Black Hole Poem | David Michael Jackson

black hole poem

what does it matter
he says
we are all headed
down that black hole,
down the drain of
the universe

what does it matter
he says
We are all sycamore logs
beside a river
bleached by a dying sun.

All of our Picassos will go down
that black hole
like they were a painting of grapes
from the Goodwill
that you bought for the frame.

what does it matter
he says

we have laid black walnuts on the road
and our hands are stained
from gathering them.

We have gathered flowers for the table.

There is a path in the woods
and children explore it,
searching for something.

Black Hole Poem C. 2021 David Michael Jackson

She’s a Serial Killer by Jake Tween with Lyrics

The first was a Chinese Miner.
With a pick axe she cracked his head
and now there’s one less miner
in China

The second was a Sri Lanka Banker.
She suffocated him instead.
and now there is one less banker
in Sri Lanka

The third was a Tebetan vet
She put something in his tea
and now there is one less vet
in Tibet

The fourth was a Jamaican baker.
She strangled with an apron string
and now there is one less baker
in Jamaica

Oh this is a warning for guys all around the world.
If you want to survive, keep away from that girl.
She’ll make you plead,
get down on your knees,
and beg for your life,
the girls got a knife,
she’s a real life,
serial killer.

The fifth was a clerk in Denmark.
She stopped with a fountain pen
and now there is one less clerk
in Denmark.

The sixth was a spy in Brunei.
She made it look like a suicide
and now there is one less spy
in Brunei.

Oh this is a warning for guys all around the world.
If you want to survive, keep away from that girl.
She’ll make you plead,
get down on your knees,
and beg for your life,
the girls got a knife,
she’s a real life,
serial killer.

Oh this is a warning for guys all around the world.
If you want to survive, keep away from that girl.
She’ll make you plead,
get down on your knees,
and beg for your life,
the girls got a knife,
she’s a real life,
serial killer.

Copyright 2021 Jake Tween. All rights reserved

Grace by Ron Olsen | A State of Grace Poem


Grace Poem
Painting by David Michael Jackson


by Ron Olsen

For so long
A state of:
A celebration of the worst
A feeling of abandonment
Realized by hate

The fever now broken
It returns
Like Spring’s first flower
A celebration of goodness
A state of Grace
Leaving us
No longer, alone

One flower grows into a thousand
And a thousand to a million

Faith creating reality
If only we can hang on
Seeing ourselves
For our potential
Bringing forth the best
And not the worst
Demanding more
From ourselves
And others

Once again,
Being able to breathe

© 2021 Ron Olsen – all rights reserved




Ron Olsen is an LA-based retired journalist who writes essays and an occasional poem.  More of his poetry can be found here.


Trophy Poem | Awards for the Soul

Trophy Poem

by David Michael Jackson

Awards for the soul,
is the trophy poem.

Chosen for her beauty
to show my friends
how successful she is,
this poem.

Born in the evening,
after losses too sad
for the awards,
this trophy poem,
engraved here
and awarded
to you,

wanderer among irises,
planter of gardens.

She remembers me,
and turns
with a smile,
this trophy poem,

this single petal
awarded to a stranger
engraved with
her memory
in a droplet
on a flower
in the moonlight.

Image courtesy of Clarksville Taps

The Vietnam Effect | Poem by Jennifer Schoch

Vietnam Effect Vietnam poem

The Vietnam Effect
by Jennifer Schoch

The aroma of lilac drew me
away from my son
quiet as a crystal bowl in his stroller,
the early curious mosquitos almost kept us home.
Am I able to appreciate
this lilac,
her symmetrical perfection, without conjuring your pain?
I am fearful of this flower
I am panicked by her swift impermanence,
of my inability to hold her comforting fragrance
for those mostly marshmallowed mugs of hot chocolate days,
sequestered from the dirty New Jersey snow
where the radiators’ imbalance
from room to room
would make you yell when we opened the windows just a crack
“Goddamn waste of money!”
And the belts sang in their choir on the back of the closet door,
because the boys were fighting over remote controls again
And then, after my downward gaze had watched your darkness dissipate into the cracks
between the hardwood floors,
You would read me Shakespeare:
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
Is this
why I ran away?
To places where there are no seasons
to the endless
summer days,
where flowers never seem to die.
Your toes were stained with cigarette ash the last time I kissed you goodbye.
Did I
even kiss you?
You hadn’t showered for weeks
and I was scared.
Scared of your skin
scared of your scents
scared of my
The blue of your eyes was bright
against the rivers of bloodshot.
Mom says your eyes were green
It’s like she never knew you.

Sad and lonely, you asked me to stay
“Live here.”
You said.
“I hate LA.”
Like my brothers also bound to plastic liters?
They were small like my boy,
like you were once.
I am fearful in the face of this flower and her reminders.
Your grandson screams now like a broken dish
I wonder if you are there
silently crying
out into the black jungle for God to spare you
for your mother
for a future with mom
for a future with me
with a grandson you will never meet.
How could you have known this jungle
it would never leave?
Dying on the old hardwood floor in May
did you make it to the yard that Spring?
The worst death you died is not your final fall
it is the tree outside our window
cowering with dainty, dusty stars
you could not notice.
Did you glance outside that morning
and think to tell me of the lilacs that had bloomed?
Was your fall swift?
A small, unopened purple “bud of May”
gently shaken free?
The pain you healed, my father,
by noticing the lilacs
reading Shakespeare in Irish accents.
The unfolding damage it has caused,
in the tiniest creations
this unreconciled war from long ago.

Jennifer Schoch is a recent graduate of the University of Southern California where she received a master’s degree in Social Work. She is currently staying home with her young son while contributing as a writer for a book on social work and the arts. She has written, performed and directed for the screen and stage.

The Vietnam Effect Copyright 2021 by Jennifer Schoch. All Rights Reserved.

My Birthday Wish | Poem by David Michael 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?

Is this poem a dog or a rose?
The periods are lined up like stars.
Arms draped over a hip
with sunlight peeking through.
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?