Still Chuckin’: Poems 1999-2002, the fourth five-book collection of poetry to be released by Thomas Porky McDonald, sees the poet delve deeper into life-themed verses, while also continuing a steady stream of baseball-related material.  Written during the most serene four-year period that the poet had known up until that time, Still Chuckin’ does indeed show that McDonald’s fastball, so to speak, is still humming.  From To Thrill Again, former injustices (“Rubin’s Smile,” “The Walls of Trenton State”), personal philosophies (“Who is the Star?” “Through a Cease or a Fold,” “Just a Balladeer”) and the love of his life (“Memo to Rona”) all take a stand, while the old yard is most noticeably poignant in “The Boy From Down the Hall,” “The Crowd of Sweet Remembers,” “The One True Heaven I’ve Known” and the title piece.  The shadow of Rona makes a more definitive appearance in Underground Auroras/6702 (“Till All Your Tears are Ones of Joy,” “Sweet, Sincere Notes,” “Fairly Endlessly,” “A Dream of You”), even as the world passes through (“Take a Message Back to Sundown,” “Lately I Find Early,” “The High Wire and the Net”).  The passion for the game of his youth remains evident as ever in “Upon Ruth’s Lot,” “In the Mezz Wearing Weathered Mesh,” “Farewell to a Season” and “Until We Tell Stories Again.”

The Corner of Catharsis and Epiphany illustrates McDonald’s diverse leanings, from “A Piece in the Night,” “Photographs in the Mind,” “What the Con Said” and “When We Were All Poets,” to ballpark odes “For the Holy Ghost,” “The Fences Were Green” and “Pink Lincolns.”

The final two books in Chuckin’, Vignettathon and Hobo Freight Dreams, written in the advent and aftermath of 9/11, each show the poet at his most focused.  From Vignettathon, “The Air That September,” “To Pray Once Always,” and “A Vow as One” speak of that unprecedented time, while “The Lady on the Boulevard,” “Tortured,” and “A Dream Not Done” each reveal another layer of his soul.  Hobo Freight Dreams closes out this collection, with life pieces “Does the Train Stop at Cortlandt Street Once More?” “Eddie Isko,” and “Do You Ever?” complementing horsehide dispatches “The Chill I Find Each April,” “The Sentry,” and “Seats Where They Once Kneeled.”  Overall, a winning effort from the baseball poet.   

            Thomas Porky McDonald is a poet and writer who has drawn inspiration from baseball and the human condition for the better part of two decades.  His first three five-book poetry collections, Ground Pork: Poems 1989-1994, Downtown Revival: Poems 1994-1997 and Closer to Rona: Poems 1997-1999, each contained diverse pieces on what he still believes is the National Pastime.  Still Chuckin': Poems 1999-2002, continues in this vein.  In the Cameo Shade: Poems 2002-2005 and Vespers at Sunset: Poems 2005-2007, will arrive in the near future, while a two specialty compilations taken from these violumes, Diamond Reflections: Baseball Pieces For Real Fans, and Dem Poems: The Brooklyn Collection, were each recently released.  McDonald the writer has also offered up Series Endings: A Whimsical Look at the Final Plays of Baseball’s Fall Classic, 1903-2003, a distinctly different view of baseball’s World Series than most mainstream histories, Where the Angels Bow to the Grass: A Boy’s Memoir, a look at the writer’s childhood days of the 1960’s and 70’s, describing the bond between McDonald and his father, Bill “The Chief” McDonald, At a Loss to Eternity, which recalls successful teams of the past that are often overlooked and Never These Men, which considers a number of unfairly branded figures.  His three volume “Irishman’s Tribute” series paid homage to various heroes of the past.  An Irishman’s Tribute to the Negro Leagues, Over the Shoulder and Plant on One: An Irishman’s Tribute to Willie Mays and Hit Sign, Win Suit: An Irishman’s Tribute to Ebbets Field each contained short stories and historical material, as well as a small dose of McDonald’s trademark baseball poetry.  McDonald has also published a book of short stories, Paradise Oval and his singular New Yorkers’ take on 9/11, The Air That September.  Born in St. Albans Naval Hospital in Queens, McDonald has lived in nearby Astoria his entire life.

Pink Lincolns

There was joyous laughter eye-level;

Not too many’d heard of a dome;

And a lone pink Lincoln twenty-four

that told you you’d arrived back home.

And the wind was warm and friendly,

like a first love on the run;

Near the moons of what was to be

was a sure and settling sun.

Then, as decades pass, in their fleeting way,

so as not to give you pain;

You find everything has grown up,

though your loyalties remain.

Oh, a Wednesday crowd, as in days of yore,

saunters lightly in the stands;

Where the memory that is childhood

finds the niche that it demands.

Though you may reflect on what once was,

you must understand what’s gone;

And there’s no pink Lincolns twenty-four,

yet, I too, must carry on.

When We Were All Poets

The silence roars out

to distant horizons;

It screams out to those in the know;

Yet, I can still hear

when we were all poets;

So long, long, long, long ago.

The early evening air

invited the banter

for many who’d adopted each other;

We whispered out loud;

A mantra, most only;

As only one could with a brother.

I can’t recall verbatim

just what we all said;

Though, strangely, I remember it so well;

I focused my ear;

My voice was automatic;

True memories are the ones you don’t sell.

On concrete or grass,

we wailed on convention;

Our hearts spread to cherish the game;

Three up and three down,

for years and a moment;

So desperate to be so the same.

On some nights I wonder

if they still rasp on?

Both friends and acquaintances so;

Yes, Heaven fell earthward

when we were all poets;

So long, long, long, long ago.