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I start with new determination, set, above the valley floor of politics, off in the distance is a silhouette, an unfamiliar end that now conflicts. Suspended, stalled, my vehicle is still, I'm helpless keeping muddled thoughts at bay. Inaction now confounds my purposed will, lodged frozen in ambition's path, halfway. The boundless possibilities of youth, without the temperance of lessons learned, are hampering attempts at seeing truth, and thus effects of cause can't be discerned. I focus on the task and redefine, until my sudden fear is in decline. 
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No one could prepare me for the resplendency, the esteemed majesty, of the mid-March sunset, in which the falling sun drapes itself in such red. So unexpected! I’ve seen its descent toward horizon for ten thousand eves- but not like this one. Crimson doesn’t do justice to these hues of deep, darkening skies. Reverence is evoked, though short-lived. Watching, I’m in awe. 
British moving ever shoreward, ardent plans will soon be blooming. Soldiers hunkered, never cowered, even with the battles looming, cannons silent, pointing eastward , wait to start their endless booming. Soldiers hunkered, never cowered, even with the battles looming, captain's orders pass on forward, throes of hunger, still consuming. Cannons silent, pointing eastward , wait to start their endless booming. Captain's orders pass on forward, throes of hunger, still consuming, painful groans, a muffled curse word, doubts about the war's resuming, cannons silent, pointing eastward, wait to start their endless booming. Painful groans, a muffled curse word, doubts about the war's resuming, feasting on the peppered game bird, skillets cleaned but fires fuming, cannons silent, pointing eastward, wait to start their endless booming. 
As baseball is sleeping, the winter scenes cast, withdrawal begins to unravel the fan- too long 'til Spring Training, yet trades are long past, and free agent signings are nil in this span. With basketball scores now the dominant news, and hockey announcers rejoicing odd goals, the true fan of baseball, enduring the blues, are ho-humming sportscasts, adrift with their souls. Just two months to get through, if weather permits, and sounds of the diamond will echo anew, Vin Scully describing the battles of wits between the home dugouts and visiting crews. We live for the spring, when we somehow survived, to sit in the bleachers-- the season's arrived! 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
January 2020
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