The Last American Buffalo

An older one as I have nothing new to offer…

Bleached white bones;
the remains of our day in the sun.
Such is the carcass of hope.
Full-fleshed, it filled a far forever.
Hand fed it came to manhood,
till hobbled by compromise,
it settled for domestication
and promises of greener grass.
Years pass and pasture turns to dust.
Enough to have the sun upon our back
and tell tall tales to younger bulls,
of fields beyond the hill.
Soon comes the end of days.
We lie along our birth earth,
and watch our flaming sun
fall down the sky.

© franciman 2020
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critique and comments welcome.
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 <span title="New Commenter" style="font-size : small; color: blue;">*</span><p>

Very good, Jim. The alliteration helps to bring it alive.

I was just wondering if you could maybe think of a more inventive verb than “grew”…

 <span title="New Commenter" style="font-size : small; color: blue;">*</span><p>

Hmmm… I’m not sure if “came” works, Jim… I was thinking more of something like “shuffled” or “slouched” maybe, something involving cattle-like movement…


Your poetry is so good, like Nemo (Gerald), you could resubmit it all and it would be a worthwhile and intriguing read each time. Much enjoyed.

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