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Beware the troll as he may lie in wait for those who happen by, this bridge is home, the woods are near, where traces of them disappear, and none can hear your distant cry. His stores are down, but he will try to swiftly augment his supply of children's foot and puppy's ear- beware the troll. The afternoon may go awry for those who watch the cloudy sky instead of heeding, staying clear of trestle willows weeping here, on fables now you may rely- beware the troll. 
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She wore her heart on that blue dress; it was a stark transformation. Her wardrobe was full of lesser garb, each keeping her shrouded psyche in check. A measly, insignificant mouse, without any hint of noble expectation, stumbled in, shopping, almost by mistake- and that day her life began. The dressmaker greeted her, unlike any reception before, with knowing smiles and an elegant sapphire dress she must try on- a gift, nothing more than a good deed. Almost in a trance, she allowed herself to be led, as the partially-hemmed garment was wrapped around her, the tender silk grazing her, embracing her sensibilities. The dressmaker finished and turned her, beaming with his philanthropy. The soft blue dress was made for her, literally, elegance harboring its simple lines. She stared at herself, chic, in the dress, and the barriers of protection left her. Stripped of shyness, a deep welling of emotions were freed, as if seeing for the first time. And she was. She knew it. She could see her future now, and it was brilliant. She wore her heart on that blue dress; it was a stark transformation. 
Often seeking roller coasters, fast boats, thrill rides, moving trains, racing in their classic roadsters keeps blood pumping in their veins. Danger and exhilaration, often going hand-in-hand, fill life with anticipation, cause horizons to expand. Mocking fate without a second thought, the daring wants an edge, vigor as they never reckoned, walking on the rooftop ledge. They can only tame their fear if they test the next frontier. 
The untamed West bred savage discontent, with terror wrought by thieves and thugs, until chaotic lives made citizens intent to search for those who handled guns with skill. Three brothers moved about, from town to town, eliminating acts of bloodshed, resolute, the wake of purging crime made them renown, and mayors flocked, all hoping to recruit. The brothers tried, with Earps' example clear, to end the lawless countryside's mystique. The outlaw gangs would hide in mortal fear; brutality diminished week by week. Unheralded by history, retired, the brothers bask in how they were admired. 
The window to my inner self holds unobstructed views, if only one would take the time, distinguishing the hues, observing how true loyalty once gained can be abused. That window is not hidden, yet the distant peak can blur within the sight of wrinkled lines, the plains of caution spur the sad emotion of regret, of friendships that once were. A window opened to the world allows the breeze of pain, but also breathes alternatives to build up life's terrain. I'll risk misdeed and find success that growth will ascertain. 
The blossoms cry for help from us, the masters of this planet now, we sometimes notice, then discuss, determined to repent, we vow to rectify our deeds, and thus we raise our voices, take a bow. For what, the earth will want to know, it's we that made our future bleak. The flowers feared this long ago, that human tears are really weak reminders, reaping what we sow is what we do, our self-critique. We may not see the flowers cry- they wait until the rain's about- this world is ravaged, gone awry, but can't express its utter doubt. Perhaps you never wondered why their whorls have dew, and grass without? 
A credit to the human race, No matter how it goes, Before you're sent to outer space In white protective clothes, Forget the media event, Reporters and TV, And see the change you underwent, Without a guarantee. You could have gone the other way, With street gangs, fists and thugs, It might have been the easy play To hide behind the drugs. But, no, you said, my life is mine, I want to make them proud! Your studies, books and grand design- Success is what you vowed. The science fair was just a step To what was yet to come, And NASA saw a brilliant prep No longer from a slum. For six long years you made your name, The moon and stars your plan, 'Til finally your fate became The project you began. So you deserve to contemplate On virtues you extoll, Extend the media debate: You're children's model role. 
Three homes to choose from, all so inviting. The red birdhouse- that’s my style! 
Painted windows, like stained glass, replace mundane views with novel visions. Pensive sheep relax on a high mountain meadow, their shepherd daydreams. Wheat is harvested with machinery designed to cut splay blankets. Longhorns are strolling to join the others, driven from Oklahoma. An artist's outlook is seen in painted glimpses of rural portraits. 
Free from scissors and indoor vase, wild roses bare exuberance! 
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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 2020
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