While buds are waiting to renew,
a long and nasty winter reigns,
its chill is sweeping through the plains,
for spring again is overdue.
Bare branches linger in a queue
that's filled with nature's growing pains;
when sunshine overcomes its chains
the vernal season will debut.
The psyche of the world relies
on seasons changing right on time;
without our seeing sunny skies
we feel abused by Nature's crime.
and finally with cold's demise
we bask in glowing warmth, sublime.
How did I get here?
I'm sitting at this old Kansas bar,
reading the liquor labels, Malibu, Skyy, Patron,
knowing no one, listening in on mundane conversations.
It's the same every night,
a new spot, new faces, new music,
I feel their eyes upon me,
the stranger in their midst.
Someday I may fit in.
I hope, while I wait my turn
in the singing rotation,
that I'm not unknowable.
Throughout the asphalt inner city core,
the struggles for attainment and success
are hemmed in clutter and the crowded floor,
the fear of losing driven by noblesse.
The workers in this hive with deft command
can navigate the paper and the pace,
they know that only rested minds can stand
the pressures of the job and making chase.
On weekends these marauders slow it down,
they make their way to open space, withdrawn
from paper jungles or the tux and gown,
and search for solitude and dreams foregone.
he succeeds in blending in,
while he waxes nonchalant.
Indeed, he'd rather be
anything but recognized,
just another sapling
camouflaged by the forest.
Every now and then
he is freed from his cocoon
and shows brilliantly
his talent for spectacle,
as crippling stage fright
releases its hold on him
ever so slightly.
Whispers become raucous songs,
telling the world, "Look at me!"
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.