Stone Soup Croutons, 1-17-19, Planted

Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked up from poems overheard from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, this poem doesn't go up because it's ready, it goes up because it's Friday morning.

Thanks to those who came to last night's open mic. I mention that upfront because I was late posting the information. Yesterday afternoon late. I hope to update more by the end of today.

I tried to put in another nod to Mary Oliver, who passed away yesterday. Crazier still is how she got a a nod in last week's poem. However, this week's poem still comes out like another New Year's/new beginnings kind of poem. Then again, I've been trying to start over since last December with little success. Thanks for reading.


Planted

You can't act like life's a ball game
months after the season's over.

Snow's about to fall. The only
hail Mary is in the church shelter,

its holiday tree still serving up
discount hope in January. You take it.

The helpers, those being helped.
The only thing both need is desire

to search the ground under them,
suss out what it symbolizes. 

Old odometers avoid another Y2K,
denying the hard reset you yearn.

It's another year where your colors
will not be on the winning team.

There's no atheists in foxholes,  but in
the coal mine, you haven't any prayer.

They make you take another drug test
when you tell them you think tulips

might make a comeback in currency,
be worth more than all you've accrued.

You don't have to walk on your knees,
but it helps when they ask you your point.

Apologies to Jacques Fleury for not starting on time. Please come back.

Special thanks to Ken King Bil Lewis, Michael Igoe, David Miller, Laurel Lambert, Jan Rowe, Martha Boss and James Van Looy.