It Hurts to Be a Mets Fan

Inspired by a Facebook page, I wrote the two sonnets below.  The first is somewhat blunt in getting to the point (well, as blunt as poetry will let you get when trying to work in rhymes).  The second was an exercise in taking the artistic, more subtle side of me out for a ride.  Enjoy.

It Hurts, version 1

Epic bad boys; Magic, historic: the Champs,
Baseball glory; autumn seeds were cast wide.
Scioscia; Hatcher; Cocaine’s brutal cold stamps
Sure thing empire, crumbles before it’s stride.
No doubt it hurts, my blue, orange won’t hide.
Firecracker. Fallen arms of young hope.
Champs of ages face down decade long slide.
Rebirth falls short, cross town villains with rope.
The pain inflames but we don’t hide, we cope.
Shouldered bat strike, pending glory is lost.
Then Oh-Seven, team rolls down a long slope.
Phillies; Madoff: Too big a price to cost.
There is no shame in the heart of a man
Even when it hurts to be a Mets fan.

It Hurts, Version 2

My muse, mistress; my hearts first fire and glow.
Roused up from the darkness, woken by her,
My soul alive; my hope begins to grow.
Life, no parole: the price I must incur.
In waking sun, she gives to me hope’s stir,
Which festers slowly in summer sun’s glare,
Turning bitter in falls twilight transfer.
Dreams reborn in winter; no mind despair.
It was a love born in heroic flare
A magic autumn that showed me true joy
Successive years brought forth wins that are rare
But hope and love renewed, true, without ploy.
I’ll love them until I am an old man,
Even when It hurts to be a Mets fan.

(If anyone is curious, both of these are Spenserian sonnets)

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