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On the road and in air, luggage packed, I so long for the comforts of home. These motels and the hostels' stained rooms have dank walls, and the mattresses, foam. Overwhelming my sense of repose is annoyance of raucous events of the tenants who selfishly chose to insist they decry their laments. To be sure, I'd be home on my chaise, likely reading a Grisham or Quinn, taking comfort in each turn of phrase, and forgetting when travels begin. Purple martins have only to find the next birdhouse to stay as they roam, they're content without lives intertwined with relaxing, small comforts of home. 
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The glass and steel of modern city towers reflect their sunlit faces in the quad, their walls, so brilliant in the morning hours, relent as evening fills this vast facade. The native dwellers seldom heed the beauty; it disappears in busy urban life. Though hope is found, in workaholic duty, they can escape the turbulence and strife. A tower's bright reflection is enticing, reminding of what humans can achieve; the sky appears to savor in its slicing by mirrored columns made to interweave. Commuters in their cars and walking shoes look up, content to see these wondrous views. 
As each brilliant sunrise seems to bring new hope and perspective, life hasn't changed; circumstances continue unabated. Still, we willingly partake in the folly of wishful thinking. 
Hunters came upon a wildlife refuge sign, but there is no refuge. 
I was looking for some meaning in my indistinctive life, but the senselessness of circumstance confuses, while the calendar's ripped pages ever drift to meet the past, and events still slip away as instinct chooses. I begin my contemplation of the tide and flow of time, still I trudge along the corridors of self. As my pace reduced to standstill and I gazed upon the glow the epiphany was blinding in its stealth. In this darkness was a window with a wondrous, shining ray that I knew was meant for only those who seek the significance of nature and their lives of discontent, though a discontented mind is far from bleak. It was not religious dogma that this light would gleam on me, but the continuity of human course, I now realize my duty to myself and all my peers is to make a difference, be a vital force. I can't guess the implication of my vision now unveiled, or the future of the species unpreserved, if enough enlightened people would choose purpose in their days, then perhaps would oft repeat what was observed. 
I want to be an Argonaut, My quest is to explore, I'd seek what none have ever sought, The danger I'd adore. The Argonaut possessed a dream Of riches, fame, and prize, His strategy and self esteem Kept foiling his demise. So when I'm down and life has wrought A woeful time of stress, I strive to be an Argonaut And make my own success. 
This poem is a "cleave," which is three poems in one. Read the left column, then the right column, then combine the two.
Elegant beauty of geometry hides in plain sight. Architects can only dream of such vogue appreciation. Tourists crane their necks gawking at unexpected works of art. 
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. 
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. 
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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
August 2019
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