The wind tells the sails
the secret of its power
in its dying breath.

Unknowable messages
whispered from father to son.

A still August lake,
like a smooth mirror, reveals
yourself to yourself.

Perhaps you're a stone,
scratched, flawed, dull, dark, dense, heavy,
sinking slowly down.

Or, like a prism,
the light shines on you and you
make it brilliant.

Autumn awaits you.
Ripples inch you back and forth.
Nothing is resolved.

Personally, I prefer Torii.
Though Erstad sure is a nice storii.
I'm aware of what Andruw
And Cameron canduw;
Give 'em all gold glover glorii!

Ten years it took Aaron Guiel
On buses for muiel after muiel
Of motels and diners
To work through the minors
And prove that it all was worthwuiel.

The season's a journey that's long.
The trip splits the weak from the strong.
I'm a fan who likes thinking;
Primer's got some smart linking;
But all I got was a dumb, stinking thong.

How quick we've forgotten Dale Sveum!
He had such a sveet-sounding neum.
At the old Coliseum
I once went to seum,
But he sviftly has lost all his feum.

Knowing exhaustively nature's norms essentially dehumanizes you.
Destiny offers no natural explanations. Logic lobotimizes you.
A picture perfect image erases reason,
so complete happiness overtakes everything. Noteworthy endings woo each incoming season
Like a coveted kiss energizes you.

Giants lose. An unexpected sight
emerges rapturously. Suddenly, twentyfive Angels--despite
skeptics, having interpreted each little detailed statistic,
expressing concern, knowing such triumphant expectation is novelistic--
seize a lovely, magical October night;

move out lightly into nighttime air;
float upward; lifting like majestic eagles, rare,
wonderfully elegant birds, eschewing rest,
wings outspread over their escaped nest.
Gravity's imposing lair,

succumbing passively, its evil zapped, its ordeal
overcome, remarkably terminates its zeal.
Whirling Angels swirl higher, buoyantly upwards, rising near
our celestial heaven. Observers appear
flabbergasted. Impossible, graceful gliding is nebulously surreal.

Reality or dream? Reality is grounded, unlike eagles. Zoom,
phantom eagles! Realists can't imagine victorious Angels loom
above. No dreamers ever require substantiated observations. None.
Proof angels literally, materially exist? It requires one
miracle, one lilac in nature abloom.

Said Gillick, "I'll upgrade my staff.
Benitez is better by half.
Nelson is full
Of nothing but bull,
And now I can have the last laugh!"

The Dodger offensive attack
Is lacking in men who can hack.
They way that they've played,
They are all overpaid;
They doubtlessly don't deserve Jack.