The hot summer sun
makes cake of my skin
and the sweat lets me know
I’m alive
the water
is better then
it is needed then
and noticed
Can a poem be the water on a hot day
can the water flow down
this page
in
this poem
this time or the next
until there is no next
no new
meanderings
of the water in a poem until it lies there in a pool on the page, on this page
david michael jackson june 23, 2012 editors@artvilla.com send help
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The artist hands
are always dirty
The paint gets under the
nails and covers
everything
The artist hands play
in the materials like
a child plays in the
mud
like a pig who delights in it,
the artist hands plant commas in this poem
plant exclamation in your soil.
The artist and the farmer have
wide feet for the soil
wide hands for the work
a stout heart for the work
for the work
for the work
The farmers hands are
the same hands.
God’s hands are the same hands.
Your hands are the same hands.
david michael jackson june 21, 2012 editors@artvilla.com send love
