Moments are what define the game.
The action is sudden; that’s the claim to fame.
Constant action back and forth is tiring to the eye
and all flow of blood to the brain is denied.
Moments in short spurts set the tone
for the action, one that requires constant calculation.
A critical moment of action requires a decision
within seconds, or the moment will be long gone.
Moments set the spotlight on a person,
and gives them their claim to fame.
The most individualistic of team games
takes and gives away at random.
Seconds are all a moment needs
to come and go as it will please.
One needs to prepare for each moment
that may never have another movement.



When I’m not writing poetry, one of my favourite things to do is to play Softball. This is a short poem (fittingly) that details the quickest and most thrilling moment in a game, in my opinion.

Slow Pitch.jpeg

(Cr: City of Hot Springs)


An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.


This is the moment
of bountiful anticipation,
that split-second event,
of a momentous decision.
Standing there, bat in hand,
expecting the ball to twirl in reach,
there I stand, in longful demand
of the glory that suceeds the contact pitch.

This split-second holds hope eternal
in a game full of stats and averages.
In this split-second, I can be lethal
and score some serious carnage.
This is the hope within the moment
that fosters my slow pitch ambitions.
Within a split-second, I either make a dent
or simply scratch the surface of expectation.