Thank You Mary Jane

Thank you Mary Jane
I’m so glad you and
your sisters
Maria and Juanita
came by.
Certainly
Mario and Juan
are happy
to see buds
like you
and
Maria and Juanita
who were so lovely
in their
green flowers.

Comments

comments

The Other Road Poem by Dandelion de la Rue

I watch them
Trotting slowly
On the road less traveled
Four white horses
Looking at Not Me
Seeing me not
In my parallel universe.

But I see them.
I slow
Watching them
Their road
Trying to guess
Their secrets
And why they glow.

I have no glow.
It’s all a blur
Here
on the superhighway
That magic energy
lies only on
the dusty rocky
secret wild horse road.

Horns honk
I must go 55.
I must keep up.
The horses are behind me now
Their road is disappearing
into mist.

But NO!
I must not lose it.
I pull over
hearing shouts of rage
and warning cries.
You can’t stop here,
You fool!

But stop I do
Fearing losing
The misty magic road
I climb the fence
Barbed wire
piercing me
vicious claws
to keep me in.
A siren shrieks
I have parked
In a No parking Zone.
They want to throw
away the key.

I lay at last
in the magic road.
clean dirt.
I breath it in
savoring
delicious dust
making snow angels
in the dirt
and laughing.

I make footprints
and look at them
archaic memories
springing forth of
footprints past.
This road will know
that I was here
until the next wind comes.

The horses come along
around the bend
seeing me now
watching carefully
with thoughtful eyes.

You’re welcome here
Stranger
they think to me
but there are no signs here
no laws
no ambulances
to protect you here.
I want no signs
no laws
no ambulances
I think to them.

I look back, once
barbed wire fence
superhighway
at the dark shapes
racing along it
orderly, a fast and
dull parade with no
clowns on bicycles.

I will not go back
I think to them
for it is living death.
They nod understanding
and trot on.
I will find others
here I know
other refugees from
the superhighway
and we will walk
this glowing
living road
and sometimes we will
glimpse
the superhighway
in the distance
and celebrate
our footprints
and the scars
of our escapes.

Comments

comments

Slide Into the Sea You Blood Red Moon poem by Ken Peters

my constitution is killing me
I know enough to care
about the lead in the water
or in the air
somebody mistook their freedom
for a license
we should just be fair
everybody complains about the water
but just wait until it’s gone
everybody complains about their life
but just wait until it’s gone
they all talk about the violence
doesn’t touch them behind locked doors
they don’t have to be out there
hanging with the poor
so if I never danced for my father
and didn’t dance that much with my wife
I can hear the drumbeat/heartbeat now
I’m dancing for my life
slide into the sea you blood run moon
we’ll do it on the run
slide in to the silent, silent sea
slide in you blood red moon
slide in you blood red sun

Comments

comments

To the Bed Pan Person Poem by David Michael Jackson

Nursing home
Clean white
dry sheets
every day now.
There are the memories of another place
another time
wet sheets every day
bladder infection
kidney failure.
No don’t think about it, he says.
The bed pan persons
are doing the job
as important as the doctors
as the nurses
totally
un
heralded
There is a place for you
in my tears
We need
heaven
for you

Comments

comments

While you were Waiting poem by David Michael Jackson

While you were waiting
she was sleeping.
While she was sleeping.
I was wanting,
yearning,
without cigarrettes I have no perceived angst.
Take the pill.
These modern times go down
with the pill.
Why cry?
The world will go on without your poetry.
Why try,
and yet trying is what you are about,
going there,
coming here to
type
again, knowing others will read,
maybe they will try too.

As the universe was expanding
and burning out
he typed these words
on a computer
screen.

Let’s make it a good ride!

Comments

comments

Education Poem by David Michael Jackson

All first graders are artists
and then we grade them and
criticize them,
make doodlers of them.
All first graders can sing
and then we grade them and
criticize them,
make hummers of them.
And then we meet,
parents and teachers, to plan
to grade them and
criticize them
for twelve long years.
And then they are educated,
like us, we
hummers, we
doodlers.
It’s a miracle that this
poem is
even here!

Comments

comments

Dangerous Women, poem by frances h. kakugawa

We are the dangerous women…

Who never say no to sunsets, sunrises,

Evening strolls or double martinis.

We are the women who speak to you

In supermarkets over apples and cabbages.

Making you wish you could follow us home.

We are the women taught by mothers,

To make you feel we could be yours

No matter what your age, color or size.

We are the women who seek

Extraordinary days out of the ordinary

Leaving aches and joy and empty spaces.

We are the women who write poems

And send you copies without permission

Capturing moonbeams in your name.

We are the gatherers of dreams,

Fantasizing scenes

In private places where secrets live.

We are not easy to be with

After sad movies, romantic novels,

And on Sunday afternoons.

We are so damn demanding

You wish we had never met,

Yet you know, we are the poetry of life.

Yes, we are the dangerous women: vulnerable,

Ageless, poetic, passionate, living life with two feet

Slightly off the ground.

We are the women you should avoid

If you don’t believe in Peter Pan, Never Never Land

And the first star of the evening skies.

But pour us wine, as the sun sets low

And we will hand you the key

To our inner souls.

StatCounter – Free Web Tracker and Counter

This entry was posted on Monday, July 10th, 2006 at 9:23 pm

Comments

comments

immigration poem by David Michael Jackson

We are all illegal immigrants
What should they do?
What would you do?
Work for a dollar per hour
in those factories
on the river,
the other side,
globalization itself bringing the riches of
a buck per hour.
“We feed those people a meal”,
I heard the bosses brag
on the other side
of the river.
Shame on them,
those illegal immigrants,
who fixed my roof.
Shame on them for not
accepting the Ford dollar
per hour.
Shame on them for not
living in the shanty
beside the factory.
What would you do
for your family?
Did I tell you?
We feed those people a meal.

Comments

comments

Last Drop of Courage poem by Dandelion de la Rue

I see young clones
of my kindred
fresh and new
and I sense
the spirits
of My Kind
gone before me
and the spirits
of our altrusim and
our belief in
the inherent
Goodness of Man
and The People
somewhere in time
but not here
not now.

But nothing is
so simple
the whiteness dazzles me
white cubicles
white insurance policies
poking from the pockets
of the clones
smart enough
to know the game
and play it well.
Perhaps they’ll
change the rules
or perhaps
the rules will
change them.

I run to the shadows
to hide to lurk to look
hopefully, for
Life after Dream
because I am still here
mysteriously awake
but broken, I am broken
a gray haired mouse
with singed whiskers.
My cape is just a cape
and the supercheese
from the gleaming romance moon
is tinged with GMOs.

Wht now? I ask
the sold-out moon
but it jeers at me
and offers
a bowl of pesticides.
There is no supercheese
here it says.

Am I the last dandelion
in the well-manicured
yard? Off by the
edge, hidden by the
roots of a picnic tree
unseen and alone
my braver louder kindred
long ago uprooted
and discarded.

It is past the first frost
they will say
with disgust
my once glossy
orange mane is gone
to seeds
now scattered
but still I live
leaves and broken headless
stem bent and withered
in the shadow.

Shall I move
to the middle
of the perfect grassy lawn
and shout
“I am Weed!
Hear me! See me!
We were once
legion,
beautiful young
herds of weeds
slaughtered
mowed down
to make way
for something else.”

And what place is there
in a not-so-brave new world
for a shriveled
and withered weed?
It is harder to
survive alone, unseen
unheard, uncertain
than die a
vibrant wildflower
in the midst
of a righteous dream.

Do I have
the courage?
I must,
for I am here.
There must be
yet a drop
of courage
in Alice’s
magic bottle.
I will lick
the last of it.

Courage for what?
To shout!
To sing the old songs
once again?
To be an old weed?
Courage for what?
I do not know.

Comments

comments

Funky Town Blues

8/22/2004
funky town blues

getting in the funky town blues.
no reason, no rhyme, no way to have a good time…
yeah baby…
them ho hum blues done found a home

done gone down home

no reason no rhyme no party tonight

no party tonight

nobody called those funky town blues my home

yeah baby

them blues, they come, they don’t go

they kick right up and sing along

no reason, no rhyme, they don’t want to have a good time.
Nobody wants a good time
no rhyme
no dime
no time
Nobody wants a good time

Janet Macon
David Jackson

Comments

comments