Ritual of the game

Rubbing Mud

Split finger fastball

Slider

Changeup

Knuckleball

Curve

Sinker

Eephus

leave the hand empty  

haunted by the ghost of the seam

conspiracy of finger tips to stitching

instantly evaporating  

bearing down a bore hole

shouldering aside snagging air  

taste of river mud

lingering sweet on the tongue

settling out, nuggets we hold dear in our fist. 

Dogma

Good Dog

What a good dog

what a very good dog

you are but I wonder

sometimes

if you weren’t born

with the oily sheen

of original sin

on your lustrous coat

our thoughtless gift

your feckless friends

eternal damnation

nipping at our flanks

scent of salvation on the breeze

driving us mad

fangs bared

to feral packs of infidels

our legs churning

with dreams of supplication

your gritty tongue  

proclaiming the one true faith
a wag of amazing grace

that saved a wretch like me. 

New publication

Hermes Poetry Journal (UK) publishes The Lightning Field and Clay, two poems by Dave Hardin.  

http://windlee.wix.com/hermespoetry#!page-5/cdjw 

Life cycle

Cycling

Diabolical of them to graft

a wayward gene to the constellation

of my bicycle frame, a sleepy bit

of stowaway code, a smidge of excess

weight compounding countless uphill climbs

a drunken tar in the singing rigging

on downhill runs, chewing the scenery

biding time, laying up against the day

some unseen hand throws a distant switch

to slow the pedals down, rims spinning

at 33 ⅓, my collection

of 78’s rendered obsolete

as I tried to explain on Tuesday

afternoon midway up a murderous

hill that used to blow me kisses

and pat my bottom, but I don’t think you

heard me, racing past on your way to the top.

playing the pockets

Pockets

My hands grow tired waiting

while I decide which foot is best put forward

when my frantic tongue casts torn nets for schooling words

whereas the rest of me gamely listens

to glad-handing anglers with extravagant luck

who need to press their catch on me

down to the very last scale

sending my fingers finning

for the solitude of Walden Pond

blind with longing

for the lopsided grin of my pocket knife

curling to nap around

the soothing jangle of my keys.

New Publication

ARDOR Literary Magazine publishes two poems by Dave Hardin.  Beach Glass and New Neighbor appear in the new issue. 




 http://ardorlitmag.uberflip.com/i/129961?utm_source=ARDOR+Literary+Magazine+List&utm_campaign=b477bf6af1-Issue_One_Newsletter12_30_2012&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_9efa724d86-b477bf6af1-47528273

Keep off the grass

Lawn Care

Saturday nights the next door neighbor

would shed his skin and stand astride

the soft shoe rasp four corners will make

pulled in puckers at their straining gathers.

Rocked back on his heels in a wide open stance

bubbled in ease on a solitary

pinpoint of global coordinates

planet curving away on all sides

sipping vodka on the woozy stitching

of an off-speed pitch in the latter

innings of a lopsided late season game.

Garden hose and beaded tumbler in hand

Scott’s Weed and Feed in a Folgers can plunked

down on the dirty bandage of the driveway

you practiced primary lawn care under

a shingle with the simple oath to do no harm.

I still recite the words under my breath

house slippers a whisper on the driveway

tugging at the terry cloth collar

of my rinsed red bathrobe, legs white stalks

against the deep green of the front lawn.