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It always looks serene, a
Lazy, cool expanse of graceful blue, Content to lull in sleep while Strolling in and out of deepened hue. A downpour in Chelan will Start accumulation of a spate, While gathering flows meet, Surging as the river shores await. The farmland and town folk, Unaware of torrents that draw near, Still trust the sleeping giant Blind to nature in this tamed frontier. Columbia's slumber, Broken from its gentle, drifting flow, Now fifteen miles of flood, all Hope of saving crops lost long ago. When waters recede, and Widespread work repairs the soaked terrain, The farmers are compelled to Build again so family ties remain. And so the giant sleeps, with Sense of local urgency elapsed, Content with being dormant, Waiting for the flood plane's next collapse. 
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Now that sunset has begun, hues make ordinary grand, I must ponder at each one, contemplating as I stand- red horizon's setting sun, rising for the distant land. I must ponder at each one, contemplating, as I stand, light diminished 'til there's none, day forgotten out of hand, red horizon's setting sun, rising for the distant land. Light diminished 'til there's none, day forgotten out of hand, what I've lost, some others won, much as tides return the sand, red horizon's setting sun, rising for the distant land. What I've lost, some others won, much as tides return the sand, yin and yang, the world has spun, darkness there will now remand, red horizon's setting sun, rising for the distant land. 
Your world is framed in optic squares, as if periphery was void, while capturing what nature bares, as few had otherwise enjoyed. A bit off-road, a patch of mud, a weathered bridge with morning frost, traversing vestiges of flood, your photo op will not be lost. Your target set, six feet of snow is waded through in tennis shoes, so what you've seen the world can know, then on you move to other views. The perfect shot is still at hand, so yet another trip is planned. 
The runway models preview coming trends,
designers labor, for success depends upon the reach of each converging lens. Yet somehow there are those who must have missed the loudly touted ads that do persist, they should be on the latest worst-dressed list. No gentle lack of fashion could be seen by those around of more than seventeen, these un-vogue oafs make each day Halloween. While thongs on portly men are never yearned and coral hats could easily be burned, are we the fools where fashion is concerned? Cold vanity and fashion, hand-in-hand, can make one cower to a peer demand, intently focused on the potent brand. We should see oafs in very different light and keep critiques away from line of sight, enjoying wardrobes otherwise polite. 
Behold the dry desert's most sinister glare, and currents of feverish, sweltering air, that tend to admonish, and rightfully so, that nature's relentless, an untiring foe. Intrepid explorer, of questionable care, who wanders exposed, on foot, unaware, will suffer significant visions, although he won't be succumbing for an hour or so. 
The difference between happiness and contentment
isn't ideological or theological. It may have nothing to do with love, companionship, money, health, lust, or longing, yet may have something to do with each of these. Some are truly content to be alone, and others must have friends nearby always. Many dislike attending church functions, yet are content in their lives knowing that their souls are nourished and prepared. Happiness, like sadness, is by nature a short-lived event. Contentment is a long-lasting state of mind that is not easily changed. If someone is uneasy in the limelight, they may be happy though not content. Being content is an individual predilection for one's lifestyle and state of being and is separate from any single human event. Once this is understood, one can endeavor to make contentment their goal. 
As each car rattled, one by one, my day dream done and patience tried, graffiti-filled, the rusted gates continued with no end in sight. My boredom forced, illusion spun the train cars in a merry ride around my head, its packing crates were blurred by passing cracks of light. The clacking, like a gatling gun, drowned out the crossing bell beside the intersection’s warning grates and ”R R” sign of black and white. A calm returned, my waiting done, the last few cars remained in stride, now free to roll past interstates and others watching, left to right. 
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. 
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. 
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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
February 2019
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