Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

He’s come to ancient plains, again.
Wide and open, high and dry.
Unrolling before his misting eyes –
He feels the tug of ancient ties,
A primeval sorrow,
His gut rarely lies.

Breathing the landscape in –
He imagines America,
Before settlers arrived;
A life under
Unpatented skies.
Oh, how they tried
To disguise
Their insatiable eyes.

Twisted, and tainted,
By treatises and lies,
Used for desire,
And profit designs;
Parceling the land,
That sour reprise.

But beneath
The ringing cries,
Of cultures broken,
And shattered lives,
A wisp of soul resides:

In stories told,
And countryside.
Places where nature
Remains untried,
And no realtors
Have thought to subdivide.


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