by Walt Kelly (1913–1973)

The basest ball
   Of all the game
Is one that travels hence,
   O'er our grass and our gloves
      And finely, loves,
         The fence.

"The Jack Acid Society Black Book" by POGO as told to Walt ...

In a bracing wind of a wilderness pass
fly catchers', arc over this hunch-back hill,
close pursuit, with morning clouds
that hug these pointing pines, in flight

where tree line marks heaven from earth
silence staked in dissonant landscape
fields of stone, ascendant flowers
clinging lichen etched on rock's face

here moisture seeps as solvent
dissolving everything into watercolor streams
rushing to rivers of temporary sand bars
banks high near looming forest canopy

this path that leads from leaf to leaf
and no depth left un-plumbed
no height or chasm strangely met
will stem this force of "unfathomable wildness"

-cec

How each missive is missed
from you so long and long ago
this sadness only feels itself
in lonely thoughts of mirth
lost among years gone by
days hold hands with days
in endless chains of regret
endearments left pending
those antique roses near a fence
white and fragrant Victorian lucidity
an orange sun rising to morning's grace
as choir sings the beauty of  fortunes
bodies entwined as one vine of love
racks poor Cupid's soul in alarm
to launch a thousand thousand arrows
and bridge this melancholy sea
to find your eyes and pleasing face in welcome

-cec