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Throughout the asphalt inner city core, the struggles for attainment and success are hemmed in clutter and the crowded floor, the fear of losing driven by noblesse. The workers in this hive with deft command can navigate the paper and the pace, they know that only rested minds can stand the pressures of the job and making chase. On weekends these marauders slow it down, they make their way to open space, withdrawn from paper jungles or the tux and gown, and search for solitude and dreams foregone. 
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Suitably quiet, he succeeds in blending in, quite invisible, while he waxes nonchalant. Indeed, he'd rather be anything but recognized, just another sapling camouflaged by the forest. Every now and then he is freed from his cocoon and shows brilliantly his talent for spectacle, as crippling stage fright releases its hold on him ever so slightly. Whispers become raucous songs, telling the world, "Look at me!" 
Beware the road least traveled, for it ambles over hills and plains, avoiding mainstream's common traps, while risking transcendental pains. A tightrope sans a safety net, the road to triumph and romance, winds on without regard, as if its feats are made by happenstance. Most efficacious lives parade intrepid hearts and daring souls, but media is loath to make reports on unsuccessful goals. Beware, the road least traveled may escort prosperity away. 
I left on a whim. Where will this country road lead? Not that it matters... Will the next hamlet I find embrace or turn me away? 
I strolled away from city noise, away from strain and crowds, Superior grants strength and calm, despite her nimbus clouds. At lake's edge I can sit and stare imagining beyond horizon's curved and lonely cusp live those who share my bond. For I could sense those roustabouts who stroll to water's edge and gaze at distant shores where I now sit near leafy sedge. They, too, would need their time away from work and all they feared, I wondered if daydreams of me came calling while they peered. I sighed and left the peaceful scene, recharged and ready, though I still recalled the unseen shore and those I yearned to know. 
The heron flies with neck retracted, short, Unlike its friend, the long-necked, graceful swan, and though they're known by egret, also sport the moniker of bittern, now foregone. No easy life, these water fowl dwell on, with fish entrapped when fortunate to dine. They nest, find marshy ground to build upon or teeter on a branch with keen design. The "lady of the waters" in decline as wetlands shrink from man's intruding use, the heron is oblivious to signs of human disregard and land abuse. They stalk their prey and stab with sharpened beak while unaware of avian mystique. 
Leaves fly on frigid wings, limbs sigh as wind traipses through them, chagrined, for though winter's not here, they know. 
The night oppresses my regretful mind until perception of a dream can start- I soon behold relationships enshrined in galleries of existential art. I haven't managed friendships very well, and ego shares so much of useless blame, past comrades speak in voices keen to tell that guilt produced the man that I became. Artistic walls of confidantes profess remorse is human, letting you rebound. I try to wake myself, without success; my friends in vivid colors gather round. The walls become a ceiling's lucid hues, a dreamt relief when clashing with the blues. 
I miss girders, joists, and vast swinging cranes tending tall towers of steel. Construction is now delayed-- Who stole my erector set? 
Another excursion, another small town, a southwest sabbatical starting to drag, with similar Main Streets and storefronts of brown, each quaint city hall and its wind-tattered flag. I'm walking in Prescott in midsummer heat, deciding to stroll off the main boulevard, on Whiskey Row Alley, the signs would repeat, where once drunken locals had staggered and sparred. A wall of dried stucco and paint would appear, a colorful mural that seemed out of place, depicting the past with such passion and cheer, and each painted person as one to embrace. The artists took care to present in best light historic events and the ones who took part, with pride, it was obvious, bold, yet polite, I stare at the beauty they sought to impart. I think of my feeling when first I arrived, No matter the look of a township's confines, the age of the sidewalks, if businesses thrived, a city is people, not buildings and signs. 
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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 2021
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