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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. 
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Fall, in full spectacle, oranges, golds, flaming reds, once green, calls to those who listen, so patiently painting leaves before the winter comes. Sadly, very soon the brisk north wind will tear the brilliant shades from limbs grudgingly surrendering their blanket to the cold. 
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- imagination intervenes. 
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 Mortality, One realizes that at the end of our lives, Much of which we were terrified, Or dreaded, 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. 
We reap past waning light- no sleep. Tines turn on the cart rake, wheels churn through grass, dried hay and feed, en masse. 
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 Monopoly boards. 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 that way. I felt like a sprite thirty-two, though my fifty-something years were on display. I can still party all night, only the morning aches emphasize my decay. Why is youth wasted, I ask, on those who unwittingly live for today? I know, but the kids party on, while my feeble attempts to keep pace are cliché. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many accompanied by his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
October 2021
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