art music poetry

a poem for elisha
my friend he teaches me to be free
he teaches me
to try yes, to simply try
that is all that is required
and I am proud to sit in
his shadow as
the rain falls or
the sun burns my day
I am proud to say
I was not there in the battles
I was not there in the kibbutz
in the dry dusty streets
waiting for the army trucks
waiting for the war
I was not there
my friend was and he speaks for me
and he leads me
beside the still
waters
such is my love
for my friend

– David Jackson

***

or more trivial
and evil by the connection,
lockstep,
or
stupid expression of
athiesm, or
what, stupidity?
What did he expect,
that the hordes would not rise?
leaving his daughter
at risk?
One wonders
either way,
like the 200 nukes in Pakistan and India

If you cover yourself with manure
then radiation cannot affect
you.
The NUKES are sAFE mAN
nO pROBLEM
everything’s fine,
and if you happen to be from another galaxy and
find this
amid the fossil remains,
well,
we blew ourselves up.
***

And I didn’t know
what to say,
the correctness of the thing,
the oneness, or the
randomness of the thing,
in the morning,
in the evening,
in
nothingness,
which is where we end up when
we try,
or when we don’t
try
with out hope,
which is why God
put
us
here

***

And What If I Should Win
by David Jackson

what, then
fame or peace?
Which is it?
When the music flows like the sunrise settles
upon the horizon, like the
wind itself
settles upon the
contours of the
windows into
the soul
itself, or
into the poem
of hope itself,
yes, the embodiment of hope within the music,
within the music, the embodiment of the
music, the
soul, the visual,
the
art,
at least
tries,
at least
settles into the trickle
of a small stream
somewhere
making
almost silent
peace.

***

What Matters

and in the twilight of our wonder
will we succumb?
I think not.
Rather we will hope again,
love again,
until
the beginning,
until the breeze blows softly again,
and the simple suggestion of
softness
matters again.
– David Jackson
***

FOR WILLIE
who am I to say musician
to say poet
who am I
to say artist
every human needs to say
these
these are the only hands
these are the supreme hands
I am the only man who ever lived
a mammal in a lair
snarling when cornered
like Dylan’s wolverine
gasping for the last breath
for the last word ever uttered by
mankind itself

– David Jackson

***