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There's nothing like the taste of wine
to make the afternoon divine, a novel Main Street tasting room gives townfolk pleasures of the vine. The stress of life, the woe of whom are waiting for the buds to bloom, are leading to dysphoric blues, yet wine may lift this hamlet's gloom. The opening of Oz is news, its storefront cast in vibrant hues, their melancholy cast aside, with cellar racks from which to choose. The implications, county-wide, is that the Oz will now provide new wine selections never seen in bergs once filled with civic pride. The chefs now come with swank cuisine, as Oz was in a magazine, the town that once was in decline is now the region's posh new scene. 
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Proliferation,
like weeds in a flawless bed, prevents paradise. 
The mine was deep, the vein was old, with small reward for lives mundane and paltry means, their quests for gold, that though begun, would not sustain. The quarry crept into their crux, addiction to the dust and ore, to sulphur smell and sludge in flux, and chance to land the one great score. Though sometimes riches were declared, enough to spur the seekers on, most often mines would cease impaired before new veins were hit upon. Now corporations own the lands, consider which to mine or close, machines to work the rocky bands, the riches kept by CEO's. 
I have to say I'm quite annoyed, As life flies true and fast, That selfish thoughts can still avoid My conscious mind's repast. Can't humor stay and sit awhile? Won't dreams slow down and play? It's fun things I'd rewind and file If only to convey That life's ambition, lost or won, Is meaningless to me, But music, laughter would be fun And last eternally. 
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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
January 2019
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