Change or Die

This site's first year is coming to an end
with 138 verses penned,
200 hits per day, bots excluded,
which is not a lot, so I've concluded
it just isn't worth it, as it now stands,
to keep up the effort this site demands
in this format. Something has to be changed;
this site somehow has to be rearranged
into a new format that can attract
a bigger audience that it has lacked
so far. It must grow or it must die.
Stagnation means death. I am forced to try,
despite my doubts, something more bold and new.
I'll break to figure it out. What to do?

Cursed, part 1

Nightmares arose from our innocent dreams,
From childish wishes on shimmering stars,
Once-cheerful faces disfigured with scars,
Our laughter transformed into ghastly screams,
Tricked by mirages which won't quench our thirst,
Our seeds get planted but fail to take root,
Our hungers fed by hollow, rotten fruit--
We're destined to want, and thereby we're cursed.

Five more outs. Just five is all we needed.
We hoped. We prayed. We begged and we pleaded.
They never came, and now we're left haunted
By ghosts who curse us for what we wanted.
Our curse is not to fail, it's not to cry,
Our curse is just an echo: Why? Why? Why?

Before the 2002 World Series

Ever since a certain Alabaman
made a catch that to this day still astounds
every person there at the Polo Grounds,
the Giants have suffered from a famine
of World Series championships (and what
would be different if Willie Mays had signed
with Boston instead?) which they hope to find
the greatness of Barry Bonds can end, but--
Scioscia likes to go off to the races,
which pressures the Nens, Ortizes and Schmidts
to not give up walks and not give up hits
in order to keep off of the bases
the Garret Andersons and Tim Salmons.
That's Diamond Notes, and I'm Peter Gammons.

The Score Bard imitates Emily Litella

It's baseball players who I've come to speak
About today: these greedy, spoiled, and vain
Young, bratty millionaires who just complain
And cry if they don't get the cash they seek,
With artificially enhanced physiques
From steroid use that gives them bulgy eyes
And hairy backs and arms the size of thighs--
Who wants to pay to see these monstrous freaks?
Not me! And now I hear one team has streaked
For twenty games! This has gone way too far!
Just think of all the children this will scar:
Young fans who might have accidentally peeked
At full frontals flashing and bare behinds
Of freaks who... What? Oh, sorry. Never mind.

Predictions

I won't foretell which stars this year will shine
Astrology's for those who study charts
And reading cards takes braver minds than mine
To say which clubs have diamonds in their hearts.
I won't predict if pinstripes will prevail
Against the green and golden dreams of youth
Or if when mighty mariners set sail
They'll find upon the seas some central truth.
For truth, and beauty, spring forward as twins,
Revealed to us in pairs, slowly, unplanned,
Exposed through time by constant waves and winds
Like buried pirate treasure under sand.
Foreknowledge can help simplify the game,
But life is best when mysteries remain.