“The Sox actually winning the World Series..”

Poem 12 of the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project, comes from the Notorious M.E.G.

These sports poems are more difficult, but I think I found a way through on this one.

You don’t know what you got ’til you lose it.

Here’s to long suffering losers.

“The Cathedral of Boston “ © C.P. Hickey 2017

“The Cathedral of Boston “ © C.P. Hickey 2017

“The Sox actually winning the World Series..”

Holy Methuselah!

Long suffering losers.

Red Sox fans are we.

A great Green Wall,

A missed ground ball.

86 years of defeat.

Big Red Machines.

New York Yankees.

Something about “Ruth’s Curse”.

There was no refraining,

from constant complaining,

about, which fan base had it worse.

Bucky Dent’s shot.

Buckner’s legs, in a knot.

Teddy Ballgame’s icy stare.

Our maudlin identity,

forged sans indemnity,

made us collectively, tougher to bear.

In 2004, the damn burst forth,

long suffering dissolved with a sweep.

Red Sox fans became winners,

but lost the distinction,

of owning the agony of defeat.

Years of frustration.

Baseball gods dispensation.

World Series Champs, times three.

Some liked it more,

of this, I’m sure,

when losing long term was our thing.

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“Fine and Dandy”

 

Poem 11 in the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project comes inspired by a shared sibling memory of one of Comedian George Carlin’s bits. Thank you for reminding me of this, Paula. I hold that although George may never have been both fine and dandy at the same time, I most certainly have. Usually, after 14 pints of Guinness.

 

I hope reading this makes you simultaneously fine and dandy.

 

fandd

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“Fine and Dandy”

 

Please don’t reprimand me,

because I stand here fine and dandy.

Your total misery begets, infects,

has a gravity that at once neglects,

the beauty that surrounds us.

 

Point of view can be the key,

to living a life worry free.

Fine and dandy, if you please.

Angst brings goodness to its knees.

Turn the tide to calmer seas.

 

Furrowed brows and puckered frowns,

turn those around you, upside down.

Suffering can be understood,

but, choosing spite invites no good.

Fine and Dandy, Dandiehood.

 

Choose consciously.

Don’t react.

Navigation requires tact.

How something seems,

is not what is,

But rather what we make of it.

 

“Moss”

Poem 10 of the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project dares to speak of the forbidden subject of that which some consider undesirable. Thank you to Eva V. for sending me a completely innocuous concept, and forever forgiving me when I take that innocence and go for broke in corrupting it.  A poem sometimes pushes you into the realm of MUST.

I hope you come back hair to read more of these fine poems.

http://images.memes.com/meme/142239

“Moss”

Man-moss man-moss,

upon my back.

Traveling down my backdoor crack.

Warm and fuzzy,

around my navel.

Control your libido,

if you’re able.

Run your hands around the rough,

can you ever get enough?

While The Beach Boys do shave nude,

testosterone, this man exudes.

A virtual chia topiary,

Nair and wax, unnecessary.

Just a trim along the line,

will do this Magic Mike just fine.

Certainly, you must concur,

hug a chubby man with fur.

And when moist sweat comes rolling through,

stick to your wolf-man, like glue.

Curly pubic woolen skin,

Enhances every carnal sin.

Smoothly shorn is overrated,

some truths should never be debated.

No matter what the seeming cost,

get yourself a man with moss.

“Hiking”

Poem 9 in the ProCrasstheNation Poevember Poetry Project is brought to you by my pal Julia G. There is something in someone that loves a walk in solitude. A lost art. Well, let’s put one foot in front of the other and see where it leads us.

Trek onward, fellow fugitives of Death!

“Vision Quest” © C.P. Hickey 2017

“Hiking”

Walking in winter woodlands.

Efforts made, breaths expelled.

Shallow, short, prickly.

The urgency of cold surprises.

Feeling the crisp crunch boots make,

compacted snow underfoot.

A bully bunch of briar branches retard my progress.

Looking up at the hues of cold.

The late afternoon sun has abandoned the horizon,

leaving darkening off-blue wisps of sky.

Rolling away from warmth.

Thoughts move to indoor treasures:

  • hot soup
  • woolen socks
  • a hibernating bed stacked with duvets that can be pulled up under the chin
  • legs unshaven
  • hissing radiators
  • oversized cups of cocoa and whipped cream
  • glowing screens
  • disrobing for an defiant and unexpected afternoon delight in the salty sweat of conjoined flesh

The first moments of coldness as a silenced car engine works to change to more temperate digs.

The thunder of a crumpling parka as you squeeze into rigid car seat surfaces,

that a short time ago gave up the fight to retain the patches of warmth that they held.

A lonely hope for comfort.

Nature reminds us of our place in the order of things.

So much taken for granted.

Not having to survive the elements allows me to contemplate whether or not I’m depressed, stressed, or anxious.

No fight.

No flight.

Just a brisk hike in the frigid wilderness.

Connecting intermittently with an apathetic world.

Trying to find the Wi-Fi signal of life.

It is locked, and I don’t have the password.

Hoping for heated hearth and hearty heat.

Dreaming of a fire that burns,

but doesn’t consume.