God's Perfect Angel

Last night I saw an Angel looking down at me,
She peered through sad, tearful eyes, that twinkled radiantly.
Her skin looked alabaster beneath fanned golden hair.
I tried to look right past her, as if she wasn't there.

Her wings were like a turtle dove's, white and shoulder high,
Attached to the middle of her back, hung just below her thigh.
She wore a sheer flowing gown that rippled in a wind,
A colorful floral crown sat perched majestically on her head.

She looked as if she knew me, her questions went unsaid.
Her stare went right through me as she floated above my bed.
She hovered there like a cloud, her visage quite serene,
It was like some ghostly shroud you'd see on a movie screen.

She looked faintly familiar, her face I was sure I'd seen.
Like a Fairy Princess, a celestial virgin Queen.
I thought I heard her whisper, only her lips never came apart.
I couldn't decipher the message she so desperately tried to impart.

Then I heard faint music and her voice rose gradually,
The two blended all together, in perfect harmony.
Then a chorus of unseen Angels joined the sing-along.
All their voices soon converged into one acapellic song.

Their words were hard to muster, their voices were not clear.
The melody was kind of eerie, a Gothic, chant-like cheer.
The Angel then put her hands together as if in silent prayer.
The room became eerily quiet.  I wasn't sure she knew I was there.

Was this all a hypnotic muse? Something seemed desperately wrong.
A self-conceived nightmarish dream where I did not belong?
The music slowly faded away as her eyes began to tear.
Her vision seemed to waver a bit, then slowly disappear.

The Angel then turned to vapor as the fan wisped her away,
There seemed to be no rational point in asking her to stay.
The room smelled somewhat musty, a slight coolness filled the air.
I layed there for a little while, then bowed my head in prayer.

Had all this been an hallucination? Was my mind playing tricks on me?
Or was this some divine revelation that God wanted me to see?
When I woke up the next morning it all seemed like a dream,
I searched around everywhere for proof of what I believed I'd seen.

In my mind I questioned whether it was truly real or fake,
It sure didn't feel like an illusion.  I swear I was awake.
As I got prepared for work, I turned on the T.V. set.
I searched and found the morning news.  The lead story said...

A little girl had just been found, initially feared for dead.
Her mouth and limbs had been bound, a bag was over her head.
Someone mysteriously phoned a tip, they'd left an anonymous word,
Authorities were precisely lead to a place where strange music had been heard.

As they entered the chamber of horrors where the young girl was kept,
She was found unharmed, though scared, while upstairs her captor slept.
The room was cool and musty, a slight vapor filled the air.
They searched for the source of the strange music but couldn't find it anywhere.

They flashed the young girls picture.  She'd been missing for days it seemed,
Suddenly I was struck with awe as I looked at the television screen.
For I knew at that very moment my vision was not a dream.
There was God's Perfect Angel, the one that I had seen.


Copyright © August 2009
Kevin Mooney

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Wormholes

Somewhere in space there lies a place,
That connects two dimensions in time.
A warped oasis a man forced faces,
When presented with 2 states of mind.

Twisting and turning, never converging,
Conjoining two disjointed schemes.
Resisting and yearning, forever diverging,
Thoughts remembered in dreams.

Somber moments of relaxed coma,
Create quite a perplexed surreal.
Whispered illusions, contort confusion,
Sustain the tight vortex concealed.

Once you've arrived on the other side,
What's apparent is things look the same.
You soon realize there's no place to hide,
Transparency's one of life's game.

Somewhere in space there lies an escape,
A bridge to a parallel world.
A path one can take, to ease mental breaks,
Where time's dimensions unfurl.

Portholes exist that scientists insist,
Pierce man's perception of time.
Tunnels amidst a black cosmic abyss,
Wormholes that fester the mind.



Copyright © April 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
041510

The Castles of Callisto

Dusk arrives to blanket the skies,
Celestial eyes appear.
Galilean moons rise in tune,
Millions of miles from here.


Shadows loom as vapors consume,
Callisto's stark terrain.
The silhouettes of castles rest,
Haunting those that remain.


Mountain peaks imprison the weak,
The immoral and insane.
Within the walls one hears the calls,
Of irrepressible pain.


Satan's manifesto,
Evils native son.
The Castles of Callisto,
Eternity's just begun.


Silence speaks while insanity seeks,
Minds twisted, confused and deranged.
Nobility rules this kingdom of fools,
Where thoughts are controlled and contained.


Whispers are heard but rarely a word,
The echoes of distant bells ring.
Listeners converge but never emerge,
Souls anguish, alone in its wings.


Governed by ghosts of ancient hosts,
Spirits belie their disguise,
Phantom thieves and pirates boast,
Of fortunes, treasures and lies.


No one escapes Callisto's fate,
Tenants are eternally bound.
To hesitate may be too late,
Your remnants may never be found.


The Castles of Callisto,
Sheer walls of hallowed doom.
Men have tried,
Been denied,
Locked up and marooned.


The Castles of Callisto,
Hell calls from every room.
Its sovereignty,
Just might be,
Man's final resting tomb.

Copyright © September 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
090310

Guido The Mosquito

In the town of Escondido,
There lived a mosquito named Guido.
He had a wingspan,
As wide as my hand,
And his last name was Esposito.

His brother-cousin Alfredo,
Came from outside Laredo.
He had no fear
When females were near
He was nicknamed the Texas Tornado.

Alfredo and Guido the mosquitoes,
Had fairly large libidos.
They could be found,
Hanging around,
Poolsides in their speedos.

In the evenings they wore white tuxedos,
Went to clubs and played blackjack and keno.
Though often annoying,
Folks couldn't help enjoying,
These social misfits and pal gringos.

All of the female mosquitos,
Made fun of the Espositos,
As they walked around,
Like a couple of clowns,
In their speedos and white tuxedos.

One day Alfredo and Guido,
Decided to go to Reno.
They hitched a ride,
By flying inside,
A '69 Gran Torino.

Little did either mosquito,
Know the driver was Tito the bandito.
He was heading,
To crash a wedding,
Then rob The Pink Flamingo.

When his plan became clear to Guido,
He asked his friend "What can we do?"
Alfredo replied,
Stay low and hide,
It's better the less that we know.

Well that didn't sit well with Guido,
So he decided to confront the bandito.
He thought maybe then,
The plot would end,
It was all he could think of to do.

Well Tito had a bag of Doritos,
Sitting on the seat of his Torino.
When he looked aside,
Guido climbed inside,
And perched himself on a frito.

When Tito reached in for a Dorito,
He pulled out the frito with Guido.
Without hesitate,
He up and ate,
Poor old Guido the mosquito.

Now Tito loved burritos,
Cheetos and all kinds of Fritos,
But what he just had,
Tasted real bad,Of course he'd never eaten a mosquito.

He instinctively spit out 'ole Guido,
And saw it was a large mosquito.
To his surprise,
It looked still alive,
And its body spelled "Don't go to Reno"


Well this totally freaked out Tito,
And he missed his turn to Reno.
You should have seen,
How his face turned green,
Then he noticed old Guido's libido.

He flicked the mangled mosquito.
Into the back of the Gran Torino.
Then changed his plan,
As he wiped his hand,
And decided to head to Toledo.

Well Alfredo flew down to poor Guido,
And asked if there was anything he could do?
Guido replied,
Then quietly died,
On the floor of the Gran Torino.

Alfredo flew out the window.
And made his way to Reno.
There he reminisced,
About the bravery missed,
Of his cousin and unsung hero.

How Guido Esposito,
The mosquito from Escondido,
Saved the Flamingo,
From Tito the gringo,
By pretending to be a Dorito.

So if you ever see a mosquito,
In a speedo with a large libido.
He just might be,
From the same family tree,
As Alfredo and Guido Esposito.


Copyright © July 2010
Kevin Mooney


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Twenty Tiny Angels

Twenty tiny Angels,
Nestled in classrooms.
Twenty tiny Angels,
Vessel-ed in cask tombs.

Innocent little Angels
Sitting at their desks.
Innocent little Angels,
Solemnly laid to rest.

Eleven days till Christmas,
No more Santa Clause.
Heaven now be with us,
Comfort those that lost.

Defenseless tiny victims,
A senseless tragedy.
God is now with them,
For posterity.

Solitary survivors,
Scathed with agony.
Forever the reminders,
How tragic life can be.

Let their story grip us,
To our very core.
Pray their souls' be with us,
For now and evermore.

Are we all oblivious?
We all must stop and pause.
How can God forgive us?
Is it worth a social cause?

Twenty tiny Angels
Played in tiny rooms.
Twenty timeless Angels,
Displayed in tiny tombs.

Twenty little angels,
Rest now peacefully,
Constant reminders,
Reflections of you and me.

For eternity...

Copyright © February 2014
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
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Cosmic Caribou

Life seems somewhat trivial,
The world and those we love.
Inconsequential strife when viewed,
A thousand miles above.

Serenity, tranquility,
Swirls of clouds and hues,
Micro-scoped calamity,
Viewed through a hollow tube.

The further out perspective gets,
The less we heed or care.
Suffering, pain, neglect,
No longer forced to bare.

Higher still, reality fades,
Proportions blend, then fuse.
Focus blurs, congruity
Distort, contort, confused.

Animated grains of sand,
Kinetic solitude.
Specks in God's celestial plan,
Cosmic Caribou.



Copyright © February 2014
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
021314

Suddenly Philip (Seymour)

A tribute to Philip Seymour Hoffman

So sad you're gone
Life seems unfair.
It's hard to imagine,
You lying there.
You lived on the edge, ignoring the signs.
Now you've left all that mattered behind.

Suddenly Philip, you've gone away,
There's no more tomorrows, no more todays.
The fans who adored you, stood by your side,
Can now only mourn you and how you died.
There's so much to ask,
So little to say.
Suddenly Philip, you've gone away.

The roles that you gave us,
Seemed so hard to play.
Quirky, contagious,
Misfit and gay.
Somewhat misguided, peculiar and queer,
Tragically human, romantically sincere.

Suddenly Philip, you're no longer here,
There's one more less talent, one more empty chair.
We'll certainly miss you and your unique way,
We'll never forget you and those roles you played.
The world will soon realize,
The impact you made.
Suddenly Philip, such a price you paid.

Suddenly Philip,
You broke your stride.
An underachiever,
Now immortalized.
Suddenly Philip,
Your legacy
Will be defined,
In posterity,

Cinematically.

RIP

Copyright © February 2014

Kevin Mooney

kmm001

021214

Little Miss

This is an acrostic...

She was the twinkle in America's eye,

 Heaven sent Angel in a depressed time.

 Image of innocence, talent supreme,

 Radiant child star of the silver screen.

 Little Miss Marker made 'em Stand up And Cheer,

 Eventual Bright Eyed, star of the year.

 Youngest to grace Grauman's walkway,

 The Good Ship Lollipop castaway.

 Everyone's adorable Curly Top kid,

 Millions recall films and songs that she did.

 Poor Little Rich Girl with Dimples and doo,

 Littlest Colonel and Rebel too.

 Even Stowaway and January had

 Big screen appeal during times that were bad.

 Little Miss, Heidi and Willie Winkie,

 Animal Crackers in Soup aplenty.

 Considered to don role of Dorothy Gale,

 Kindred icon, internationally hailed.

Copyright © February 2014

 Kevin Mooney

 kmm001

 021114

What If?

Inspired by Lennon's Imagine....

What if there was no more hate,
No guns or knives or swords?
No violence or anger, rage or rape,
No more such thing as war.
What if there was no more crime,
No dying in the streets?
No more stealing or vandalizing,
No robbers, thieves or cheats?
What if there were no need for jails,
No prisons, just empty cells?
What if convicted women and men
Found peace within themselves.
What if there were no disasters,
No death-tolls from famine or disease?
What if there were no terrorist attacks,
No killing at home or overseas?
What if there were no rich or poor,
No social tension or strain?
What if there were no struggles for,
Political dominance or gain?
What if everyone shared what they had,
Weren't concerned with their own wealth or fame?
What if they gave to those that are sad,
To ease their less fortunate pain?
What if there were no hunger or starvation,
Food hording, destroying or waste?
What if third world countries or nations,
Were afforded more than a taste.
What if every man, woman and child,
Could think for themselves and decide?
What if one's rights were never on trial,
No more suicide or genocide?
What if there existed systems of health care,
Available for everyone?
What if those systems were always there,
For those in need of them?
What if everyone had a nice place to live,
Their own shelter from heat, cold and storms?
Kitchens to cook in, mirrors to look in,
Soft beds to sleep and keep warm?
What if everyone had clothes on their backs,
Hats, coats and comfortable shoes?
What if there were nothing folks lacked,
No more depressing bad news?
What if winning didn't mean everything,
It was okay to have fun and lose?
What if those wronged weren't bent on suing,
Didn't point fingers and accuse?
What if the world joined together and sang,
All at one melodic time?
What if the world's church bells all rang,
In a precisely unified chime.
What if all children laughed and played,
Together in a virtual play-land?
What if musicians all joined for a day
In a worldwide symphonic band?
What if we all had convenient access,
To churches, education and schools?
What if every child were obedient and confessed,
Their respect and abidance toward rules.
What if learning was real, not conceived?
We all could read, write and do math.
Intelligence put there for all to achieve?
So each could create his own path.
What if there wasn't anything at all,
That restricted one's desires and abilities,
To establish one's self and be who we are,
To live happy, healthy and free?
What if the world was just a better place,
Full of love, peace and sweet harmony?
What if we all just became friends,
A one world, global family?
What if it all were suddenly replaced,
With Lennon's Utopian dream?
Wouldn't it be that One better place,
He Imagined so eloquently?
What if mankind could only see,
How perfect that One world could be?

What if it was up to me?

Copyright © May 2010
Kevin Mooney

The Day John Lennon Died

This is an acrostic...

Many cried the day he died,
All the world did mourn.
Rest in peace Brother John,
Keep blowing your precious horn.
David did not know the wrong,
A Double Fantasy did.
Vindication, death through song,
In 4 clean shots he's dead.
December 8th, at 10 past 10,
Where he and Yoko dwell ed.
Heaven called John Lennon home,
At 53 minutes to 12.
That 1980 New York night,
Defined a legacy.
Into martyrdom he did rise,
Deprived tranquility.
Yoko gave his eulogy,
Only she could say,
Understand peace and love,
Do for all humans pray,
On this solemn day.


Copyright © October 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
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John, Julian & Sean

Just Imagine...This is an acrostic

Tell the world, John, Julian and Sean,
Heal the world today.
End all suffering, hunger and wrong,
Let love lead the way.
Empty hearts mean empty minds,
Night time turns to day,
No one sees if all are blind,
Oppression needs a say.
Neverland's for those that dream,
Let's dream and never wake.
Instant Karma's message seems,
Nobody mends through hate.
Every person needs someone,
Search and you will find,
Feed a hunger, love someone,
Open up your mind.
Rest assured good deeds and words,
Take so little time.
Reap the harvest of the world,
Others will fall in line.
Understand that God's plan,
Belongs to you and me.
Let your hands show you can,
Embrace eternity.
Do unto others as you would have others,
To others be honest and true.
Imagine two brothers, sons of 2 mothers,
Mothers with 2 different views.
Everyday find peace and pray,
Share a piece of what John had to say.

John, Julian & Sean...


Copyright © October 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
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Children Of Destiny

Born beyond reason,With no right to choose,No future, starvation,Unsightly abuse.Never a burden,Lacking in care.Lives so uncertain,They're not really there.No beds to sleep in,No chairs to sit.No arms to weep in,No chance to quit.No house to live in,No shelter or room.No toilet or kitchen,Just impending doom.Meals are a benefit,So seldom seen.The food that they do get,Is putrid and green.Water so dirty,Many times used,Not one ounce of purity,Yet seldom refused.Clothes that are tattered,Shredded and torn,Shoes never matter,They're rarely ever worn.God's children entertained,With a lack of consequence.Their fate prearranged,Without meaning or sense.Lacking any inklingOf substance at all.Lives always sinking,In a vast karmic squall.Fighting from day one,For an ounce of dignity.Never able to say they won,A preordained destiny.

Copyright © January 2010Kevin Mooneykmm001011610

These Are The Things...

These are the things that make me sad:

The abuse of a child, it's innocence shorn,
A broken marriage irreconcilably torn.
Family dysfunction, a societal thorn,
A public malfunction, a break from the norm.
Hunger, starvation in any form,
The face of frustration, lost, forlorn.
Mass destruction from a devastating storm.
An animal's pain, so helplessly worn,
Man's disregard for land where he's born.
Wasteful consumption with no burden borne.
The fall and demise from social scorn,
The anguish of death we all learn to mourn.

These are the things that make me glad:

Beating the odds when the chips are down,
A miraculous win in a sports crazed town.
The beauty of nature, it's wonders abound,
Seeing the world, each experience profound.
A baby's smile and first steps around,
An animal's birth, no words can be found,
A cool summer rain; shaped cumulus clouds,
A fresh snowy day, earth's blanketed shroud.
Recognition of feats that make men proud,
Evil's defeat, dispensed without sound.
The preservation of hallowed ground,
The grace of God and his merciful crown.

These are the things that I find are bad:

Blatant cruelty, acts wantonly unfair,
Flagrant destruction that others don't dare.
Malicious hate, wars wrought with despair,
Selfish debates by those who won't share.
Arrogant leaders who act unaware,
Those that can't wait to get anywhere.
Bold disrespect for who got you there,
Cold neglect for burdens some bear.
Those that deceive to get everywhere,
Who deny and conceal their criminal affairs.
The brandishing of guns with extreme lack of care,
The embellishment of funds for personal flair.

These are the things that I wish I had:

The ability to create total Peace on Earth,
Honor good men and all that they're worth.
The moral conviction to prod the inert,
The pastoral connection for a spiritual rebirth.
A billion dollars to fight famine and thirst,
The power to heal, provide shoes, clothes and work.
Infinite wisdom with the power to avert,
Natural disasters that wreak havoc and hurt.
A way to comfort all those that feel cursed.
A place to rest when things seem their worst.
The means to prosper, entertain and traverse,
The power to conquer the ails of the universe.


Copyright © September 2009
Kevin Mooney

Hear The People

I wrote this poem in October of 1980. My astronomy professor in college was a big No Nukes freak and Einstein fan. He convinced me...


On one occasion, There came an invasion,
Without preparation,
On the People

They squirmed in frustration,
Cried of starvation,
Damned the duration,
Did the People.

A once sovereign nation,
Faced obliteration,
"God save your creation,"
Cried the People.

There was then a sensation,
Complete devastation,
No more evasion,
For the People.

The Ninth Revelation,
Einstein's equation,
Ensured elimination,
Beyond recreation,
Hear the people!

Hear the People?

No more People.

Copyright © October 1980
Kevin Mooney

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100180

Walls of Flame - Hearts of Fame

Where have you gone our brave young sons,
Where have you gone and why?
To fight new battles, to rid new wrongs,
To protect new mountain sides?

Where have you gone young Hotshots,
Where do your souls now lie?
In heaven above and beyond,
Where do you now abide?

Granite mountains bear your names,
Etched forever in time.
Walls of flames cannot burn away,
Your legacy left behind.

Wherever you've gone my brave young throng,
Have a wonderful ride.
Your families will never do no wrong,
We'll always be by their side.

The walls of flame that remain,
Cannot contain the tide.
Halls of fame will bear your names,
Gratitude never subside.

Wherever you've gone our brave young sons,
Rest peacefully by God's side.
Your work is done, your fight's been won,
Carry yourselves with pride.

Your memory will never die.
Copyright © July 2013
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
070313

Grow Old With Me

To my wife Tracey. She completes me...

Come sit beside me,
Let's reflect a while.
When you're near it's soothing,
I've always loved your smile.

Our world's ever changing,
A perpetual turnstile.
Life's been entertaining,
I've cherished every mile.

As our years are waning,
It's become plain to see,
We're jointly self-sustaining,
Together, meant to be.

So grasp my hand firmly,
Approach the setting sun,
Side by side we'll journey,
Not as two, but one.

As we near the pinnacle of,
Our co-eternal quest,
Take solace in the knowledge,
Together we are best.

For each and every by-way,
Toward eternity,
Will grace our voyage sky-way,
As you grow old with me.


Copyright © September 2009
Kevin Mooney

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093009

Poems by Kevin: Today's Just Not The Same

Poems by Kevin: Today's Just Not The Same

Today's Just Not The Same

Our 10 year old Labradoodle, Daphne, died suddenly and unexpectedly, this morning. She lived a wonderful life. This is dedicated to her...



I lost a childhood friend today,
One I loved so much.
She was always there for me,
Wanting to be touched.
A loyal friend,
To the end,
I'll miss her very much.

I lost a bit of shadow today,
It's no where to be found.
My world seems somewhat emptier,
With it not around.
There's a pair,
Of empty chairs,
With no familiar sound.

I lost a true companion today,
A loyal, devoted fan.
One I always counted on,
To nudge my idle hand.
No cold, wet nose,
Or cuddles close,
Every now and then.

I lost a piece of me today,
A piece I can't regain.
I pray that she's at peace today,
In her new domain.
It's hard to say,
She's gone away,
Today's just not the same

Sleep well Daph. We'll miss you very much...

Daphne Mooney (March 2002- October 2012)


Copyright © October 2012
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
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A Legend's Last At Bat

Dedicated to Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.


Welcome back from the break
all you baseball fans.
Here we are in the bottom of the ninth,
now Murphy's on the mound.
It's packed here at the park tonight,
no one's left the stands.
The score is now 4 to 3,
a man on first base, 2 down.

This series has been quite a battle,
it all comes down to this.
Both these teams are hard to rattle,
they've each been here before.
A seventh game of a World Series,
one truly not to miss.
The players for both teams are standing,
this is a what dreams are made for.

Coming to bat for the home team
is the veteran Vernon Cahill.
Of course everyone knows the Big Daddy,
he's had an illustrious career.
He's pinch hitting for the pitcher O'Leary
who had a great night on the hill.
Cahill's career has been in decline
I'd say, for the past several years.

Big Daddy used to be quite a player
back in his youthful prime.
He had power, finesse and blazing speed,
and an arm like a gun at times.
Most folks consider him Hall of Fame bound,
the all 'round best of his time.
This guy could hit 'em long my friend,
he was truly one of a kind.

I feel sad for the big fella now,
this may be the last chance he gets.
A career average over 300
600 dingers and 3000 hits,
Now he's just a shadow of himself,
no longer a dominating threat.
This could be his last season.
This could be his last at bat.

This kid Murphy is quite a young talent,
as he steps on Baseball's big stage.
A rookie phenom and premier closer,
with 10 wins and 49 saves.
He's certainly matured throughout this season,
he's cool and reserved for his age.
I'm not so sure I'd want to be him now,
I recall the jitters of younger days.

Cahill places one foot near the box,
looks 'round, leans his bat on his hip,
Murphy puts his right foot on the rubber,
drys his fingers so the ball doesn't slip.
Daddy tugs his sleeves, spits in his hands,
rubs them together for a better grip.
Murphy bends over, checks the runner,
eyes his catcher then gives his hat a slight tip.

As Cahill steps into the batter's box
he digs in like a focused bull.
He eyes Murphy, waves his bat with one hand,
across the plate 3 times full.
This is Big Daddy's calling card,
it's his traditional ritual.
The umpire holds up his right hand
and looks purposely looks toward both foul poles.

He gives Murphy the go ahead sign
than shouts that familiar "Play Ball!".
Big Daddy now crouches slightly,
bends his war worn knees.
He stares straight ahead at the pitcher,
as he looks for Murph's signature fastball.
Murphy, now ready, stands up straight,
rocks back with a slight hesitant freeze.

With hands together, he peeks at the runner,
steps forward to deliver his pitch.
His offering has a sideways rotation,
arcs slightly, then bends with a twist,
Cahill crouches then braces himself,
of course he's seen pitches like this.
Daddy cocks his bat back, just a little,
then steps forward, not expecting to miss.

A mighty swoosh is heard by the catcher,
as Vern errantly waves at the curve,
The umpire throws his right index finger up
and hollers out "strike one!"
Cahill looked like he got fooled by the kid,
he eyes him like he had some kind of nerve,
Murphy turns for the rosin bag,
the ump signals the count oh and one.

The Youngster now has the upper-hand,
I wonder what next sign he'll get?
Cahill settles in once again,
he gives his britches a little hitch,
Murphy shakes off a sign, then another,
then eyes his catcher's mitt.
He rocks and throws a fireball
as straight as it can possibly get.

Cahill swings as hard as he can,
"Whack!" the ball orbits into flight.
A hush immediately comes over the crowd,
as the whole stadium in awes the sight.
The umpire throws away his mask
and watches the high flying kite.
It sails down the right field line
then curtails suddenly right.

The ump waves his hands like he's directing a plane,
"Foul" he vehemently calls.
Well my friends, Vern made his point,
he almost ended it all,
He walks back to the box, tugs his sleeve,
then picks up his bat.
Murphy, now shook, steps back on the mound,
takes a breath and adjusts his hat.

The crowd's now into it, the tension's tight,
the whole stadium's at a buzz,
All camera's are focused on Daddy and Murph,
they're being cheered now by their teammates, too.
I tell you what, this sure is exiting,
the air's thick as it ever was.
Both men take their places, get ready again,
while the umpire flashes oh and two.

Once again, Cahill digs right in,
trying to estimate Murphy's next pitch.
The young pitcher, now, not quite as cool,
paws the rubber with his right cleat.
Daddy cocks his bat behind his head,
his right elbow gives a confident twitch.
Murphy now seems ready to throw,
as he steadies himself on both feet.

All the world is watching these two,
this is what Baseball's about.
Win or lose, both men deserve
the respect of the novice and devout.
Each can make his historic mark,
one triumphant and one without.
Let the record books show the battle,
of minds that defined this classic bout.

Murphy's body's again in motion,
this could be the deciding pitch.
He rocks back then delivers an awesome slider,
that breaks down and slides masterfully left.
Cahill loosens his body, rares back once again,
then uncorks a well-timed and mighty swing.
Simultaneously his bat collides with the ball,
as, again, Big Daddy connects.

All heads turn at once in unison,
watching the rainbowed flight.
The ball heads towards the bleachers, deep in center,
then angles a bit to the right.
At first there seems to be slight confusion,
as it disappears clean out of sight.
And then a murmur of silent commotion,
majestically crescents in the night.

Waves of cheers start to rise,
throughout the jubilant crowd,
As Daddy begins to circle the bases,
people start to chant out loud.
He looks at all their delirious faces,
feels complete and humbly proud.
He touches home plate, embraces the moment
then is mobbed as emotions abound.

What a magical ending to a storied career,
This is one for grandchildren chat.
An aged old pro, along in his years,
pulled a rabbit out of his hat.
On a cool Fall night, in his quiet hometown,
In a series he could have just sat.
A hero emerged in the bottom of the ninth,
A legend in his final at bat.


Copyright © October 2009
Kevin Mooney

km021
102009