David Jackson

The bloggers
found out no one was there
so they went to Facebook
to
find out that
no one is there

then they will
write stuff
and hang it in
trees and
wander the streets
stopping people and
trying to tell them
interesting things.
The police will arrest them
and put them in a
special place with
mirrors.
They will not forget
who they are and
will tell amazing stories
to the person
in the mirror

David Michael Jackson

Aw come on Jack
We know it’s you,
and come on Jackson,
you put that title up there
then you had to explain it
and voila’
you have a poem
Is that it?

Yes

That’s it
except for
the flowers and the rain
and the smell of her hair
and the sound of her voice
and the not so absolute
fact that she’s gone
and that’s the truth
Jack

David Michael Jackson

The poems were written separately many years ago. They were “found” and “arranged”, again, many years ago. The recording was made in 2000 and became our number one free download. The recording has now been released and will be in Itunes so it cannot be legally given away. Sipping is an accident of nature. In many ways releasing it is like putting it away in a drawer. That is how many of our poets feel about the difference between the free internet and the attempt to sell.

Dave Jackson

Sipping

I only have apples for you,
Winesap apples
hanging red and green
from twisted trees
and lying on the ground,
brown and rotten,
soft and mushy,
not very good
but they will do
for a break from the field,
for a break
from the work
and the
hot
hot
sun.

My brown eyes
her green eyes
her red dress
my brown eyes
her red shoes
the spring trees
the blue sky
my brown eyes
her green eyes
her green
green
eyes.

I am.
I have been read by one’s and two’s.
I have been seen by tens
or even hundreds.
You can see me
on the street.
I am.
You can hear my voice
in
the silence
or
in the
crowd
at the
ballgame.
I am every one,
I am no one,
I am the man on the street.
Tell everyone I was here,
right here,
now,
on this spot of soil,
in this something, this
recognition of something.
Tell everyone.

I have eaten the last grape.
I hold the vine in my hands
and I throw it into the yard.
I wonder of the purpose
of the vine
(as you would, as anyone would)
to feed me,
to reproduce,
to seek the light.
When I have eaten my last grapes,
I will, perhaps, understand.
Perhaps,
but the vine doesn’t care anymore.
It just lies there
in the green
green grass.

The trees are whispering to me.
They tell me the rain will come,
that spring will bring new leaves,
that birds will nest
in my branches.
They tell me not to concern myself
with the fire
nor the blight.
They tell me to stand strongly
and to lift my arms
to the light.

My tongue touches
the roof of my mouth.
My lips are stuck together
and pop apart.
I can feel the air
rushing
through my chest.
I hold this page in my hand
and
I read
these words.

Now sunrise brings a cup of coffee to welcome the day.
Our lives are measured with these days
which are poured into cups
and mixed with sorrow and joy.
We say thing like
“I’ll always remember.,
I’ll always love you.”,
and we are blown like
dry leaves in a whirlwind,
rising for a moment,
then settling
to make room
for other leaves
to be blown,
to rise,
to settle.

The trees live and die.
Each blade of grass
leans to the summer light
and breaks in the winter wind.
The birds live and die.
The seasons turn
like a merry go round and
we ride the pretty horses and
we hear the pretty music and
we play in the warm sun
as the merry go round
goes around
and around and around.

There is a chill in the day.
Already the birds gather,
already the insects are frantic.
Already the leaves turn
to browns and yellows.
Savor the day.
Sip it
like a glass of
fine wine.
Breathe deeply
and glory in the song
of the cricket.
Cup the day in your palm like
spring water
and drink.

My little wife
thinks I’m odd and lazy
as she flutters,
constantly working.
She is a little worker bee.
She flutters gracefully,
picking this up,
straightening that.
She is gathering nectar
and I am in the hive,
sipping.