I'm calling my raincloud "Anita"
For a lass that I met while in school,
And though they would have much in common,
Their uniqueness, a primary rule.
They both have a silvery lining
Beneath ominous gloom and despair,
But each with a kind disposition
That can also be lighter than air.
The wandering souls of Anitas,
Isolated and silent this day,
Always shedding their tears for their future
And like rainshafts a descending display.
the brisk north wind
will tear the
Just yesterday he made giraffes,
a dragonfly and circus clowns;
he loves the way each tourist laughs.
The clever keeper of the grounds
creates his topiary art;
a lifetime here, he still astounds.
Today his cannons will impart
reminders of the battles past,
of conquests made with grit and heart.
His garden actors will be cast
in parts portrayed in pinks and greens
by shrubs and flora holding fast.
One walks along organic scenes-
For six million years
the Colorado has gouged
lifted rock, only
the spectacular remains;
man is breathlessly in awe.
Graffiti can be,
with a little direction,
pleasing to the eye.
As one gets older
And begins to contemplate
One realizes that at the end of our lives,
Much of which we were terrified,
Didn't amount to a hill of beans.
If you can make that
Commitment to yourself,
Well before the end,
You'll have much more of life to enjoy,
And much less fear
Of rejection, opinions, impressions,
That may have seemed important
At the time.
past waning light-
on the cart rake,
dried hay and feed,
Though the Old West suffered from lack of female companionship,
an assortment of loose women fed the cravings of ranch hands,
adding much color and amusement to otherwise dreary lives.
The new age employers
have changed with the scene,
allowing their workforce
to choose their cuisine,
a nursery schoolroom,
and now, going green.
The bike rides at break time
and fitness rewards
are new transformations
that journals record,
along with the gameroom's
My father's work ethic
was stellar compared
to these young job seekers
whose skills, unprepared
for real world placement
that schooling had spared.
The new motivations,
expected and owed,
have few limitations,
except for the road
that cyclists share as
they pull their own load.
I tried to be young last night,
but the truly young didn't see me
I felt like a sprite thirty-two,
though my fifty-something years were on
I can still party all night,
only the morning aches emphasize my
Why is youth wasted, I ask,
on those who unwittingly live for
I know, but the kids party on,
while my feeble attempts to keep pace are
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many accompanied by his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.