Jackson 
My birthday wish poem,
dropped into a box,
like a vote waiting to be counted,
a wish,
to just get along,
to notice the clouds in the night sky,
and see things the darkness between them,
to play games with children,
and give them an extra kick, another shot,
and let them be a ringer,
“That kid’s got it!”,
a wish to make that snapshot,
that one image captured,
for a lifetime
left in the mind to see again and wonder.
A perfect wish
left in a box of words
…David Michael Jackson
Is this poem a dog or a rose?
The periods are lined up like stars.
Arms draped over a hip
with sunlight peeking through.
Words,
softly spoken,
like a whispering windy day,
full of sun
and maybe a thunderstorm
in the afternoon.
Is this poem found
nodding in the armchair
under the papers in the lap
or beside the bed
or under the house in the dark corner?
Is this poem in the curtain
in the hall or
on the mantle beside the pictures
of people standing in front
of old cars?
If greatness were to call
would they get an answer
from an old man on an acre
in a place called Tennessee
If greatness were to call
would it scroll by
leading me to an
ad at the end
with vacancies at the inn
and people sleeping in
the street
If greatness were to call
would it be so great
as to wish that
they wouldn’t look at me
as I pass to
get my reward in the gallery,
in the bookstore
with smiling faces, smiling
kick my bones and tell them
that they are great bones
The best we can do is dust
from which may grow a flower.
David Michael Jackson…..from a cave surrounded by crazed Neanderthals in a pandemic.
I’ll design me a website
and tell the world to click here
and Nirvana will popup
and you can subscribe to karma
and peace
and buy baskets weaved of silken thread
and harps
yes, harps and copper angels.
I’ll put this website on the internet,
the web,
and I will call it Artvilla,
and the spiders will crawl its strands
and I will publish
poems
poems for children to find in the night,
and I will optimize the search engines
for my brother’s squirrel poem
or the rabbit fell into the hole and space followed him
poem.
I will build this website and they will come
to read,
in the night,
alone,
and Nirvana will popup
and they can subscribe to karma
and peace
and buy baskets weaved of silken thread
and harps
yes, harps and copper angels.
david michael jackson
_____________________________________________
Clarksvilleweb
Seo Nashville Tn
Pressure Washing Poem
Pressure wash my world
Make it clean
like the snow used to be,
like the water used to run down the mountains
and into the valleys.
Wash the corners where the crowded animals hide.
Wash the barns where the pigs stand mouth to tail.
Clean the barns where the chickens lay sick eggs
between crooked feet in the cage.
Pressure wash the bats in the market of death
and in the bags of the poachers.
Pressure wash the ones who cut those trees,
clean them,
bleach them.
Turn the stream around on those
who use water jets
pressure washing the natives
until the land is stripped
and the demons are released
to get their
revenge.
Pressure Washing Poem by David Michael Jackson
It’s not over ’til it’s over in New York, Kentucky
It’s not over ’til it’s over in California, Kansas
It’s not over ’til it’s over for the homeless
for the blacks
for those in cages
for those behind bars
for the soldier
It’s not over ’til it’s over for those without insurance
It’s not over ’til it’s over for the nursing homes
It’s not over ’til it’s over for the nurses
for the doctors
for the sales clerks
for the workers everywhere
It’s not over ’til it’s over
for an old man,
afraid to go out.
David Michael Jackson
