
Drawing by Cassie Leary
1996, age 4
This image has been with us since 1996. My memory escapes me and I cannot recall anything else. I have several children’s images from that time and will be presenting them as art.
This image expresses all the existential feelings of “I am here but where am I?” that any artist seeks. Should any artist get as good as Cassie Leary age four then they have arrived at their destination.
Here is another
“My Brother and I” by Cassie Leary
Check out the dog!
If you see good art on the frig, frame it!
david michael jackson July 2 2012 send more
Tungsten
Janet Kuypers
from the “ Periodic Table of Poetry” series
You know, I just adore you so much,
and because you liked my belly ring
and eyebrow rings and lip ring,
I was thinking of getting you a
Tungsten tongue stud for your birthday.
And don’t even ask me “Why Tungsten,”
because it has the same metallic qualities
of gold and even platinum, and hey,
it would sound excellent-cool when
you told your friends it was Tungsten.
And beside, I know how you practice
with your twenty-two and nine mil
down at the gun range, and the lead
shells are expensive when you practice,
and Tungsten shells are actually
more environmentally friendly,
since I know you get into that…
I mean, I really know you, and you
can still be my little eco-freak
and still like shooting stuff, right?
And yeah, I’ve heard some reports
that gun range Tungsten shell casings
sitting on the dirt can seep Tungsten
into the dirt, but hey, I checked,
and Tungsten is not toxic
according to any reports I’ve seen.
Tungsten’s cheaper for bullets than lead,
and then you can say that the stud
through your tongue is made
of the same stuff as the bullets
you shoot from your gun…
The if only poem
and the why me poem
always lead to the nobody cares poem
so I’ll just put on my shoes and
play some music,
look out the window at the clouds.
We have discouraged our last poet.
Is it a cloud?
Is it a waterfall?
Is it a dream of holding her again?
I started to write this poem,
it was so clever
then memory
crept in
and held me silent
in her arms.
A golden sunlit day
quietly
waiting for me to
peek
outside.
What is stopping me?
If only,
why me,
and nobody cares.
david michael jackson july 1, 2012 send rain
The Bet
by Seymour Shubin
I guarantee you, he said
At the end of his mother’s funeral,
That the dead will meet,
That they will look in full health
To each other,
Just as they were.
Oh yeah, I thought , and where
Do I collect if you are wrong?
But that was then and this is now
And oh how I miss her
And how I want to give
His money back.
Originally Publihed as The Bet Poem