Prehistoric Unicorn Rancher The seals are out sunbathing, as I'm driving through small beachside towns with peace bumper stickers, forgetting to turn down the country songs on my stereo, and meeting the looks of curious locals on the roadside. As clouds swim past the power towers, I recall a helicopter once airlifting the utility worker to the sky, flying high above confused cattle. I often long to be far away from the hurry, back where the untouched land looks prehistoric. Perhaps, then, in some land of unicorn ranchers existed peace. There are roses in the vineyard, horses in the stream, and I feel like I'm walking in a dream. The grass on the hillside ruffles in the windy air like locks of flowing, wavy green hair. I was out wandering by the old railroad tracks, when I gazed upon a sight and was taken aback. Hanging on the cliff side of a local city stream, was an old sofa and a mattress peaking through the green, abandoned long ago by people now unseen. Now I stand with my face against the sea winds. I hear the birds and crickets as they sing above the whirring roar of quarry machines, Driftwood, seaweed, I'll roam where ever this rocky beach will lead. I pass discarded plastics that'll likely linger longer than me, and gaze out at the cargo ships far off in the sea. I tread upon rocks, smooth sea glass, and broken brick, until the fence divides the beach between private and public. Upon an old abandoned railroad tie, I stretch and give my shoes a tie. I look for any other signs of trains, but my eyes tell me that I look in vain, and this one seems to have dropped out of the sky. Amid a sea of pink flowers rests an old park bench, and as I breathe in, the seaweed, divorced from the water, greets me with its stench. I could lean upon this tree forever, back against bark, rooted in the needled carpet, breathing in the ocean as the wind carries birds in the distance. I have surrendered to a content restlessness, excited by the possibilities of boredom, like a hound dog chasing an orange cat across farms and over fences in an endless circle, collapsing in the sunset, and ready to repeat at sunrise. Does anyone else hear the seagulls as they cry? I faintly hear their cries over the din, but is anyone else listening in, and if not, why?
This is a throwback poem from a previously published book. I’ll be posting throwbacks every Wednesday.
Armor Against the Dawn
Armor Against The Dawn is D.L. Lang's 8th book, largely comprised of topical poetry written in response to current events, politics, and the experience of local protests.