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.
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.
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
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.