art music poetry

Passage Poem by Rebecca Jackson

by

_Passage_

He gestured somewhat
grandly
and coffee sloshed the rim
of his mug like a tsunami
done in small.
“The world I have traveled
is not round,” he said musingly,
“it is not round”
and contemplated drowning grounds,
divining the future
from the wake of catastrophe.
His face fell into ruin
and he swam away
into a brief ocean–
the images of a life
spread upon the waves.
As he drifts now,
he believes himself wood,
current-charted,
hungry,
unwilling
to wash ashore

Passage poem copyright Rebecca Jackson

Obsession with Time Poem by Wayne Jackson

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I have an obsession with time
and tick tocking clocks tremble at my touch,
tickle my thought.
The people in the street notice it
little,
and when they do…with regret and sadness,
Greenness and water…brownness and decadence
and again the same.
How quant and soft,
And sleeping children turn into proud men
And soft dreams at night and morning crisply cupping coffee.
I sigh softly at such times
and touch morning with welcome fingers.
I am not afraid of time as brown leaves and dying men
turn full circle,
and trembling fingers brown with age,
and fond memories of time were
so gently smiling, I turn my thoughts to the morn,
I remember all.
I regret
nothing

Woodcutting Poem by Wayne Jackson

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Woodcutting

I am sore from woodcutting.
Sawdust covers the grass.
smells like the oak I have just finished cutting.
My hands still feel the chainsaw.
My shoulders are tired.
I have stacked the wood in a pile
as high as a man, between a walnut
and a pine.
The wood settled among itself,
converging into its own plane,
to wait for winter.
To wait for me
to carry it to the house in
armloads

Woodcutting Poem copyright Wayne Jackson 1989

Speak No More Poem by H. E. Hasben

by

I will speak no more of
Willow trees
And white sycamore branches
Against a blue sky
I will speak no more of arms
And hands touching my
hair.
In the morning I make the coffee
In the evening ,
In the water the oil makes rainbows
And the catfish hide in banks
Waiting
Ever waiting.
I will speak no more of
Willow trees
And white sycamore branches
Against a blue sky

I will speak no more of the
Wind
Making the trees sing
In the twilight,

Or maybe I will
Risk the cliche’
Risk the critic
And grab what I can from the
Sunset

Tell Me Poem by Robert P Jackson

by

Soft as fingerprints in the sand
Whispers of the emerald dawn
Never letting go of the moment
But, you never told me
That it all goes away

Tell me how to start over
Tell me how to regain the truth
Tell me how we are supposed to be

All I ever wanted, you here with me
In the tranquility of this revolving daze
Now you burn in me forever
As the world drifts far away

Tell me how to start over
Tell me how to regain the truth
Tell me how we are supposed to be