poem
falls
down
page,
lays flat on bottom of post and ends with love.
poem
falls
down
page,
lays flat on bottom of post and ends with love.
Art for Sale
They sat beside their tables
as the people walked by.
“What is this one about?”
It’s my soul in
color and form
which I call art,
for sale in a universe
of color and form,
art for sale
with a frame
from another
soul,
left at Goodwill
They sat beside their tables
as the people walked into the
ten by ten pop up canopies
and looked at the flowers
and landscapes and
souls in
color and form
called art
for sale in a universe
of color and form
The wind comes up and
blows leaves down the concrete path
and the sun pokes through the clouds
and leaves shadows in the grass.
The people weave among the
ten by ten pop up canopies
and smile and talk like birds
singing
on a summer day.
The artists sit on folding chairs
noticing the people pausing
and smiling at a color or
a memory.
For art for sale in Murfreesboro, Tn try Sale for Art
Our fav website is Sale For Art
We especially like their Gallery Wrapped Canvas
oh write for me a sonnet
oh write for me a book
oh slip the bonds of caring
into the cranny nook
oh let me be the one
the one who does not weave
the thread of discontent
with the words I leave
Oh there ain’t no more boxcars
for Willie and Woody to ride
No hobos in containers
as the freight train rolls by
Oh what’s a hobo to do
what’s a hobo to do
stand on the street and sing the blues
thumb don’t work and the cop says move
This modern world don’t feel no pain
and only graffiti rides that train
They could ship themselves from China
but they wouldn’t get much air,
take the last train to Clarksville
but they couldn’t get out of there
Oh they don’t have to hire no railroad dick
you can’t catch the train it goes by too quick.
I’ve got my American Dream in a plastic bag because I cant afford the rent they had
Oh what’s a hobo to do
what’s a hobo to do
stand on the street and sing the blues
thumb don’t work and the cop says move
This modern world don’t feel no pain
and only graffiti rides that train
An Allegiance We Could Make
By Wayne Jackson 1950-1989
An allegiance we could make
slow walkers, people
who look up to see what time it is, those
of us who hold hands
at the movies, hummers, yard
rakers, a slow wonderful
war fought in silence without
them ever knowing
Mondays we”ll sleep late, we”ll
make a stand, giving the histories that happen
away to passing jets, to
rotating signs, and our heroes have walnut stained hands, have
buckeyes in their pockets, pocket watches
They will be whittlers of wood, of ivory soap
The orders come from inside the head
whispered remembered again and
again, refusing what happens elsewhere, grinning
at the dwarf spinning in the street
We”ll make our slow stand
on our front porch swings
Copyright © 1997 by Donald Wayne Jackson, All rights reserved
***
LOVERS
in these late breaking days
rebellion has become
the most ragged of fashion statements
the banality of it symbolized
by certain
hairstyles, cigarettes, rock bands, automobiles
a saltpeter-fueled revolution
defiance institutionalized
from our home entertainment centers
we see, we hear,
the latest corporate anti-heroes
as they sun themselves
along the banks of the mainstream
mega stars
idolized by thundering herds
spilling forth
from the nearest shopping mall
ask me and I”ll tell you
lovers with a cause
are the real rebels
the spiritual benefactors,
the wounded heroes,
the mystics eternally misunderstood
with fine grit paper
working against the grain
hands slivered and bleeding
creating hidden beauty
in time
through their labor
floating free-form
defying the gravity
of power, greed, envy”¦
detached-disconnected
born anew
these spirit artists become suspect
a kind of threat to social order
to be burned at a stake
nailed to a cross
assassinated by sniper fire
getting them out of the way
we make martyrs of them
coz the dead don”t scare us
the way living flesh and bone does
it”s easier to glorify a touched up past
than face a future
we seem hell-bent on desecrating
one by one
all are shot down
“¦and when the fields where the wildflowers grow
have been bulldozed and destroyed
then spring is gone
and what”s left
is a sort of somber confusion
as hard to define
as that 4 letter word
we so readily cut and paste
to fit our purpose
***
Salome Dancing For Herod
If I was in the great hall
Of the palace
Watching Salome dancing
For Herod
I too would marvel
At movements
So erotic and executed
With animal precision
Her heaving breasts
Swaying pelvis
The white waves of her skin
Moving in soft undulations
Across her abdomen
And I smile knowing
That the king and I
Are both drunk with dance
And the beat of the music
The rhythmic flashing
Of bare thighs
Naked belly
Awaken the pagan in me
Who knows that lust is to love
What poetry is to prose
A sensual awakening of sight and smell
And sound and taste
And I would swear too
At that moment that the bounce
In each breast
Was worth the heads
Of a hundred prophets
And is more moving to me
Than the words
Of all the holy men in Judea