The scenic beauty of the rolling hills,
of peaceful country, lulled by zephyr's touch,
draws those who manage time away from bills,
from urban clamor yuppies miss so much.
I often dreamed of living far away,
amid the pines and yellow aspen groves.
I'd build a home with nature on display,
a walk away from shaded lakeside coves.
The chirruping of innocence, of birds,
sing gentle serenades, massage my sense-
no longer would I need a choice of words,
a contrast from the hurried crowds' pretense.
I'd take my love out on the quaint lanai,
admiring landscapes and the country sky.
How will they use them?
the Potter asks, knowing,
as his earthen mass spins
and browns his hands.
Will they bring their port wine
to supper, or carry their grains,
employ the clay vessels
that befit his suffering?
No, he laments. Patrons
with his kiln-fired bowls
and the cisterns in glaze
will set upon mantles, on shelves,
soon hopeful for any glance
by those ambling by.
Perhaps they'll be handed
down through lifetimes of heirs,
only to be found
in crates of last effects.
Still, the Potter turns his wheel,
fights his sadness, and revels
in his artist's vision,
brethren around their table,
a bouquet so matching
its brilliant, hued vase, his,
the gathering now transfixed
When nature gives you subtle clues,
it's best to not ignore her signs,
the morning sky is just a ruse
unless you read between the lines.
A hummingbird may give a wink
when nature gives you subtle clues,
to disregard the clever link
may end you up on nightly news.
The weather stations take their cues
from past experience, they know
when nature gives you subtle clues
you may survive the coming show.
The winds can blast, the snows will drift,
but shelter will prevent your blues,
you had the sense to heed the gift
when nature gave you subtle clues.
The 3:09 is moving fine,
its freight is in a hurry,
through Kansas plains and Texas rains-
its owners needn't worry.
The Santa Fe arrives today
in Austin's cargo station,
its engineer, his whole career,
has met his obligation.
Though now renowned, last summer found
the thunderheads surrounded,
tornado tracks did not relax,
and lightning storms abounded.
The spotless state, his on-time slate,
has suffered imperfection,
but freight preserved, he had deserved
his clients' gained affection.
The song by Jack Huber/Christopher Gordon:
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.