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Suxanne Popp

Color Critic

Why does it bother me
That the juice of the plum
At the heart of the poem
Should not be maroon?

Did I not feel the heartbeat
Of a mother birthng her loss?
As the fledging left her hand
Jar shattering, ripe womanhood
Spilled?
What was that color then?
We all know it. Saffron? No.
Fuchsia? Close. Not pink, nor purple,
And, definitely, not maroon.
By concentrating on the hue
I escape the pain
Of my vermillion loss.

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The Poetry of Baseball

Grip the words firmly in your glove
Feel the stitching with your hand
Now suck in the pitched air
Focus on the space

Between the catcher and the plate


There is a shape of space
You must curve or slide or hurl
Emotion packed pitch of verb
Rhythm and control

Rock back and throw your leg
Feel the muscle of meaning
Unwind
As you trace a line through space
And connect with a place and time

Timing is everything.

[...] Read more

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