On Submitting and Submitting

In our 21st year, I reflect on who we are and why we went to all of this trouble. Artvilla’s beginnings are all about being the outsider. Recently I tried to submit again. The outsider is outside because of that word. The ArtVilla’s may often be created by people, the world would say, can’t handle rejection. This is probably true. Maybe that is why Summer Breeze formed motherbird.com also but she didn’t have the same ego as I. She simply wrote her poems, published them and never thought of submitting to others.

Every now and then your editor and publisher of artvilla.com thinks he will publish on the established insider sites. The one who accepts poems from others, shoots the bird at submitting every time. He knows you run into another editor, possibly like him.

There is the published art, the rejected art, and the fuck you I won’t submit art. The last is not the best, it’s just the treasure buried. You can find it in your attics, in your trunks. There are many Emily Dickinsons, some of us really seem to do it for reasons other than pleasing anyone but ourselves. It’s like we create and set it beside the road for you to discover, or not, to keep, or not. It’s not up to us. We just are lousy salesmen.

You can find me here. This is my attic.My attic has the most beautiful things in it that can be found no where else. These attic items are by many many wonderful people who deserve your attention.

I thank the folks who don’t have my affliction for submitting their work. Thanks for being in my attic with me. I’m dedicated to keeping these magnetic spots charged and our work up.
It’s a lot of work to start a website. Don’t be like Dave, submit.
(Frankly we should change that word. It brings out the Braveheart in me. lol)
Dave Jackson

The Sky is Falling

…..the sky is falling…..
there are blue
chunks in my yard
pieces of clouds are
on the trees
like gossamer
like cotton sheets
blowing in the wind
and if I look really closely
I can see my mother
with clothes pins in her mouth

and she’s hanging these

clouds and she’s


david michael jackson Originally Published Apr 12, 2013 Motherbird.com

Photography from Photography by Fabrice Poussin

I’ll Be Thinking of You

The sun comes up into a quiet sky
and the birds seem to float on by
When the sunlight hits the morning dew
I’ll be thinking of you.

When the wind catches the trees just right
and they sway gently in the soft sunlight.
When the shadows fall grey and blue
I’ll be thinking of you.

When the sun hits the top of the sky
and the day seems to rush on by,
Whenever I see a sky of blue
I’ll be thinking of you.

When the day fades into a setting sun
and the twilight sky has just begun,
when the moonlight seems yellow and blue,
I’ll be thinking of you.

With the sunset comes the nightime sky
and the wispy clouds float on by,
when the stars shine bright and true
I’ll be dreaming of you.

2011 Music by David Michael Jackson and Andy Derryberry in Murfreesboro, Tennessee

Girl-with-Cat-and-Dog-Painting….David Michael Jackson

Destroyer Poem

destroyer of creativity
maker of average
it is a grade school friend
you can’t sing
a weeks work flows by in two seconds
into oblivion
life is dark enough
out here in
give up land
out here in try again city
we are all children coloring in our
enjoying the mud
it is not important if the dirt
on our hands is pure
it is only important that our hands are dirty
from work
fuck the likes
fuck the shares
good art can come from
not being
It’s best to throw the rock
from outside the window
It’s better to scream alone in the forest
God cannot hear you in the

Passenger Creek Poem by David Michael Jackson

Sugar Camp Hollow
by David Jackson

We were raised in Sugar Camp Hollow
on Passenger Creek
where them reb soldiers camped it is
and the confederate gold is buried there
or so the story goes

and I knew you there
and you and I both knew
to leave those grounds
where the small creek meets Passenger.
We both knew to leave
those grounds
before dark.
You and I
shared the secrets of Sugar Camp Hollow,
them rebs,
that gold.

The neighbor Simpson
told the tale,
his skinny fingers
waving, pointing to that
spot where the springs
flow to create that
that place
where dreams are

A poem for you
Sugar Camp Hollow,
Passenger Creek,
them rebs,
that gold,

and I pause beside this spring
of remembrance;

this moment is
a thin stream of water
from a tiny spring

The Whittlers Poem by Jackson

He leans forward,

there was a time, sonny

when I saw old men whittling
at the courthouse
sitting there on benches these men
were in overalls and wore
wool hats stained
from the sweat of
days spent in the heat,
in the field,
old grey wool hats
stained with work.
They whittled, these old men
and spat tobacco juice
on the courthouse steps
and sometimes they grabbed
their stubble’d chin
and waved a skinny finger
as they made a point about
“them this”
and “them that”
but mostly it was the weather
and the outlook for the weather
and how they could work no more
and they whittled at the courthouse
and could be seen on Saturday,

our day in town.

I can sometimes see those
old farmers
spitting tobacco juice,


and one of them looks
not quite at me but

“Is that your boy?”



by david michael jackson