The grasslands and hillsides of the western expanse Continue to isolate despite man's advance In technical gadgets and cellular gear, Designed for inhabitants of modern frontier. The sheer open spaces can simply transcend All manner of contact one tries to extend. With many reclusive, spending lifetimes alone, Preferring escape from what society's prone, The violent nature of the urbanites' lives Depicted in newscasts with their guns, chains and knives. A rural, unruffled ranch homestead or farm Can keep their contentment from coming to harm. Most city folks live their industrial lives Without thinking twice about how one survives, As citizens go they are mostly sincere And care about neighbors and friends they hold dear, But living in backwoods or on desolate land Is simply so tranquil they would not understand.
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When wandering the back roads of the plains, where waving grass makes way for corn and wheat, secluded from the noise of speeding trains, you leave behind the fractured asphalt street. There, ghosts from august herds may yet remain, the thunder almost felt beneath your feet as native horsemen flush their bison prey, and others force the herd in disarray. An arrow in the heart, a bison spins and promptly drops while others are pursued. The chase complete, they load the meat and skins to consummate their quest for warmth and food. Tonight they celebrate, a feast begins, and then the season's hunting will conclude. At times the festival still breaks the hush of evening plains among the sedge and brush. Work can seep into your personal life, friends and confidants caution; you have to keep looking over your shoulder. Jealous co-workers are watching, waiting for private indiscretions to prove they, not you, deserve advancement. They can't compete with your intelligence or experience, so they conspire to find your hidden skeletons. Looking over your shoulder can be a tiresome chore, distracting you from more important concerns, with little gained. I miss my Annie, still aboard my sailing ship, comforting and true, leading us safely through fog. No woman could measure up. |
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
April 2021
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