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I see no anger in the sky, just an artistic rendition, a child's jigsaw puzzle of cobalt blue, white and ominous gray. Rather, I count my blessings in an endless celestial palette. 
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An ever-changing point of view, another Spring, a splendid Fall, the seasons swiftly bid Adieu. While memories can long accrue, the pace of time will thwart recall, an ever-changing point of view. Each job or trade that I pursued has faded like a foul ball, the seasons swiftly bid Adieu. The weeks roll past in hidden queue, with small successes standing tall, an ever-changing point of view. While looking back, with glum review of childhood and curtain call, the seasons swiftly bid Adieu. The tinted leaves have leapt into a zephyr's gust, now winter's squall. An ever-changing point of view, the seasons swiftly bid Adieu. 
Striations streaking and the bars devoid of color contrast with the intensity of sun. My mind's eye peeking, now reminded of the painter of abstract redepictions yet undone. The bands and angles of the bright and dark divisions are weaved throughout the shanty's inner walls. Confusion tangles as one begins revisions of memory as recognition stalls. 
When Frenchie met the hefty dinosaur, he hoped the beast was not a fan of frog, instead he wanted friendship, a rapport, for loneliness had settled like a fog, still missing Pete and Moss from his old bog. He'd never seen a dinosaur 'til now so mustered all the courage he'd allow, a mighty leap, up to its line of sight, revealed a friendly gaze below its brow. The creature smiled, much to the frog's delight. 
I loved my muddy Slip'n Slide when I was but a grungy kid, ambitions never satisfied until my mom would hence forbid my setting foot inside the door. My friends and I would slide until you couldn't fathom who was who, our clothing drenched in turbid swill, green lawn became a viscous slough that wasn't grassy anymore. In summer when the rain's lukewarm, with sewers threatening to flood, I long to chase the surging storm, and search for sidewalks filled with mud, to slip 'n slide like years before. 
Faster, the rider willed, the rushing air not yet in his nostrils. Faster, he spoke aloud, the mail won't deliver by itself. Faster, the cheat grass blew, leaning, pointed to the east, against them. Faster still, into the dusk, the coming change of horses, soon enough. Faster, nearly finished, can't break off to rest, until then. Stop! He has arrived, the next rider grabs the bag and is off... 
The "Route 66" sign, though weathered and bent, attracted adventure, a side-trip to take. Beginning in Texas I started descent, I drove through New Mexico, tired, but awake. In one of the miles between hovels and towns, with nothing but desert and tumbleweed brush, I stopped at the rest stop and noticed that sounds were missing, a breathtaking hush. When "resting" was finished I made the next sprint to hot Arizona, sun racing me west, and then California, eyes fighting their squint, I made it to Baker with mounting distress. Beyond an old trestle on the 66 trail was nourishment, boarding, a pleasant motel, with palm trees and neon, a fence of split rail, as daylight was fading, and what is that smell? I followed the scent of a kitchen retreat, a menu that offered a barbeque meal, and soon I was full, but my quest incomplete, I rented a suite for its rate was a steal. The Royal Hawaiian lived up to its name, or maybe fatigue had enamored my view. The lounge of bamboo and a tiki torch flame were the last things I saw as I finished my brew. I woke at first light with a head-pounding pain, and hoped I had made it to bed on my own. I crawled in my car and continued on Main, but still 66, as the signage had shown. By noon I would stand on a Hollywood star, a Walk of Fame placard inlaid with its gold. The hundreds of miles with a whim and a car, the account of my drive would be often retold. 
The Joshua Tree is an odd-looking plant, Not sure if it's even from earth, With spiny long leaves and its multiple trunks, Deserted and hot in its berth. You won't find a Joshua lurking within Home nurseries, gardens or lawns, They'd rather have desert's familiar terrain, Preferring their dry lonely dawns. A Joshua Forest, misnomer at best, Is hardly a thicket of trees, Instead it's a scattered primeval cartel That barely encumbers the breeze. 
How many times, I ask, was a fisherman’s task to clean the catch of the day upon this lakeside dock by barely four o’clock, well before the skies turned gray? The handle of the pump would jitter, clack and thump, to wash that night’s fish buffet. 
They stand at attention, facing the east early in the day, leaving morning behind as the southern sun soars high, yellow masks pursuing closely, the platoon following their orders with natural precision and guidance. Midday falls away and the solar flight continues westward, while synchronized faces track the sun's path 'til dusk, when shadows dim their purpose . By daylight's sullen end, the sun no longer warrants blossoms' attention and blooms rest. 
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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
July 2019
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