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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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Weathered, abandoned, once filled with passions, but time has worn them away. 
Where once there were railroads, there now are dry weeds, The tragedy hits the small town, which concedes, Its citizens flee the continued decline Of commerce and finance, which soon realign In cities metropolis, feeding demand For more and more money while rich firms expand. Its Main Street once bustled with people and cars, With art shops expanding their sidewalk bazaars, The comings and goings of patrons who shop And follow commands from their one traffic cop. The diner was full at the end of the block, Especially lunch time when townfolk would flock. So what of the plight of the rural home town, When factories fail and their markets close down? The land left to grazing won't mean very much Compared to the lifestyle, the township's quaint touch, To knowing your neighbors and watching kids grow, They'll never be hamlets like those long ago. The schoolhouse is empty, replaced by a bus That carries the pupils for miles to discuss What history teaches of progress and time, And how they are better in cities with crime, With corporate farmers and Wall Street affairs With leaders who cater to rich millionaires. There certainly can be an argument made For moving away when economies fade, But better to gather and plan for success, To rally the neighbors and fight the distress. Complacency gone and its failures ignored, The life of the home town may still be restored. 
A little bit of countryside enhances urban atmosphere, as each and every weekend morn the farmers and their wares appear. They've driven far to bring their goods, been wide awake since four o'clock, fresh fruits and shiny vegetables, their very best, from private stock. While supermarkets' volumes need the harvests of the largest crops, the smaller farms and dairies thrive on growers' pride and country shops. Enhancing urban atmosphere, the farmers and their wares appear. 
Bacchus and the Scribe arrived today, with pencils sharpened, wanting no delay. Their reputations have preceded, though, with Bacchus having reached career's plateau, and news of his decline won't go away. The Scribe had reassured with plain dismay that they can compensate for disarray. These virtuosos came to stem the flow- Bacchus and the Scribe. With profits clearly leaching everyday they know accounting could have gone astray, though theft of cash could be the ugly foe. They've proven now that errors long ago have skewed results- these pundits are okay, Bacchus and the Scribe. 
I grew up fast, I missed my dad's advice, and I was forced to skip the passage rites. The oldest of the kids, I paid the price and grew up fast. I longed for dad's advice, adulthood seemed so daunting, so concise- no boyhood dreams, no bugs beneath the lights. I grew up fast while missing Dad's advice when I was forced to skip the passage rites. 
As life abounds and agitation reigns, and threat of war results from bloodied creed, world politics, like alligator weed, clogs efforts to unwind its bonds and chains. A misconception of the world remains that violent disputes and utter greed is all the future holds as they succeed, especially as media explains. I watch the sun sink slowly from the sky, into horizon's widely open arms, no city noise or army's battle cry, just nature and the small surrounding farms. Tranquility will always underlie the human playground and its false alarms. 
The sunrise gives me pause, though dawning brings new verve, its sunlight reaches in despite my optic nerve still trying to block possibility. The sunlight that I see consists of photon streams that traveled through dark space, surviving harsh extremes, unaware of its human utility. The moonlight even comes, while brightening the night, as vestiges of sun, thus claiming solar right to raise lunar visibility. As sun lifts higher still, my thoughts begin to wane, the turmoil of the day now occupies my brain, but no longer spewing futility. 
Sail, wind, planing, first dogwatch, then, before the mast, we let ourselves be cast away. 
The vivid colors stain the hardened wall face, with auburn rouge and golden hues of sand, perspired from the ancient Zion limestone, the sweat and tears from eons building land. The Zion tears appear in weeping cliffsides, as if terrain were brandishing distress, once named for Jewish homeland and their heaven, it has become a target to transgress. While there are those who trust its preservation to governmental bodies and a tax, its vastness still allows its open landscape to be disgraced by vandals' cruel acts. Those Zion tears exalt with nature's beauty, reminding us protection is our duty. 
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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
December 2019
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