Bacchus and the Scribe arrived today,
with pencils sharpened, wanting no delay.
Their reputations have preceded, though,
with Bacchus having reached career's plateau,
and news of his decline won't go away.
The Scribe had reassured with plain dismay
that they can compensate for disarray.
These virtuosos came to stem the flow-
Bacchus and the Scribe.
With profits clearly leaching everyday
they know accounting could have gone astray,
though theft of cash could be the ugly foe.
They've proven now that errors long ago
have skewed results- these pundits are okay,
Bacchus and the Scribe.
I grew up fast, I missed my dad's advice,
and I was forced to skip the passage rites.
The oldest of the kids, I paid the price
and grew up fast. I longed for dad's advice,
adulthood seemed so daunting, so concise-
no boyhood dreams, no bugs beneath the lights.
I grew up fast while missing Dad's advice
when I was forced to skip the passage rites.
As life abounds and agitation reigns,
and threat of war results from bloodied creed,
world politics, like alligator weed,
clogs efforts to unwind its bonds and chains.
A misconception of the world remains
that violent disputes and utter greed
is all the future holds as they succeed,
especially as media explains.
I watch the sun sink slowly from the sky,
into horizon's widely open arms,
no city noise or army's battle cry,
just nature and the small surrounding farms.
Tranquility will always underlie
the human playground and its false alarms.
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.
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
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.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.