PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My Celtic blood boils ever so lightly.  It hinders the flow of the Nordic thought; that stoic intellectualism that simmers silently in my soul.  The rash of complex ideas derails the purity of the motion.  Fluent moves were anticipated and now eliminated.  Dreamscape remains what is left.  Those heralded days of yore—see Lefty striking out the batters and Schmitty rapping them over the fence—

Those days of Tastykake radio and top 40 disco songs that I no longer listen to—it was all too much and the nostalgia of it all causes indigestion.  Passing gas in the attempted travail through time.  Not able to make the move.  Can’t reflect on the Delaware River or any of the parks and forests.  Always too afraid of bugs and the Great Outdoors.  Felt too many mosquitos nipping at my flesh. 

I don’t wanna go back.  The thought induces a migraine headache.  The throbbing in my skull as I reflect on Veteran’s Stadium and a cheesesteak that tasted so swell.  Must have been South Philly.  Who else could make it?  I don’t know.  I just trying to get all my thoughts in line.  All the frolic of Superman and the Three Stooges and a priest that baptized me with holy water that seared my soul.  I was always doomed.  My heart was always dark.  I never did want to go to church.  Let the priest preach the gospel to someone that wants to hear it.

Let me alone in this illusion.  I sit silently.  I stand at the plate with the count at 0-2.  There’s the winning run on second base.  With the pitch I swing and send a towering line drive over the center field fence.  408 feet from home plate—what a drive!  Everyone is in awe of the power.  They all just shake their heads in wonder.  The Phillies win the pennant as Gene Krupper hits his 50^th home run of the year—

But let us not get too carried away as the summertime dreams are not content for a pool and lemonade—run down the Mr. Softee truck.  These delusions of innocence must be some Blakean theory.  Gotta learn to transcend all this utter nonsense.  Hub bub of the third order and it inspires too much folly.  It certainly isn’t the healthy thing to do to live in the past so much.  The present is here.  I hear it calling for me.  I listen with ears finely attuned to hear any sound.

Birds chirp loudly.  My eyes see them.  Ah, a red one; perhaps a cardinal.  No, this isn’t St. Louis.  Whatever could I be thinking?  Tomfoolery that must be brought to a stop.  Halt!  Yes, we’re heading on in this drunken boat.  No I better eliminate that metaphor.  Don’t wanna be stealing stuff from Arthur or the group. . .