“Here you can have the art, I’m giving it you.”
“Is it framed?”
Ergo says the artist,
“The value of the art is
the value of the frame,
the question being
is it worth framing?”
so David
buy a frame
and burn the art
and leave some value
behind.
david michael jackson
Song by Drew Clayton
Lyrics by John Eagle
Mastered by Edro
Video by David Michael Jackson
Old River Stomp 2014 Artvilla.com/The Orchard
Ole River is quiet
Early Saturday morn
The mist is rising
At the break of dawn
With the sounds of the cypress
Whispering in the wind
And the rippling waters
Well, it sounds like a church hymn
The fires are banked high
Like flickering lamps
The morning rite
Begins on another day
Foggy Mountain Breakdown
Plays on the radio
The frogs are burping
In the Ole River way
Chorus
It’s an Ole River morning
The very best kind
The water is waiting
The perch are on the rise
There’s Uncle Joe
He’s the captain of the ship
He wields his jiggin’ pole
Like a buggy whip
His cork disappears
Like acorns in a well
Here’s another fish
And a story to tell
The ice box is filled
Mounting with perch
On Sunday morning
We’ll be singing in church
Night descends
On the Ole River shores
With sounds of frying fish
And slamming screen doors
Chorus
It’s an Ole River morning
The very best kind
The water is waiting
The perch are on the rise
You can’t never tell
When we’ll be back again
But you can just bet
We will see you then
Collection of Faye and Andy Derryberry
We have decided to sell art again at Artvilla.
2014 David Michael Jackson
Schmutt the dog. 1990-2006
Contact artist at editors@artvilla.com
SOLD!
Ytterbium
Janet Kuypers
from the “Periodic Table of Poetry” series (#70, Yb)
(with references to the poem “Writing Your Name ”)
11/15/13
I’ve searched for you.
Though others may say otherwise,
I know you’re not at all rare —
so I’ll still keep searching.
You’ve always been on time
whenever I’ve wanted you,
but you seem to leave
that fire in the air as you leave…
And you always escape me,
like you slip between my toes
as I’m walking along the beach,
like grains of complex sand,
each grain a nearly microscopic
crystalline rock.
Like you’re minute crystal,
sliding by me
as I walk on by.
I know you’ve always
mixed well with others,
so I’ll go that beach.
I’ll sit there
and take a stick
and write your name
in that precious sand.
I’ll check my watch —
how long have I
been searching?
I’ll run my hands
along those grains of sand.
I’ll study those compounds
making those grains of sand,
those ragged crystalline stones.
Those crystalline stones remind me
of the shards of doped glass
that shattered
when I saw you last.
And now it’s been so long
that I’ve been looking for you.
I’ll check my watch again.
I’ll pull out my pocket
infrared laser light pen.
I’ll shine it on the sand.
I’ll look to see
if anything
reflects light
in different colors back to me,
wondering what I’d see
if my eyes could see
in infrared light
in my search for you.
As I said,
I’ll so anything
in my search
to find you.
I’ll check the time again.
My watch has to be on time….
Because I don’t care
what anyone says.
I wrote your name
in the sand,
and if the elements
wash away your name tonight,
I will be back tomorrow
to write it again.
[tubepress mode=”tag” tagValue=”Benjamin Zephaniah” resultsPerPage=”18″ orderBy=”relevance” perPageSort=”viewCount” ]
barely avoided Nam
…..such a terrible soldier they didn’t send me…
if they’d have sent me
and told me to
bomb Cambodia,
I’d have probably pressed the button….
they sent someone else….
he pressed it…..
that doesn’t
excuse
me.
I’m sorry.
by Jake Sunflower
Comments by Dandelion De La Rue
Several years ago I was traveling around in Vietnam and somebody dragged me into an art exhibition of photographs of women who’d lost loved ones during the “American War.” It really got to me big time, the sorrow on their faces is still etched onto my brain. I got to the end and burst into tears. The women who worked there were pleased at first, but then I couldn’t shut it off, I sat down and blubbered away for around half an hour, big loud sobs, totally uncontrollable. I went through a box of kleenex. they put a screen in front of me finally, and then after awhile, I slunk out a side door and ran away. I felt so awful, for the immensity of the pain we caused, and the pain we felt on our end too, the young people who died and the sorrow, and the guys who died from Agent Orange and insanity and alcohol and drugs since. and I have to wonder, what would I have done, if I’d been a boy? would I have gone? I don’t know. we were so brainwashed. but that question bothers me sometimes. what would I have done?