The Campaigning Season

Mack Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

The Campaigning Season

Beowulf dripped with his enemies’ blood

Montgomery learned of war in Flanders’ mud

Young Davy Crockett grinned down a big bear

Orville and Wilbur conquered the air

Horatius defied Lars Porsena, thus saving Rome

Kit Carson called the wild prairies his home

Wolfe and Montcalm died ‘neath the walls of Quebec

Lewis and Clark made their continental trek

At Monmouth Molly Pitcher crewed a cannon

Goliad echoes the death of Fannin

Brave men and women we well remember,

And from cold March until hot September

On fields of struggle (like Abraham’s plain)

New leaders conquer despite fear and pain

While facing Mad Momma and her (reproach) --

God have mercy on a Little League coach!

Of Biblical Proportions

Mack Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Of Biblical Proportions

“This contest is the game of the century!!!”

The announcer gasped almost breathlessly,
“A slug-fest of biblical proportions!!!”
He yelped in haste, his excitement inspired
(perhaps)
By the team mothers sharpening their claws
Upon the tattered reputation of
The umpire (who, in his innocent hours,
Filled prescriptions down at his pharmacy.
Please know, before you leave: his name was Steve).
And every pitch and hit and bounce and catch
Was then remarked with apocalyptic praise
Employing multiples and multiples
Of exclamation marks (though one would do)
To set the sports fans’ faithful hearts ablaze
With love transcendent for Our Team so true,
And Dante-esque hatred for The Other,
Words well-worn in canonical cliches’
Calling down thundering Truth from Horeb
Parting the seas, purifying the Temple
(or at least the plywood concession stand)

All this hyperbole was merely to frame

A middle-school girls’ scrimmage softball game

Of Biblical Proportions

Mack Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Of Biblical Proportions

 “This contest is the game of the century!!!”

The announcer gasped almost breathlessly,
“A slug-fest of biblical proportions!!!”
He yelped in haste, his excitement inspired
(perhaps)
By the team mothers sharpening their claws
Upon the tattered reputation of
The umpire (who, in his innocent hours,
Filled prescriptions down at his pharmacy.
Please know, before you leave: his name was Steve).
And every pitch and hit and bounce and catch
Was then remarked with apocalyptic praise
Employing multiples and multiples
Of exclamation marks (though one would do)
To set the sports fans’ faithful hearts ablaze
With love transcendent for Our Team so true,
And Dante-esque hatred for The Other,
Words well-worn in canonical cliches’
Calling down thundering Truth from Horeb
Parting the seas, purifying the Temple
(or at least the plywood concession stand)

All this hyperbole was merely to frame

A middle-school girls’ scrimmage softball game