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From the height of accomplishment to the gloom of despondency, often the virtues of prerogative are enjoyed inconspicuously. Direction and purpose are selected, distracted from a simple observation, the value of this right, immeasurable, but elemental in our existence. We are where we are in life directly as a result of our prerogative, earning both joyful credit and tortured blame, incredulous to our posture. The hovering bald eagle, wondrous, and the roaming vagabond, those of the mobile rich and the blue collar, all share this same privilege, oblivious. 
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The moon reminds that earth is not alone, its cavities and pockmarks, quite defined when hovering near vista's distant edge, a warning of the future of mankind. A billion rocks and chucks of ice consort with vast galactic forces yet unseen, a complex soup of gravity and mass is served as part of nature's cold cuisine. The earth depends on neighbors like the moon to step in front and bear our astral cross; the lunar surface proves its stead resolve to stall extinction and our coup de grace. We spy the rising moon and understand that life exists but for its gracious hand. 
He shoots his camera with a postured stare, his targets, an indigenous soiree, to fill the online scrapbook he'd prepare. Though shirtless in this hot and muggy air, his attitude depicts a grand cliché- he shoots his camera with a postured stare, With trinkets bought inside the market square, he'll buy more souvenirs and put away to fill the online scrapbook he'd prepare. With treks providing views beyond compare, of tropical locale and sleepy bay, he shoots his camera with a postured stare, The Caribbean mood, with vivid flair, would give him snapshots of the locals' play to fill the online scrapbook he'd prepare. The tourist wanders, mostly unaware that those around will grin at the display, he shoots his camera with a postured stare, to fill the online scrapbook he'd prepare. 
On a moonlit night at the Yuma County Fair, The winner of the seventh race retired, When its owner checked on his cocoa English mare, He found the stable door had been rewired. With the help she got from the breeder's eldest son, Matilda made her way to open land, Once the path was clear of the grassy foxes' run, She left the boy as he had often planned. As the dawn approached and Matilda grew fatigued, She met a herd of mustangs and a colt, They were wild and free, and with this she was intrigued, Then joined the renegades in their revolt. Now and then that boy would stare out at spacious plain, Imagining Matilda unconfined, Just a carefree steed with a flowing, darkened mane, The grass as sweet as any left behind. 
They say what goes around will come around, but I don't find it often to be true, The rich get richer, all the more renowned, by pillaging beyond the public's view. Some cheat their partners, clients, even friends, with grins reserved for endless glib events, while many tout religious means to ends, confessing, but declining to repent. They fall from grace in golden parachutes or disappear to spend their plundered spoils, these smug elite, when caught in their pursuits blame others for the crash or leaking oil. "What comes around" is hungered for again, but just rewards have rarely ever been. 
Gourmands recollect each German variety, the greens, pinks and yellows of the noblest of fruit, gladdened when they can sip a favored vintage, gregarious in their oenologic oratory. Gallant stewards smile, agreeing that Gewurztraminer indeed goes well with salmon, as ghosts of vineyards past hide in the dry aromas. 
In hands of discipline, a stern reminder of his painful skill, his fingers stiffen, knuckles burn, as muddy clay begins to turn. The ceramista from Brazil exerts a steady pressure still, a vision slowly taking shape, projecting his artistic will. The potter lets the time escape while choosing tools to shave and scrape his fleeting terra-cotta vase with hopes to form the perfect nape. The anguish on the artist's face is not perceived with art's embrace. Its birth is not of much concern when filling just the perfect space. 
It has been years since guests have spent the night, yet here it sits, majestic in its state of disrepair, a shadow of the sight it once projected, ill-aware of fate. When gold ran out the miners laid in wait, and word got out, which slowed the westward drift, migration stalled while those in stead debate decided if economies would lift. With nothing else to draw, the end was swift, more vacancies, the empty rooms were cold. No longer could the owners man the shift, and nothing left- the hotel hadn't sold. The long abandoned property, forlorn, displays its fading windows as we mourn. 
You feel for the edge, and it seems to be firm, indecision has dampened your will, the rickety walk makes your confidence squirm, and you wonder if you have the skill. Your plans being made and the schedule complete, you had every intention to go, but now, up ahead, just the threat of defeat could make progress exceedingly slow. But what if, you think, my assessment is wrong, that my sure-footed path comes apart? You'd prove to the others that you don't yet belong, that you haven't the strength or the heart. So cast aside doubts and instill your intent and be watching your steps on the way. Tenacity counts and would now represent your success over life's disarray. 
The hawk surveys the grounds with keen and focused eyes, no movement will escape attention; none will taunt this feared and stoic shape. The hawk surveys the grounds, his kingdom, from the trees, majestic wings await a mouse or smaller bird oblivious to fate. The hawk surveys the grounds as afternoon declines the ravens' calls begin a frantic chorus line, his brothers closing in. The hawk surveys the grounds, his nest and mate nearby, well past the harvest moon, there is no time to waste with winter coming soon. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
June 2020
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