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My delusion, like most illusions, appears from a fog, a murky epilogue to my ambition, a pitied condition common to impractical dreamers. My life's vision, every decision, is weighed against what might commence if only the stars obscured my scars of imagined ticket tape streamers. I think someday, with hope at bay, impossible dreams and ill-advised schemes will be dispelled, a final farewell to mansions, private jets and Beemers. 
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The outlaws ran from Tulsa to Cheyenne, they stopped in Dodge and killed a shopclerk's son, but Wyatt's posses always got their man. In Broken Arrow they had formed their clan, and after robbing stages, one by one, the outlaws ran from Tulsa to Cheyenne. Topeka's train had crossed the prairie's span, Dodge City's stop was held by deadly gun, but Wyatt's posses always got their man. The outlaws then devised a master plan, just one last job, the biggest one, then done. The outlaws ran from Tulsa to Cheyenne. Supplies were needed, so the boy began to load, alas, the job was never done, but Wyatt's posses always got their man. Dodge City joined Earp's posse and began the chase, their vengeance wouldn't be outrun. The outlaws ran from Tulsa to Cheyenne, Yes, Wyatt's posses always got their man. 
I can't wait to travel and finally shop, In souvenir stores and in every truck stop, For trinkets and mugs, and the obvious caps, Along with CD's or some t-shirts perhaps. These gifts are so tacky, distasteful or rude, That those who receive them must surely conclude, With each gaudy item from distant locales, Amusement and fun were our main rationales. For what kind of person can keep down a smile When looking at garish salt shakers' crude style, Especially ceramic bikini clad chicks Whose shakers detach, as their flaunting predicts? Or brassy key chains with their mottos of life Whose flashlight includes a small fish-cleaning knife, We mustn't forget flashy shot glass arrays, Most likely acquired in our motorhome phase. I peer at a bobble-hipped hula girl doll, It's sure not Picasso, Monet or Chagall, But heirlooms are more than exquisite décor, Recalling locations we came to explore. 
Abundance is a plight today- indulgence, thought to cure our banes, instead can cause vast disarray, like quenching drought with too much rain. A widow mourns and shuns her friends, an over-treated youth, insane, a lonely man shoots up and spends existence blaming too much rain. While moderation is the key, the need for over-kill remains a human foible fraught with glee, while rivers flood with too much rain. The cure for sadness isn't born from opulence or pink Champagne; we can't escape the past or scorn with turgid love or too much rain. 
My meager vineyard on a handsome lake is equal to my master vintner's care, exquisite wine is what she yearns to make. Last harvest caused our backs and arms to ache, so this year we have found a crew to bare my meager vineyard on a handsome lake. My keen enologist will lie awake surmising how this vintage will compare, exquisite wine is what she yearns to make. This special crop will refinance my stake, and with the harvest done I can repair my meager vineyard on a handsome lake. She monitors the pressing and partakes in recipes, composing with a flair- exquisite wine is what she yearns to make. Adept winemaker, risking no mistake, distasteful grapes from here are largely rare, my meager vineyard on a handsome lake. Exquisite wine is what she yearns to make. 
A farmer's life is far from rich-- no riding crop or muzzled twitch. He can't be cowered in debate, his hardened life a useful trait to spurn a stubborn sales pitch. He tills an irrigation ditch, steps back and throws its dampened switch. How much the socialites would hate a farmer's life. With horses gathered to unhitch, he leads them, thinking of his niche, how nights are free to contemplate the land and crops of his estate, and how his loving wife bewitched a farmer's life. 
What once was lush and green has dried to spindled core- I wonder of the cause and of its state before. Was drought the element that drove its sad demise, or such torrential rain that normal thirst belies? Effect of heat or wind, climatic forces all, were roots too frail to hold against a summer squall? As earth and time now reign upon my mundane day, I wonder this for me, while viewing harsh decay. Will circumstance allow my missions to complete, or will a summer squall upend my balance sheet? I have so much to do, as sights of death explain, that squandering desire can end with nothing gained. 
So brilliant are the rust-toned walls Of Utah's canyon cliffs, The ancient stone and river bed Creating nature's gifts Of rainbow crags, cathedral spires, And faces striped in shades, An eon's worth of battered scars And rippled red cascades. Lain among the hues and stain, A whitened crop of chalk, Devoid of colored overtones, Became Albino Rock. A mystery of primal past, That limestone came to be Embedded in the iron ridge For wind and rain to free. Humanity must stand in awe Along the canyon trails, Albino Rock has long survived, In geologic scales, The white against the reddened forms Contrast erosion's grind, And yet the beauty of the pale Imprints upon my mind. 
The warning signs are there to see, though shadows keep the hints opaque, I tell myself it won't be me about to make a big mistake. My ignorance can be sublime, oblivious, yet wide awake, won't someone tell, shout out when I'm about to make a big mistake? The errors come and blunders go, while consciously I can partake in folly, never apropos, about to make a big mistake. I searched descendants for a clue, I gave that tree a mighty shake, they moved ahead, as if they knew, content to make a big mistake. 
The Cowtown druggist is renown- he pledges not to settle down, the only use for tux and gown is at a ball, a formal fete that fills the town's assembly hall. This bachelor has splendid skill, he kills the pain with just a pill. A chemist with a working mill, his life is great, so full of promise and goodwill, if left to fate. The womenfolk still try to match the pretty gals to such a catch, forever plots they try to hatch, to no avail, a preacher they will soon dispatch if they don't fail. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many accompanied by his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
July 2021
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