Mayday

A third of a year gone by again
weeks and months stacked like
trashbags in a landfill
keeping track of landmarks and milestones
requires more and more skill
sadness and regret all around our feet
so we strive to find the higher ground
where joy and hope still meet
but it’s a complicated path
full of wrong turns and dead ends
don’t be afraid to turn around
and if you must, pretend
that you have reached a place
with that perfect view
and with a little luck
the view may just find you

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Ode to the Famous Mug

it’s that time of year, almost

In-ornate vessel,
homely as the Grail
in that Indiana Jones Movie,
I dust you off each spring
like a young man’s fancy
and the love of the game sprouts anew
pastoral and serene
even boring
until the cracking bat
the gunshot ruining the policeman’s shift
zero to ninety in a heartbeat
followed by tranquilizing statistics
dissecting each performance
an eternal river of numbers
until one team’s magic number is zero
the petals drop from the lotus
the dream plowed under
you are back on the shelf
until next spring
and Hope’s rebirth.