A canvas of white canvas,
And pointed cloth ceilings ascending,
The merchants are unpacking,
With visions of profits impending.
An art fair just awakened
And sounds of exhibits' transition,
Replaces quiet morning
With hammering's prolonged repetition.
Where once was sod and garden
Is now a vast sea of bazaar tents,
With sculptures and fair food,
And crowds choosing holiday presents.
country 'tis of thee
road leading home
home to roost
home at three
three white birds
three dog night
vision of paradise
vision of the future
future is now
now and forever
now we can see
see how they fail
see to it tomorrow
tomorrow never knows
tomorrow isn't soon enough
enough time has past
times like these
times are changing
minds will follow
minds made up
up the canyon walls
up in the air
air your dirty laundry
raid the environment
raid the piggy bank
bank on it
bank of the great river
river of waste
river runs wild
wild and fancy free
free to fly
free as birds
Sometimes the fables of our youth
that mothers oft repeat
still come to mind in adult lives
to punish our deceit.
"May lightning strike me as I stand,"
is said to cover lies,
beware, the smiting might occur
before you can revise.
A bolt descends from black of storm,
enforcing breach of trust,
we rarely know the smitten ones,
unless, alas, it's us.
I truly longed to be her kissing cousin,
way back when we were hormone-laden teens,
but geographic space would not allow it,
we grew apart before we had the means.
The years ahead had little time for cousins,
and Barb would flourish as a loving wife.
When children came, she was a caring mother,
her world revolved around her perfect life.
My family had also proved consuming,
and time went by without a fleeting thought
about the crush that once preoccupied me,
but for reunion times we both had caught.
Surprising that a sculpture on the plains
reminded that my love of Barb remains.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.