Preacherman Don’t Care About My Soul No More | Song by David Michael Jackson

Preacherman don’t care about my soul no more.
He’s not knocking at my door
He’s too busy getting out the vote
to care about my soul anymore.
to care about my soul anymore

He used to send the kids around
with a pamplet and a smile
Now they’re not here, they’re downtown.
My soul’s been lonely for awhile
My soul’s been lonely for awhile

He used to sing Just As I Am
after every sermon he preached
He’d tell my soul to come on down.
Now it’s Onward Christian soldiers he sings
it’s Onward Christian soldiers he sings

Preacherman used to go out of his way
He said his good news was mine
but now my soul is a waiting in
the self salvation line
the self salvation line

Oh tell the devil to hold the door
for a soul the preacherman he said he cared for.
Running my country is more important you see
than my soul and little ol’ me
my soul and little ol’ me

Preacherman don’t care about my soul no more.
He’s not knocking at my door
He’s too busy getting out the vote
to care about my soul anymore
to care about my soul anymore

Song by David Michael Jackson

Detours Poem by Ralph Monday


Rounding the curve, halted by the SUV’s
emergency blinkers winking like some
Dis tower, I fell obediently in line as a
first grader in the cafeteria.

Head on collision, the officer said,
before directing me to the detour
ahead. Passing the crumpled car,
front shoved in like a monkey playing
accordion, I noticed the blanket covered
form loaded like a cord of wood
into an ambulance.

This one on a final detour from Sunday
morning church. But aren’t we all on
deviations, diversions?

Through the rain, the mist, the mountain
road, around one bend & an Amish
horse & buggy clattered on asphalt.
What detours awaited that black capsule?

Who could know. Detours.
Bypasses in time like a train switching

If I had detoured from the first love,
where would the train have taken me?
Not that moment, so not this minute.
Daughters instead of sons.
Dogs instead of cats.


What about your sidetrack?
you would have married
another & never went with
your wife to find her brother
three weeks dead sprawled in the
doorway halfway between the
bathroom & bedroom. You never
forgot the smell.

Or your sister who lost her rosary &
became a whore not a nun &
never met the suicide she would
have saved.


Like the Amish above who swerved
away from the 21st century, zigged instead
of zagged, found themselves in a 19th
century wormhole so that I would spy
them on this Sunday detour on a road with
many curves.

Ralph Monday is Professor of English at RSCC in Harriman, TN. Hundreds of poems published. Books: All American Girl and Other Poems, 2014. Empty Houses and American Renditions, 2015. Narcissus the Sorcerer, 2015. Bergman’s Island & Other Poems, 2021, The Book of Appalachia 2023, and a humanities text, 2018. Member Lincoln Memorial University Literary Hall of Fame. Twitter @RalphMonday Poets&Writers

I Hate Authority and Other Poems by Peter Mladinic


Becoming Invisible

They moved from city to suburbs. They were
lost, gobbled up, in some dark downstairs
apartment, all you could see were walls.
It was like they’d stopped living, so much

a part of the city they were, and where they
moved wasn’t desolate, a little city, but not
theirs of five-story brick walls, cobbled hills.
I see his long coat and fedora, her pillbox

hat with the little veil. You opened a window
looked out at other windows, fire escapes,
brick walls across the street. All that
was gone when they made the move, his

suspenders, the scar from her operation.
This new place it was like they weren’t there.

Ed’s Manor Tavern

He’d been drinking at Ed’s and left alone.
His Pontiac failed to make the long turn,
toppled into a culvert, no seatbelts back
then, his leg smashed, half between Ed’s
and home, a Lorillard exec, heavyset, iron
gray hair, plaster cast, bulbous pitted nose.

On his breezeway soda bottles in wooden
crates, he couldn’t lift one then. I liked
the colors: lime orange strawberry black
brown red yellow, a rainbow of bottled sugar
in drab but sturdy crates delivered weekly
to his door. One color clear, like water.

Cape Man

Sal Agron was the Cape Man,
only he wasn’t a man. Sixteen,
he stabbed two teenagers

in ‘59, his story
in news pages spread on a stone floor.
Fish guts soaked the paper.

Robin’s gran cleaned trout.
On a breezeway
light shone through jalousies. Sal’s

dark pompadour crested his pale brow.
His long, straight nose led him astray.
Her hand turned the blade.

From the Old Country,
she came to the States
with her husband, lived with her

daughter, son-in-law,
two grandkids. I wonder if Sal,
in jail, left a daughter.

Under an oak Robin’s gran
taught me not to walk on my toes.
The brown bun threaded with gray

at the top of her head resembled a pin
cushion. Stout, she wore specs.
Her hands held long needles,

crocheting wool.
She sliced down skin, opening trout.
Their insides soaked Sal’s cape.

I Hate Authority

Parents teachers cops judges—
don’t like anyone telling me what to do.

Okay, moron. Consider,
no authority, no order. There’d be chaos.
Some desperate soul slits your throat
as you sleep,
steals the Timex
off your wrist as your blood runs
in the gutter.
Authority’s a good thing,
so long as its hand doesn’t reach so far
as to tell you
how to button your shirt or blouse
and what to read and eat.
You’re an idiot with your hatred
of authority. Then, some think
they can make you see and act differently.
They can’t. I’m sorry a parent
or just something in your DNA made
your bad attitude. Music,
drugs, bullying, neglect, poverty?
Your poverty of spirit I lack.
I’m superior. I’m an asshole.
I just don’t want someone barging in
and taking everything
and my life.

They say He was a carpenter | Carpenter Poem

They say He was a carpenter.
I can only say,
I have known carpenters.
They don’t seemed to have been trained.
They seem to have always known boards
and decks
and floors
and walls
and square, always square
like a flag their square
like Plato’s perfect order,
Shakespeare’s law,
their square.
I wonder if He was on a roof
hoisting rafters without a shirt
driving ancient nails into ancient boards,
glistening in the summer sun,
smiling at the ladies
with the work of His hands.
My friend the carpenter has given me a deck,
a porch
to watch His birds
take joy in building nests.

by David Jackson
David is the Publisher of
For decks and carpentry in Murfreesboro, Tn it’s ZZConstruction

Singularity Poem by David Jackson

Trillions of galaxies and
each one unique,
all filled with solar systems and
each one unique.
Every single person is different,
every rock, every bird,
every one of us
everything in the
is a singularity.
There will never
That is a
Good luck
Be safe
Be kind
Be you