Is this poem a dog or a rose?

Is this poem a dog or a rose?
The periods are lined up like stars.
Arms draped over a hip
with sunlight peeking through.
Words,
softly spoken,
like a whispering windy day,
full of sun
and maybe a thunderstorm
in the afternoon.
Is this poem found
nodding in the armchair
under the papers in the lap
or beside the bed
or under the house in the dark corner?
Is this poem in the curtain
in the hall or
on the mantle beside the pictures
of people standing in front
of old cars?

Dreams of David Michael Jackson

Pollockary by David Michael Jackson

Website Design Search Engine Optimization Poem


I’ll design me a website
and tell the world to click here
and Nirvana will popup
and you can subscribe to karma
and peace
and buy baskets weaved of silken thread
and harps
yes, harps and copper angels.
I’ll put this website on the internet,
the web,
and I will call it Artvilla,
and the spiders will crawl its strands
and I will publish
poems
poems for children to find in the night,
and I will optimize the search engines
for my brother’s squirrel poem
or the rabbit fell into the hole and space followed him
poem.
I will build this website and they will come
to read,
in the night,
alone,
and Nirvana will popup
and they can subscribe to karma
and peace
and buy baskets weaved of silken thread
and harps
yes, harps and copper angels.

david michael jackson

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Clarksvilleweb
Murfreesboronet

Pressure Washing | Poem | Pressure Wash my World

pressure washing poem

Pressure Washing Poem

Pressure wash my world
Make it clean
like the snow used to be,
like the water used to run down the mountains
and into the valleys.
Wash the corners where the crowded animals hide.
Wash the barns where the pigs stand mouth to tail.
Clean the barns where the chickens lay sick eggs
between crooked feet in the cage.
Pressure wash the bats in the market of death
and in the bags of the poachers.
Pressure wash the ones who cut those trees,
clean them,
bleach them.
Turn the stream around on those
who use water jets
pressure washing the natives
until the land is stripped
and the demons are released
to get their
revenge.

Pressure Washing Poem by David Michael Jackson

Pressurewashing Clarksville, Tn

It’s Not Over ’til It’s Over | Poem

It’s not over ’til it’s over in New York, Kentucky
It’s not over ’til it’s over in California, Kansas
It’s not over ’til it’s over for the homeless
for the blacks
for those in cages
for those behind bars
for the soldier
It’s not over ’til it’s over for those without insurance
It’s not over ’til it’s over for the nursing homes
It’s not over ’til it’s over for the nurses
for the doctors
for the sales clerks
for the workers everywhere

It’s not over ’til it’s over
for an old man,
afraid to go out.

David Michael Jackson

The Metaphor of the Wind Poem 2020

diptych in red yellow and blue
David Michael Jackson

The poem needs a blog
and the blog a poem.
The New Year needs
a poem tossed to the winds,
the vague,
the invisible
the unmasked wind,
the metaphor wind,
announcing the metaphor sunrise
in an old blog
from an old man
in a new year.

These words are stored with magnetic spots
that are neither black nor white
nor laying on the pages of a book
waiting for the wind
from the window
to turn the page.
.
These words are there
to scroll by and be gone,
their movement
leaving metaphor winds
in a room.

….David Michael Jackson

Plumber Poem | by David Michael Jackson

plumber poem

There I was
under the house again
crawling in water
toward a tiny stream,
a small waterfall
between a crawlspace and a wet hell,
because the commode is a water devil.
Feed me water, it says,
or take a ride to a gas station, friend!

I approach the leak,
crawling in a leak creek,
avoiding the call to the plumber,
between a crawlspace and a wet hell,
dragging my wet tools minus the one I need,
minus the one tool the plumber know that he needs,
or she, should she also be
crawling between a crawlspace and a wet hell
with the tool that
I don’t have.

I approach the leak,
which only drips at me now,
I approach with my vast knowledge gained from
minutes of watching videos, with my
shark bites, my compression fittings,
my torch, my solder, my flux,
minus that tool I missed in the video.

“Blast ye Gods of human plumbing distress I cry!”
as I turn wet and humbled,
as I drag myself
toward that small rectangular hole
at the end of a long dark wet
crawl, hoping nothing is moving ahead of me.
“Who needs a plumber!”
I call as I emerge
flat on my back exhausted in the sunshine,
and hear the words,
“I need to go to the bathroom.”

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Plumber Poem by David Michael Jackson 2019
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Plumbing Clarksville