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Sometimes the fables of our youth that mothers oft repeat still come to mind in adult lives to punish our deceit. "May lightning strike me as I stand," is said to cover lies, beware, the smiting might occur before you can revise. A bolt descends from black of storm, enforcing breach of trust, we rarely know the smitten ones, unless, alas, it's us. 
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I truly longed to be her kissing cousin, way back when we were hormone-laden teens, but geographic space would not allow it, we grew apart before we had the means. The years ahead had little time for cousins, and Barb would flourish as a loving wife. When children came, she was a caring mother, her world revolved around her perfect life. My family had also proved consuming, and time went by without a fleeting thought about the crush that once preoccupied me, but for reunion times we both had caught. Surprising that a sculpture on the plains reminded that my love of Barb remains. 
I start with new determination, set, above the valley floor of politics, off in the distance is a silhouette, an unfamiliar end that now conflicts. Suspended, stalled, my vehicle is still, I'm helpless keeping muddled thoughts at bay. Inaction now confounds my purposed will, lodged frozen in ambition's path, halfway. The boundless possibilities of youth, without the temperance of lessons learned, are hampering attempts at seeing truth, and thus effects of cause can't be discerned. I focus on the task and redefine, until my sudden fear is in decline. 
No one could prepare me for the resplendency, the esteemed majesty, of the mid-March sunset, in which the falling sun drapes itself in such red. So unexpected! I’ve seen its descent toward horizon for ten thousand eves- but not like this one. Crimson doesn’t do justice to these hues of deep, darkening skies. Reverence is evoked, though short-lived. Watching, I’m in awe. 
British moving ever shoreward, ardent plans will soon be blooming. Soldiers hunkered, never cowered, even with the battles looming, cannons silent, pointing eastward , wait to start their endless booming. Soldiers hunkered, never cowered, even with the battles looming, captain's orders pass on forward, throes of hunger, still consuming. Cannons silent, pointing eastward , wait to start their endless booming. Captain's orders pass on forward, throes of hunger, still consuming, painful groans, a muffled curse word, doubts about the war's resuming, cannons silent, pointing eastward, wait to start their endless booming. Painful groans, a muffled curse word, doubts about the war's resuming, feasting on the peppered game bird, skillets cleaned but fires fuming, cannons silent, pointing eastward, wait to start their endless booming. 
As baseball is sleeping, the winter scenes cast, withdrawal begins to unravel the fan- too long 'til Spring Training, yet trades are long past, and free agent signings are nil in this span. With basketball scores now the dominant news, and hockey announcers rejoicing odd goals, the true fan of baseball, enduring the blues, are ho-humming sportscasts, adrift with their souls. Just two months to get through, if weather permits, and sounds of the diamond will echo anew, Vin Scully describing the battles of wits between the home dugouts and visiting crews. We live for the spring, when we somehow survived, to sit in the bleachers-- the season's arrived! 
Weathered, abandoned, once filled with passions, but time has worn them away. 
Where once there were railroads, there now are dry weeds, The tragedy hits the small town, which concedes, Its citizens flee the continued decline Of commerce and finance, which soon realign In cities metropolis, feeding demand For more and more money while rich firms expand. Its Main Street once bustled with people and cars, With art shops expanding their sidewalk bazaars, The comings and goings of patrons who shop And follow commands from their one traffic cop. The diner was full at the end of the block, Especially lunch time when townfolk would flock. So what of the plight of the rural home town, When factories fail and their markets close down? The land left to grazing won't mean very much Compared to the lifestyle, the township's quaint touch, To knowing your neighbors and watching kids grow, They'll never be hamlets like those long ago. The schoolhouse is empty, replaced by a bus That carries the pupils for miles to discuss What history teaches of progress and time, And how they are better in cities with crime, With corporate farmers and Wall Street affairs With leaders who cater to rich millionaires. There certainly can be an argument made For moving away when economies fade, But better to gather and plan for success, To rally the neighbors and fight the distress. Complacency gone and its failures ignored, The life of the home town may still be restored. 
A little bit of countryside enhances urban atmosphere, as each and every weekend morn the farmers and their wares appear. They've driven far to bring their goods, been wide awake since four o'clock, fresh fruits and shiny vegetables, their very best, from private stock. While supermarkets' volumes need the harvests of the largest crops, the smaller farms and dairies thrive on growers' pride and country shops. Enhancing urban atmosphere, the farmers and their wares appear. 
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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 2020
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