David Jackson

Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
‘Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

something in the American air

effects induces an involuntary
almost unnoticeable change
in personal philosophy
until I discover myself engaged in
a no-limits-capacity hoarding–
one good main daily meal
no longer enough to satisfy
like when I lived minimal in
different parts of Asia–

here in San Francisco I’m constantly
trying to fill my 2 small fridges
stacked one upon the other
up against a wall in my bathroom
and never once in expatriate Asia 4 years
did I feel that need–

here if you want a meal out it’s a big production
involving distorted remnants of old world
Euro-manners barely applicable today

my first day in Tokyo ate soup standing up
fast-slurping Japanese all sides at a counter
a woman constantly filling water glasses
shoving them down to the next soup slurp-er
entering tropical summer hot
–that water only drink offered–simplifies
matters– and only 3 kinds of soup–
no need to speak to order
just purchase the correct ticket upon entrance
under the train station stairs–
a sensible location
errand–get it down fast on your way back
on your way to work or the next destination

while many restaurants in Hong Kong, Tokyo
stay open all nite long–

here Americans consider eating-out entertainment–
a planned activity–invite friends for conversation
and most restaurants close-up by 11 p.m.
some foreign ones stay open till midnite
as if everyone gets up sleeps eats at the same
hour–

Marie Kazalia 9/22/2K
***

Oceans in the Moon

Oceans in the Moon,
Swell and ebb,
Lost in shadows;
Shone through the web.
Shifting shape,
Glowing orb,
Echoes in pale yellow;
Splashed on wet grey kerb.
And yet it rises from deep within you,
And reaches out to depths unknown.
And somehow it sings out loud to bring you
To a place you know
Is home.
Tides on La Luna,
Cusp and bulb,
Cast in shallows;
Laced through the dark.
Swelling pearlescence,
Unclasping and unheard,
Soothing mist and mellow;
Loves do not yet disturb.

Emma Scott 6.4.14

Paul…

Cake ‘bakes’ in your loft space,
Dough crusts streak your cheeks.
Cracked leather blue car seats
Thumb pressed; the Handbrake creaks.
Newborn kittens squealing wet,
Nestled in crumpled sheets.
Mud ‘bakes’ grip our crevassed knees,
Hands and hard soled feet.
Echoes of church choir songs,
Gravelly heights voices reach,
Where we perched on ‘uni’ rooftops,
Above lectures where they teach.
Broken bike and black-bruised boy,
To shells on white- Kenyan beach.
Tangled frayed fingers frets and strings
To strummed rhythm and symphony.
Still vivid, yet years spin shadows
Into thinning hair, face and skin.
Through shallow aging layers,
Looking out, and looking in.
Life ‘bakes’ thrusts our trembled minds,
Hearts and soft souls to swim.

Happy Birthday Paul from Emma Xxxxxx

Half seen

I’m a flickering flicker,
Not a full burning flame.
A rook on the edge of a checkerboard game;
A row of bold letters but not the full name.
The mist in the darkness,
Not the shadowing Moon.
And a step on wet moss,
Not the wings at high noon.
A hand on the shoulder,
Not a grip on the chest.
A prayer and a sigh,
Not a sign of the Blessed.
But an intake of air
And a flutter of Heart
And a crackle of twig
And a space to depart.
On second glance back
To the space in-between.
It’s part of the Whole
And it’s only half seen.
Emma 10th March 2015.