America

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  • Philosophy

    America

    when I stood in the prairie

    nothing was taller

    only I saw the full yellow arc of the sun

    connecting the circle

    to the pale white moon

    only I heard the birdsong cricket sounds

    of the endless prairie

    wind and sky flew by me

    as I raced across the mesa

    and skimmed the floor of an ancient sea

    I ran with the thunder of the power of the emptiness

    through the strong silence of the prairie

    when I could run no longer

    my breath steaming

    my chest foamed

    my legs weak

    I stood still

    and still I saw endless prairie

    tidal winds ebbed and flowed over the grass land where I grazed

    I lifted my head to the windsound of the wolf

    howling to the vastness an exuberant song of the sanctity

    of the loneliness

    of the endless prairie

    when I stood in the prairie

    nothing was taller

    I was the Buffalo

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    Teardrops commented on America

    02-12-2011

    beautiful , well written and a master piece of words and feeling flow through this poem Marie

    ClearlySays commented on America

    01-23-2011

    and skimmed the floor of an ancient sea..... my chest foamed. Those were my 2 favorite lines. I don't know if you meant the foam connected to the sea. But I could see an image of a chest heaving like the ocean heaves it's foam on and off the shore. Great stuff! & go America!

    train64

    01/23/2011

    Thanks..

    train64

    01/23/2011

    I was thinking of chest foamed from running.. Large animlas will sweat and the chest gets wet, after much excertion will foam..but..I like your foam from an ancient sea...I didn't think of that..The sea referral comes frrm that area being under water at one time..Thanks again for reading..Your stuff is impressive..Keep writing..

    sherlock139 commented on America

    01-21-2011

    This is wonderful and makes the reader feel a part of the prairie, too. Good descriptions.Especially like the "windsound of the wolf"phrase.

    train64

    01/21/2011

    Thank you very much for the kind words. great picture!

    Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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