David M Jackson

David Jackson is the publisher of Artilla.com, Motherbird.com and several other websites. David is an engineer, poet, artist, songwriter who has been presenting his material and the material of others on the Internet since 1998. David lives in Murfreesboro Tennessee.

They say He was a carpenter | Carpenter Poem

by

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 Artvilla.com.
For decks and carpentry in Murfreesboro, Tn it’s ZZConstruction

Singularity Poem by David Jackson

by

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

The Price Of Fame | Poem by Ray Miller

by

The Price Of Fame

I like to peruse the charity shops

at least once a week.

I once bought a book by Roger McGough

for only 40p.

Today I happened to find myself

inside Cats Protection;

there, between Drama and Mental Health

I spied a collection

of poetry written by local bards

and the CD we recorded,

plus Ian McMillan, John Cooper Clarke.

But, could I afford it?

It sold for ten pounds when first published;

poets got one free.

My ex has thrown mine in the rubbish –

jealous, obviously.

I was just about to check out the cost

then thought, should I leave it?

If I take this volume from the shop

no-one else will read it.

I said to the girl at the counter, Look,

as I fished for money,

I’ve a couple of poems in this book

and one’s very funny.

Are you famous then? Show me which are yours.

I turned to the page;

there were complicit smiles, a few guffaws –

you should be on the stage!

I could tell her about the pressure

performing Spoken Word.

A recitation might impress her,

but I’ve lost my nerve.

I say, I ought to get this book for free

seeing as I’m in it.

She finds the price, it’s just 30p:

thus am I diminished.