Alberta Bound
I own a gate to this prairie
that ends facing the Rocky Mountains.
They call it Alberta-
trail of endless blue sky
asylum of endless winters,
hermitage of indolent retracted sun.
Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring.
Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones,
ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools.
Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles.
Travel weary I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines.
In harmony North to South
Gordon Lightfoot pitches out
a tone-
"Alberta Bound".
With indepenence in my veins,
I'm a long way from my home.
― Michael Lee Johnson
South Chicago Night
Night is drifters,
sugar rats, streetwalkers,
pickpockets, pimps,
insects, Lake Michigan perch,
neon tubes blinking,
half the local street
lights bulbs burned out.
― Michael Lee Johnson
WRITE YOUR POEM:
Wyoming
The past catches up.
All day, smoke in the oil fields
blurred the sun, choked out
the last sparrows across the dusty plain.
Putrid strands of lank black drift down
like heavy cobweb in the dark, darkening
the bleeding earth where once
the sweating beeves had stampt and steamed.
― Sam Hamill
What drives your poem? Is it the place? The event? Sam Hamill loves to zero in on the place. Make you sit in that location. Take in the sights. Wyoming has wide open spaces. What captures your space? Write it on the napkin right next to your resolution.