After last week’s piece on road-earth revelations these words about the Great Plains folks I met along the way surfaced.
It was a strong, lonely place of dreamers
The plains weren’t kindly to tyrants or schemers
There were no fake patriotic wreaths
Desperation wasn’t part of the air they breathed
At meal tables was equality for them and me
In that dried out, dusty “homeland of the free”
None grumbled in the dark
None drew a veil across the stars
Some were fools whom life had pushed and pulled apart
Some talked of hurt and life’s deeply felt scars
I as the immigrant sat quietly listening as they spoke
Of dog eat dog, of the wealthy making their work a joke
Just people, humble, hungry, and lean
Whom life had treated mean
Men who never got ahead across the years
On this new old land, once again filled with pioneers
Copyright 2109 My Isle Seat
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