a melon its color wasn’t green.
It was the biggest melon I had ever seen.
Orange was not the color, and yes it was so good.
It was a Watermelon! I bet you would eat one if you could.
Summer...a collaboration by Carly and Ki (my daughter)
Schools out,
To summer vacations,
we travel to beaches
full of explorations.
Georgia peaches,
Ice cream shops opening-
To sticky messes dripping.
Swimming pools gleaming,
cool and refreshing.
The Air, etremely hot,
With sky a hue of blue,
Timed afternoon rain showers.
Shining tails flew-
of lightning-bugs round yellow flowers.
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