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POETRY
Comanche National Grassland
Abandoned homesteads washed up and empty,
shells bleached by the sun. Vultures make a ring
around pockets full of grass in the sky.
The day of hopeful settlers is done.
Relics remain, unvenerated, old
rusted bedsprings, tables and chairs, ice box
left open in mockery of the bold
dry heat that reigns. Windmill skeletons talk
in grinding whispers to the empty air.
Once, there were voices. Now, no one is there.
Once, there were Comanche: lost trail of an
empire, the mark of an artist’s hand.
We slept amongst ghosts. We dared the ocean
of time, with the spectral ship in motion.
So, my rhyme scheme went off the rails a bit in this one, but I decided not to go back and correct it. I don’t think Shakespeare would berate me too much!
A couple / few years ago we spent one night in the Comanche National Grassland in our tent at what may or may not have been a day use area. The signs and rules were unclear, but the two law enforcement officers…
