Eagles far from poetic

I WRITE IN PROSE, but I think in poetry. Clearly, I lack the ability to distill the great human emotions into words so fine and spare that they will one day be included in anthologies and taught to bright-eyed students, secretly hoping there's a Cliff Notes version somewhere. But there is inside of me a white Maya Angelou or a non-agoraphobic Emily Dickinson, struggling to emerge from the "Chris-alis." (And that is why I am not a poet, but let's move on.)

Even if I can't write it, I devour it. My preferences run to iambic pentameter and rhymes, because I respect any effort to actually work at something. Years ago in my local newspaper, there was a woman named Ruthie Potter who would send in "poems" like: "I saw a bird. It was sad. It. Flew. Away." This, I do not consider poetry.

Of course, in the words of Pope Francis, who am I to judge?

But since I have limited time, I go with the established classics - the Poes, the Longfellows, the Whitmans - when I need to squeeze the angst out of my soul.

And this week, I experienced a considerable amount of angst about the Eagles and their coach, who I've made no secret about hating.

Yes, you heard that correctly, hate. That is very un-PC of me, I know. I should only reserve my hatred for the opposing political party and random Kardashians. But after what has happened over the past weeks, my initial coolness and mistrust of Chip Kelly has morphed into something akin to what Michael Corleone felt (and did to) everyone who was not in church at his son's christening.

And so, not being a poet myself, I consulted the great ones to see if they could help me adequately express my rage, desperation and disgust. You will excuse me if I did a little personalizing, though. Call it my own "Dead Poet's Society."

First up, our Jersey neighbor, the great man for whom at least one bridge has been named: Walt Whitman.

What to say to the man who has single-handedly destroyed a once flourishing team by his Oregonian megalomania?

Oh Chip-man, my Chip-man, our fearful trip is done

The team has weathered three defeats

And victories gained, just one

The end is near, the bell I hear, the one that has a crack

Is tolling for your season lost

And crappy Quarterbacks.

My Chip-man doesn't answer, he looks so pale, aggrieved To see him standing on the deck, you'd say "that's Andy Reid,"

Revolt, o fans, and ring, o bell

But we with heads low hung,

Walk slow, and hear the mournful cry "Good luck with that refund."

Maybe Chip can't fully understand the pain he has caused, and is causing, the true Eagles fans. He's not one of us, after all, having sprung fully formed from New England to manage some ducks in the Pacific Northwest and then come to Philadelphia to deal with an entirely different type of bird, one that involves a hand minus four fingers when you screw up. We gave him the benefit of the doubt at the beginning, and he did manage a winning season or two. But hope has a short shelf life when you start cutting players the way Julia Child used to chop vegetables, willy nilly.

Let's hear what Emily Dickinson, with a Flowers variation, has to say:

Hope is a thing with feathers

That promises a goal

And while you're weeping for McCoy

Rewards you with a Sproles

It sings the tune without the words

Just letters, belched out strong

I-G-G-L-E-S! it screams

Who cares if it's spelled wrong?

Sometimes, hope is not enough. The way that you then avoid the horror of reality, is by collapsing into a dream that this is not really happening. But this season is becoming a dream choreographed and produced in Technicolor by Edgar Allan Poe:

I stand amid the roar

Of a turf-tormented bore

And I hold within my hand

A season ticket, damned O God!

Can I not grasp it

With a tighter clasp?

O God! Can I not sell it

On Stub Hub?

Is all that we see, or seem

But a nightmare, all in green?

But let's get real, here. This is not a dream. This is happening, folks. Four games do not a season make, generally, but we're not stupid. We feel where this is going. Into a dark, downward spiral of a dungeon. Or as the late, very great Yogi Berra would say, it's over. Being Philadelphians, however, we will survive even the Chip-man. William Ernst Henley could have been talking about us:

"Out of the night that covers me

Black as a pit, from pole to pole

I curse Joe Buck, and hope that he

Has five long minutes with Trent Cole (yes, I know he's a Colt now but I'm allowed poetic license)

Beyond this season, wracked with tears

Looms but the horror that remains

The menace of the Flyers nears the Sixers?

Phillies Endless shame.

In the fell clutch of circumstance (Since no one seems to clutch a ball)

We are still masters of our fate

We are survivors of this Fall."

We, in fact, are survivors. We have weathered many such storms before, including the Hurricane of 1964 and the Plague of Papelbon. Of course, it all hasn't come crashing down around our shoulders simultaneously as it has this year, with all of our teams entering a nuclear winter at the same time. But if, just if we can hold our breaths until next year, perhaps the Oregon Ogre will be gone.

Christine Flowers is a lawyer.

Email: cflowers1961@gmail.com