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The gambler leaned across the aisle and tucked the sleeve of Miss Louise. "Excuse the interruption, please, do we have time to play a while?" The callow Miss held back a smile, for now she didn't want to tease. "Why, sir, I think there's time to squeeze a game or two, if that's worthwhile." She found him in the poker room much later, leaving with the pot. "Now, boys," he said, "please don't assume my winning here is luck, it's not. Just skill, I promise, I presumed that cheating here would get me shot." 
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She worked as hard as most had ever seen, and breakdowns in the fray were almost nil. Ol' Sally was the wheel of the machine that crushed the wheat and barley in the mill. Though Jess, the owner, named her for his aunt, a battle axe that wouldn't take his guff, Ol' Sally, once the pride of all Vermont, had kept rapport with those around its bluff. For years Ol' Sally ground her powdered meal, without complaint, outlasting market trends; her bakeries had lost their great appeal, as corporations brought about their ends. A farmer rescued Sal from rot and mold, preserved, her stories finally are told. 
My muddled thoughts and dulled subconscious, Still clinging to my wit and roots, Must guide me through another borough Of shady deals and business suits. Restrained emotions, dulled impressions, And crowds projecting cold malaise, I saunter through the streets of habit, This city in a numbing haze. In dimness of the noontime treadmill, What little sunlight cuts through fog, Affects the creatures' minds and reason, Prepares a saddened epilogue. For each residing city dweller Succumbs in time to murky air, Without the will to search for brilliance, Relenting to their deep despair. Surprisingly I reach the outskirts, My business done and time can start To migrate to my next appointment, Repairing soon my listless heart. 
The tall gravestone, the one on the far left, that old chap never saw the Grand Canyon, never dipped his toe in the Pacific Ocean, he supported his family every day of adulthood. Just to the right, her, she saw the world, Paris, Tel Aviv, Sydney, Barcelona, Rio, spent her years in a truly jetset fashion, dated but never married, never anyone's mom. Just in front of those, a couple is buried together, though they died two years apart, she didn't finish her last thousand-piece jigsaw, though it did keep her grief away, for a while. Sights seen and unseen, tasks completed or not, ways lived, means earned, goals met or forgotten, friend of the battle-worn or conscientious objector, these matter to no one a hundred years later. If it weren't for my great-great-grandfather, I wouldn't be here, or perhaps, I wouldn't be me, but I never cared a wit about his dreams and his day-to-day scrambles to attain them. A hundred years from now, my own ancestors will go about their own struggles and successes, I can make reparations to leave them a legacy, still, my days here and now will matter to no one. 
In Dodger blue, my heroes played as villains of the diamond made sweet battles of each nasty pitch, regardless of each player's niche, despite the organ's serenade. The minutes dragged before each trade that brought new blood to our crusade, they always loved to make the switch to Dodger blue. All those extra innings fade as wins continued to parade. The arching curves from baseball's stitch revealed a batter's glaring hitch. For all these years I've cheered and stayed in Dodger blue. 
Ice is eccentric-
it beautifies the ugly in hostility. 
The rabble in the crowded square had waited for their lord to speak to bring them from their deep despair. His majesty was well aware that enemies abroad would seek the rabble in the crowded square. The lord appeared, so debonair, and cheers became a growing pique to bring them from their deep despair. The beggars jeered the staid affair, and soon they joined with harsh critique the rabble in the crowded square. The lord began his evening prayer and pleaded, commerce was so bleak, to bring them from their deep despair. And then the lord removed his stare, and asked, with sober, blushing cheek, the rabble in the crowded square to bring them from their deep despair. 
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. 
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. 
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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
June 2019
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