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The sunrise gives me pause, though dawning brings new verve, its sunlight reaches in despite my optic nerve still trying to block possibility. The sunlight that I see consists of photon streams that traveled through dark space, surviving harsh extremes, unaware of its human utility. The moonlight even comes, while brightening the night, as vestiges of sun, thus claiming solar right to raise lunar visibility. As sun lifts higher still, my thoughts begin to wane, the turmoil of the day now occupies my brain, but no longer spewing futility. 
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Sail, wind, planing, first dogwatch, then, before the mast, we let ourselves be cast away. 
The vivid colors stain the hardened wall face, with auburn rouge and golden hues of sand, perspired from the ancient Zion limestone, the sweat and tears from eons building land. The Zion tears appear in weeping cliffsides, as if terrain were brandishing distress, once named for Jewish homeland and their heaven, it has become a target to transgress. While there are those who trust its preservation to governmental bodies and a tax, its vastness still allows its open landscape to be disgraced by vandals' cruel acts. Those Zion tears exalt with nature's beauty, reminding us protection is our duty. 
A serpentine path through brisk, unforgiving waves helps me feel alive. 
The unknown is perilous, disguised or concealed, without one's conjecture becoming revealed. The future, precarious, insight has become too clouded to empathize, a lost rule of thumb. You feel quite susceptible, your heart beats too fast, you just want the familiar, a calm unsurpassed. So walk home, run quietly, no ghost will take shape, nor rabble nor scaffolding shall prevent your escape. 
On the road and in air, luggage packed, I so long for the comforts of home. These motels and the hostels' stained rooms have dank walls, and the mattresses, foam. Overwhelming my sense of repose is annoyance of raucous events of the tenants who selfishly chose to insist they decry their laments. To be sure, I'd be home on my chaise, likely reading a Grisham or Quinn, taking comfort in each turn of phrase, and forgetting when travels begin. Purple martins have only to find the next birdhouse to stay as they roam, they're content without lives intertwined with relaxing, small comforts of home. 
The glass and steel of modern city towers reflect their sunlit faces in the quad, their walls, so brilliant in the morning hours, relent as evening fills this vast facade. The native dwellers seldom heed the beauty; it disappears in busy urban life. Though hope is found, in workaholic duty, they can escape the turbulence and strife. A tower's bright reflection is enticing, reminding of what humans can achieve; the sky appears to savor in its slicing by mirrored columns made to interweave. Commuters in their cars and walking shoes look up, content to see these wondrous views. 
As each brilliant sunrise seems to bring new hope and perspective, life hasn't changed; circumstances continue unabated. Still, we willingly partake in the folly of wishful thinking. 
Hunters came upon a wildlife refuge sign, but there is no refuge. 
I was looking for some meaning in my indistinctive life, but the senselessness of circumstance confuses, while the calendar's ripped pages ever drift to meet the past, and events still slip away as instinct chooses. I begin my contemplation of the tide and flow of time, still I trudge along the corridors of self. As my pace reduced to standstill and I gazed upon the glow the epiphany was blinding in its stealth. In this darkness was a window with a wondrous, shining ray that I knew was meant for only those who seek the significance of nature and their lives of discontent, though a discontented mind is far from bleak. It was not religious dogma that this light would gleam on me, but the continuity of human course, I now realize my duty to myself and all my peers is to make a difference, be a vital force. I can't guess the implication of my vision now unveiled, or the future of the species unpreserved, if enough enlightened people would choose purpose in their days, then perhaps would oft repeat what was observed. 
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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
October 2019
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