“The Dutchman“

As we journeyed through the night
Over on the western side
Off among the northern lights
   Searching caves by candlelight

Calling from beyond the hills
Deep into the midnight chill
We took a seat to take our fill
   And hoist one for the Dutchman’s will

Somewhere down that mountain road
The Dutchman struck his winner's pose
Standing with his *** of gold
   Seems he’d found the mother lode

Between what is and what’s been told
Far inside those peaks so bold
The Dutchman waits to show the road
   That leads us to his hills of gold

But

   Victories with winners die
They drift off in the western sky

Yet

   Dreams live on with wings to fly
You only must believe and try

As we journeyed through the night
Over on the western side
Off among the northern lights
   We searched the caves by candlelight

You've got memories, I've got ghosts
And I can't forget, hard as I try
I could map all the words you ever spoke
Like constellations in the sky
Second to the righteous and straight on 'til mourning
Like men lost at sea while soul searching
The repeated prayers were wasted breath
Used to **** time while we waited for death

The salts in the air and the ocean breeze
Burn the cracks in our skin and make it hard to breathe
While the remarks and past that cast our sail
Are lost from our lungs with each exhale
Hope and courage course through our veins
Trust and faith is all that remains
With defeat and pride guiding the waves
We set a course for better days

Onward to mystery
To make our mark in history
When clarity becomes a cloud
everything starts to let you down
I am the Flying Dutchman
searching for better ways
I  am an undead crew
longing for better days
If you see me on the horizons
just let me be
I'm trying to find value
in a calm at sea

a spirits' ship

    cutting through the stormy mist



a cold wind blows

    up upon her



crossing souls

    off the Dutchman's list



just another human

     to become a goner

How quiet is the rolling breath
Of foam upon it’s seeping death
The grey winds taken from the shore
As sand and rock are left no more
For life will not tally beneath the sail
Of crisp white linen, slashed by rusted mail
No more, no more the bell will chime
Upon the passing winds of time
The dead are sailing upon quiet seas
Their hopes are scattered in the breeze
Far from home and far to go
These unquiet souls lie below
Cursed forever, to sail and roam
This Flying Dutchman will hold no home
No port awaits this journey’s end
No harbour sits around the bend
It sails through twilight, night and day
The bow holds its course, the star leads the way

Sands traverse oceans to envelop me
within the coercion of a dream of Egypt
as I search the turquoise of the medallion in my hands
to match the gray-blue of his eyes.

Too long have I willed for him
to sail the Atlantic,
stride through the door,
and sweep me from haunting this view of London.
But for now I am left
to my own image and a pane,
so I muster the meat of my palm
within this sleeve of lace
to brush it across the glass for a clearer look,
yet my efforts have revealed
no more than engorged eyelids reflected…
manacles of me.

Behest of self,
maniacal I am slated
to perform involuntary tedium,
hopeful to unlock deeper meaning
within each hieroglyph,
once so purposefully etched in a semblance of bronze.

I long to surrender
to the warmth of the taste of iron
caught in his sights over a tomb blanketed in gold.

I will come for you, Daughter of Heaven and Earth.

Spontaneous peristalsis of phrase
connects with the drop
gurgling through the candid quiet
and I wonder
if the image that now reflects would indulge him,
or if he might ****** the lock of dark hair
that he cropped from my neck with the skill of an assassin
when our paths first crossed in Cairo.

Time has softened the image I hold of him;
his eyes are satin,
burning like a flag still waving
as his army advances over our forbidden dig.

There is something
sensation-like in downfall…
copious saline embodies the fractal curve.

I found no scrolls of the Book of the Dead.

Here in my olive skin I rot like a peach
that’s been left in a satchel
forgotten to dust of the ages
disturbed by picks and axes
that strike with the determination of discovery.
A peach, never to be savored;
never to nourish or to pleasure,
or be trampled by insects
and carried off in pieces
to the hollow of the ant queen.

My eyelids are hard to turn like wet pages
forced to envision a river that is not the Nile
where I am held within the binds of propriety,
corsetted, bustled, and locked out of Egypt
dammed from the salvation
of even an intermittent Dutchman’s finger
by dunes and shores and footfalls
to find words that stream in liquid resonance
where firm succumbs to self and
I can feel passion writhing through my intangibles.

Thusly, clouds form over a city that blackens and distorts
the way a river's reflection of my face
would ripple from the plunging body of a dove,
belly-up, encased in wings,
and two thousand miles from him.

Arousal is a moccasin seethed in spasms
of peristalsis and musculature
toward the beckoning pulse of breast.

Any hope for contact collapses into flesh,
venom sheathes each corpuscle,
and a woken neck flails in judgment
before the truth in his eyes
under the shadow of the Great Pyramid
where Ramses II lies supine
across the Turin Papyrus.

I imagine the other side of me
and where she might reflect when
all that there is in such a study
contributes to my wanting
to wreak my bellied freedom
beneath crevices that sink as crevices do
in downward angled layers
to withstand the ages.

Dark hair gleams in contrast,
more for strip of scalp
than the trickle of red down my back.

Breached like sugar that candid—
starburst wings of Monarchs dripping ancient like sunsets
over magenta and milky mauve in the reeds—
my ankles revealed and inverted to the sky they glean, yet...

his arrival is delayed
when the pistol ***** three times.
The still of my breast compounds
with the steady union of the dark, and
somewhere denial flows with the sands.

So cycles change, like a fable for Eternal.

“Daughter of Heaven and Earth,” written by Dionne Charlet, appears in print in Cairo by Gaslight, the second anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books.  Books in the series include New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528).  Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie. Look for the upcoming anthology Paris by Gaslight, which will feature a poem of the same title by Dionne.

Dear Night;

The day breaks like a child's neck,
And there she is -
Like a fresh sand hills beckoned seductively
By childish poetry that
Rings off the fingertips like marshmallows
Burnt from too much *****

A cradle erupts:
Two deaths turning into one,
A turning sensation of philosophers timid to experience
We are what?
We are the writhing fiends caught on
By electricity sought upon by
The high priests of a no man's land
Billy the Kid

Tragic care giving fiends telling tales
Of naturality that grow like figs neath virgins
And we share the fragrance of foreigners
Dancing neath' their dead bodies for we
Are the store fronts of the epileptic rich

Sharing nothing, we forgive the dead angels that
Share in nothing but their own salvation
And we the nation hold their hands as they are handed
Their medals that shine and beat against innocent
Sun where we - Good Humans - will always feel inferior

I take thee for my own prisoner
Let's go and check out the sun for mine own
I said I was having sun...asleep
Mine own mind was bent, crooked, doomed
Warranted evil will of course be put to light

Teller tell me what I wish to know
You tell me the secret
You wish to hold, oh' you wish to keep
We are the children you asked for
But you are so unwilling up accept

But the press is something that is intangible
They are spread spearers that are accepted as they are:
A good german; a fair dutchman; a funny Chaplin;
Genius moving with insecure marijuana.

But she presses her own soul on the glass
Never lasting - a pure bread horse
There she stands, like an egyptian statuette incarnate
Breaking through the clouds like a pillar
Bent only for salvation and glory

A cool informant next to Hemingway that breaks
The next vinyl that's hot mixed with devil sweat
Someone breathes something on my neck and I'm soon
To wonder what the next place I need to be is
So...I wonder...Myself is the one to take care of this mess?

Here we are - stagnant - like a tombstone,
Wondering what we are meant for and wondering
Where we are not supposed to go.
We have our labels.
We have our names.
And, yes, we have our jobs that were
Given to us by companies that have no face,
Only a name and yet we obey...

Too push a confidence you have to ask me
What I wish to know for the assignment that no one cares about
After I get what people will listen too
What the truth is a very thing
I love the hash that beeps like a dead hyena on the road side
Howling like a lost lover without someone to love

I feel somehow that they have mislabelled you

Perhaps just penned you in the wrong ink...

I'm not sure

It seems when I try to describe you, the idea goes sailing away and never anchors home

Slippery one might say...

As the man crawling out from beneath the wreckage of a rolled-over vehicle, slathered face to shins, in blood and *****

And the words that had beckoned to him
Now thoroughly lost...

Nothing more then a few gruelling moments in agony before it was just a memory and a phrase that didn't quite seem to fit...

Unreal. What did that word even mean?

It felt insulting.

As though the momentary terror that had consumed your reality was nothing more then a passing storm -- No more then a ghost or a Flying Dutchman...

But could the same not be said for it all?

Is any of this really what we came here for?

The choice alone is too much for me not to waste it and I fear if I leave it for too long that the choice will inevitably make itself...

But perhaps maybe that in turn is the choice

--The freedom to be or not...

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Merchant and scholar who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's ****,
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast:
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay;
You most of all, silent and fierce old man,
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say,
"Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun";
Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,
Although I have come close on forty-nine,
I have no child, I have nothing but a book,
Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.

----

The Superstition mountains
Have a mine, or so it's told
Its canyons echo riches
Many died in search of gold

Four rapacious desperados
Rode hard into its hills
In search of the Lost Dutchman
But it's said that his ghost kills...

They saw an onyx jaguar
Dark as a holocaust
It walked on ahead of them
When they found that
they were LOST

They saw Jacob's Ladder
Wraiths ascending to on high
They walked under as a good sign
But found this was a lie...

They saw a snow white owl
And asked it what to do
It stared at them with golden eyes
And simply answered, "Who?"

They found a wooden box
Carved with foreign runes
They opened It expecting gems
And found Pandora's DOOM

They heard coyotes laughing
As they closed in for the ****
Those bad men found no treasure

no one ever will


The mountains take their toll
As the outlaws will attest
The sky birthed out a Blood Moon
As they rode into the west...

SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/24/2015

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Merchant and scholar who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's ****,
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast:
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay;
You most of all, silent and fierce old man,
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say,
"Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun";
Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,
Although I have come close on forty-nine,
I have no child, I have nothing but a book,
Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.

He was the only guy I met
Who wore a genuine fedora
And for all he struck a figure
He turned out to be a horror.
He was Satan with a swagger
A thin cheroot hanging in his lip.
He got into every nightclub free
I never saw him leave a tip.

His voice was like his words,
Smooth and slick and few.
When he talked everyone listened.
It seemed the proper thing to do.
But later when you remembered
It seemed he didn’t say much at all.
You just remembered his affect
His posture and that he was tall.

I don’t mean to imply he was a loner;
He had his choice of friendly fare.
And, it seemed the were both genders
So, there were lots of us out there.
We entertained, or at least we tried,
Just to keep him where we were.
And throughout the evening’s fun
Competition is what we all were.

So, we flirted and we flattered him
And we kept his cigarettes well lit.
Once in a while one of the silliest
Of our sycophantic group threw a fit.
Most of the time we stuck to our goal;
Some girl went nuts we’d ignore her.
For some mad reason all we thought
Was to please the man in the fedora.


I never heard anyone talk of him
And mention his accent or race.
In fact nobody seemed to be able
To remember aspects of his face.
And he never seemed to walk away
He just faded back into the flora.
He was like a will-of-the-wisp;
A Flying Dutchman in a fedora.

Lashed to the side .washed by the rolling tide
I have traversed the oceans wide.somehow. my cursed soul
Cannot find surcease.

Seasons go and decades flow.
Down, down to the depths we go. A watery grave
I stubornly craved ,no such. Cursed beast.

"No whale. No cursed devil."
Release me to darkness.
To hell and gone.

Vengeance is mine saeth the lord
I Ahab spat defiance.
A wooden keepsake strapped to my knee.

A bitter morsel  for mobey **** who bit and spit the cursed zealot
Away to drift.

Now strapped astride.his sworn foe
His soul long dead .sent ahead.
Ahabs sentence


To prowl the depths
To see the unseen.
Fathom for fathom.dark and deep
Never to sleep or feel the touch.


A horrific Dutchman to end of days
To repent for his blackheart vengeance.
Forever cast

Away.

A singular cloud
Floats in the blue,
Cotton candy
I'd like to chew.
Make a stick
With your finger,
Hurry, clouds
Don't usually linger.

Now it's a galleon
In full sail,
Leaving a wake
In a wispy tail.
It sails the sky
Without a crew,
The Flying Dutchman
Sails from view.

Now a cauliflower cloud,
Folding in upon itself,
With dark green leaves
At its base,
Add melted cheese
For added taste.

A lamb, a hand,
A face, a pillow,
This cloud morphs
As lovers do.
One minute
I can see a form,
Then becomes
Part of the storm.

Alas my time is spent, I can no longer wait,
Away I must go, believe me it's something I hate,
Our time apart this time, may only be a week,
Regardless of the time, your presence is what I seek,
Now it is time to set sail, before the final wave,
Just know my love,  that our love will never change

“Dream song”


Sing me a dream, dream me a song
Don't make it too short, don't make it too long
Don't make it too happy, don't make it too sad
Right in the middle, is where I'll be had


Stories of mountains, tales of the west
Antidotes retold, by strangers, the best
A kiss in the moonlight, I'll never forget
These are the songs, that long to hear yet

Journeys on train tracks, that rumble through time
Back and forth life scripts, that turn on a dime
A vision of happiness, lost but content
Tearful eyed memories, of love letters sent

The dark senorita who called out your name
The shot of tequila's romantic refrain
Then next, the siesta that memory denies
A lost, lonely cowboy with stars in his eyes

The hot summer day, mescal, por favor
Bar room bravado, courage assured
A harsh word, a look, machismo commands
The next move, the next slight, a line in the sand

Battles with savages, outside the door
A march in formation to find the next war
The promised reward that can never come true
History's legacy, painfully true

Battlefield monuments lost in the woods
Where lines were once drawn and heroes once stood
Where blood was once spilled and questions remain
Hidden in shadows of yesterday's shame

A quivering peace that can never stand still
A new generation to march up that hill
With hope for salvation, foundationally true
A new culmination who's interest's accrued

Then one more recovery long overdue
The colors of sacrifice, red, white and blue
The stories of history, tinted and hued
The song that our grandfather sang me and you

A search for a gold mine, the dutchman's remains
The promise of new life, fortune and fame
The optimist's song, the pessimist's tune
Off where the rattlesnakes sleep before noon

One more Matilda, a shovel and pick
A search through the canyon where fools gold's the trick
Where water's the treasure and darkness the cure
And the road back leads empty, to adventure once
More

Explosions of springtime, a park bench called home
The birds and the squirrels and the church bells of
Gold
The mothers and children and promise of youth
A new day brings new ways, a new search for truth

School buses roll, people commute
Businessmen tow the line 'til rebuke
The homeless and destitute scrounge for their fare
Passersby glance on, unwilling to share

Yes,
Here's one more season come 'round the bend
Some start anew, some find their end
Some take their orders from voices on high
Some walk this earthly path, never to fly

Some take the train their father's once rode
Some walk the city streets, lost and alone
Some gain the riches of power and gold
Some keep their hearts, some lose their soul

So here lie the stories, the songs and the dreams
Of one among many, of all, so it seems
Unique and unusual, we all ring the bell
Then set off in search of our heaven or hell

These are the songs that I'll hear once again
These are the dreams that I'll send you, my friend
So sing me a dream, dream me a song
Through ages, these pages are where I belong


So sing me a dream, dream me a song
Don't make it too short, don't make it too long
Don't make it too happy, don't make it too sad
Right in the middle is where I'll be had
Somewhere in the middle is where I'll be glad

His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you *******!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..

Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.

How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.

I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..

Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.

Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.

Where did he steal that fowl he has a-roasting on his fire
He looks a ***** scoundrel, a godless ****, a liar
I've heard that they’re all rapists every woman’s dread
And when they've finished with ‘em they leave their victims dead
I've heard that they eat babies and broil them on a spit
‘Tis known in other the villages and that’s the truth of it

Thus whispered fearful peasants behind the soldiers pack
Should he leave them to the enemy they’d **** soon want him back
Hold your peace cried the village priest at his Sunday sermon
He’s come to fight the tyrant with the Dutchman and the German
They pay in gold for the food they take not plunder us like the French
And they’d hang them from the gallows should they **** any *****

And when it comes to fighting there’s none better, braver, bolder
Be he uncouth and foul of mouth God bless the British soldier
Be grateful that he’s come good folk be on your knees and pray
For we all will need god’s mercy on this June’s eighteenth day
For he’s fighting for our freedom for the sake of me and you
And many will be falling soon near our village Waterloo

Written to commemorate the200th anniversary of the  battle of Waterloo which saw the final defeat of the self proclaimed emperor Napoleon Bonaparte on Sunday the 18th June 1815

His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you *******!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..

Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.

How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.

I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..

Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.

Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.

I stay in my little box
I originally planned on only using it as a detox
But once inside I was trapped
No my arms weren't strapped
But I still felt kidnapped
So I did have to adapt
And honestly I'm thankful *** my life is no longer chapped
I've learned to be self reliant
An many of u may think that that makes me a defiant
But honestly no one was there when I was crying
when I didn't know how to keep fighting
I needed help and that box was my only guidance
You had one assignment and when I poured my soul out to you what did I receive? Silence
At first the thought of being alone was horrifying
But side by side me and this box we made an alliance
And when I'm inside of this small confinement
There isn't any lying or over trying or self confidence dying or any boohoo crying
..well maybe sometimes
but it's okay because when I sit in this quiet
this silence there isn't any judgment
There isn't any soul crushing
There isn't any unwanted touching
No nudging no punching no Flying Dutchman there's nothing
It's like I was forced upon this dungeon and ended up never wanting to leave
For a while my life was at ease but as it goes on Ive started to crave someone to come live within it with me
How ever it's not an option because I never venture out I never have the guts to flea
Sometimes I'll poke an arm out and feel a cold breeze so back in the box I go
Dreaming of a life I'll never really know
Living in terror of being hit with a crossbow
Fear is a powerful thing
Top reason why I'll never have any offspring
What if they grow to be as corrupted as I?
What if they live in a box so they can never reach the sky?
Fear is the reason id stay up at night and cry
My eyes couldn't really take It
At night they'd constantly spit
So I moved into this box and it's been a perfect fit
But be ware if you decide to come inside ur gonna need a permit

I am from glowing, late night campfires, from Coppertone sunscreen and colorful thread bracelets that rested across my thin wrists.

I am from the winding pavement of Riford Road, but that home isn’t what made me. I was made by the ceaseless games of capture the flag and the smoky haze of fireworks on the 4th of July, the sleepless slumber parties and the heart shaped waffles that followed the next morning.  

I am from the beaches of Lake Michigan and the sand that sparkles like millions of jewels in the sun. With our sticky hands covered in chocolate ice cream and the melodic cadence of waves crashing into shore, erasing our names that we wrote in the sand with our chubby fingers.

I am from ultra competitive poolside games of Uno, and generations of people who either can’t say no or refuse to say yes. From Betsy and the black and white pictures that cover the walls of her home to her age-old family recipe for chocolate chip cookies. From Cullen’s bookshelf that towers over even the tallest of men, each novel packed next to each other like a can of sardines. From Jack, who’s childhood torment turned me into the person I am today, a little bit tougher and a little bit stronger.

I am from the family reunions which are less of a reunion and more of a debate, every one of us desperately trying to speak the last word. From the tough, stone cold stubbornness that each of us possess like a small voice in the back of our minds egging us on.

From mantras of “It could be worse” and the “It will always get betters.”

I am from sugary cinnamon buns on Christmas morning, muddled by the laughter of all my cousins and the cheesy carols playing over the radio.

I'm from the quaint, colorful streets of Charlevoix and the shops full of salt water taffy and their wax paper wrappers that litter the ground. A melting *** of freckled Scots and dark-haired Dutchman, all with the same wide, toothy grin. From the gooey gobs of marshmallow that stain our hands late at night, mixing with a crackling fire and waves slamming against the shore, the stars above us gleaming even brighter than the light radiating from our smiles.

From jumping into ice cold swimming pools in the middle of October, my brother by my side. With our skin freckled with goosebumps and our bones chilled to the core, we splashed and laughed until our bodies were numb and our parents forced us to get out. From the lazy summer afternoons that turned into starry nights. From jumping shoulder to shoulder into the deep rivers of Montana, our laughs suffocated by the frigid water as we ricocheted downwards.

I am from the small cardboard box sitting on the musty floor of our basement, teeming with memories captured at the other end of a  camera. Sepia pictures of my grandmother when she was no more than three years old with her white parka and oil black hair, looking into the lens like she was seeing the entire world. Photographs of my mother at the same age as me, her eyes overflowing with optimism and a smile made of gold, all too similar to my own.

It might the flying Dutchman be
Or the fame of those fishermen three
How it we walk planks of our own making!

It was the less i could do
Climb the mountain
Scale the kitchen
Talk to the neighbours
Find a neighbour
Inspiration, need it
Words on the refuse truck
Toss it in
Screaming kids
Screaming mothers
*******
What, oh *******
Talking art
Modern stuff
Bed with a ****** in it
Jonny
Go home
Bus it
Converse in a foreign language
Can’t understand them
I live here
Inspired to shout
Who am i
This week
A sign on the wall
Jesus saves
Bankers own heaven
Hell
Drowning in realization
Happiness can be bought
What price
Yesterdays
Snow on the hills
Dutchman panics
Refuse collector has a Phd in
Wednesdays
Bus stoppers look in awe
Three together
Another day dead
Dear diary
Inspiration
Boots in bin.

There’s tale upon tale told
In praise of Washington’s Big Train
And the horsehide deeds of Old Pete
Shall be told often and again.
And honest Matty, the Big Six
Hurl’d more than a gem or two,
But they can’t match The Rainmaker
Tossed by Pittsburgh Dan McGrew.

He’d come by train from Keokuk
As green as a patch of clover;
And though he stood ‘bout six-foot-three
Weighed one-forty or just over.
He sauntered up to the owner
Mister Dreyfus? I’m Dan McGrew,
And I am the damnedest pitcher
That anyone has ever knew.

Old Barney found himself amused
By such a gangly cow-town rube
So the boss man and Freddy Clarke
Thought they’d have some fun with this ****.
There’s Wagner—can you strike him out?
His reply left them in stitches.
I reckon that won’t be too hard;
I should only need three pitches.

Oh, so your fastball is that good?
Skipper Clarke said with a chuckle
Don’t throw one, so Clarke said aghast
Can your curve make Hans’ knees buckle?
He shook his head, Nope, don’t throw that,
As he grinned like a wiseacre.
Got just one pitch, that’s all I need,
And I call it The Rainmaker.

They called the Dutchman to the plate
To knock him back to I-o-way
And he swung early and swung late
But couldn’t put one into play
And Wagner grunted, moaned and screamed
But found he couldn’t hit his stuff;
Whatever this Rainmaker was
It sure was plenty good enough.

He tossed the ball twenty feet high
Just a soft lob with a stiff wrist
And a slight twitch of his fingers
To give it just a little twist
Oh, it might swoop like a falcon
Or drift as softly as a dove
And often it would come down wet
From touching rain clouds up above.

The clubs in the senior circuit
Found themselves flummoxed by this lad:
He no-hit the Bees in Beantown
And drove the Cubs and Redlegs mad.
He hasn’t got enough to hit!
They growled in Brooklyn and Philly,
But his ledger said otherwise;
A gaudy twenty-six and three.

The final day of the season
Found the Buccos and Giants tied,
And no one doubted who would be
Taking the hill for Pittsburgh’s side
For New York, Matty took the hill
And both hurlers were simply great
Not one batter had crossed home plate
As the two clubs completed eight.

The Giants bench hooted at him
That beanpole throws like a girlie!
But he got Doyle to pop up
And then fanned Snodgrass on just three
The next Giant to reach the plate
Was the hard-hitting Red Murray
And John McGraw said Now he’s done,
Red will chase him in a hurry.

But Murray tapped the first pitch foul
And missed the second one outright
The Pittsburgh bench now taunted him
Good morning, good noon and goodnight!
McGrew than tossed one up so high
His catcher swore it clipped a bird
And then Dan strolled right off the mound
As not a soul uttered a word.

The old ballpark is long gone now
And those who toiled the same;
That pitch still lives in infamy
As does the pitcher and the game.
The Bucs have had other heroes
With deeds and feats of great renown
But they still speak of Dan McGrew
And his pitch which never came down.