A Lonely Corner of a Poem by Dave Jackson

I will hide in here with the bee and the cat and the rat.
I will hide in here with water dripping, endlessly
with horn and teeth ready for business
for business is all that’s left
of these trees and roots
growing over America like
well, trees and roots,
and poems come
and poems go outside
of the trees and the roots
like shepherds. I am the sheep
the only sheep left in the meadow alone
and as the poem ends with the world in the whimper.
I will hide in here with the bee and the cat and the rat.

Come Back My Love

Sounds of the music,
windows waiting,
waiting for sunrise,
waiting for sunsets.
Apple dreams of trees laden,
with fruit, laden with
dreamscapes unseen in
daylight, unseen until
we came running across the meadows,
helping ourselves to
and we bought in to the
thinking of willow trees and
trumpets, trumpets blowing
blowing for me
blowing for you as the
windows are waiting,
waiting for sunrise, oh
can you hear me singing the
song of living and dying
living and dying in wars of our own
choosing, choosing to lie
in sweet meadows
instead, instead of marching
instead of windows waiting for
sunsets, she was
there with me
her green eyes
come back
my love

The Loner Poem by D M Jackson

He lived in a small house beside the river.
We would only see him on the road,
riding a bicycle with a small motor,
an eccentric loner puttering by on that cycle.
He didn’t drink,
caused no trouble it seems,
we kids didn’t really know him
except for the motorized bicycle
and the river.
I guess every group of kids has a loner
full of mystery to
speculate about.
I think of him to this day.
Was he a poet or just a lonely man.
He is stuck forever in a memory that
forgets almost everyone, forgets
all the wasted or plentiful lives.
How do we not waste our lives?
The famous dead poets are merely names.
These words are just magnetic spots on
a disk somewhere.
If the bill is not paid, then
the ones will become zeros
and I will have puttered by.

Whores and Flophouses by D M Jackson

I have no whores with broken heels
to write about.
I am not famous among the flop houses.
I did not spend last night or last year
on the street or in some
roach infested place which
would mean so much in a modern poem.
I have not drunk myself to sleep.
I am not Buk, no one showed up
at my door to write about,
no whores to quote in this or any other
I did not abandon all to head to Paris like Ernest,
was not caged and carried through half filled or
half empty streets.
I have thrown my angst against cubicle walls,
factory floors, subdivisions, all
benignly taking their toll.
It’s a quiet desperation which
leaves me
wishing for
whores and flophouses.