To state the obvious
to send a prayer
“protect her”
to think of it floating
upwards
to think I’m not
a mouse in a hole
that bird looks so like
the bird of my youth
is it the same bird
a mouse in a cave
pretending divinity
I can see the bird
flying with
my
prayer.
david michael jackson June 5, 2012 editors@artvilla.com
the alley
my heels click on the cobbles
as i wander down this dark alley
what’s behind leers
what’s ahead seems to menace
there are doorways
with hawkers selling their wares
do this, believe that
selling not the truth but conformity
but instead of safety
i put more doors behind
creating more leers
and walk forward into what
what is up ahead in the dark
it doesn’t help to squint
each door hidden til too late
and the last door possibly oblivion
my heels click on the cobbles
as i wander down this dark alley
what’s behind leers
what’s ahead menaces
***
To Ernest Sylvia and Vincent
You make me write this poem,
you with art in your hands.
Was it because no one cared Vincent?
Was it because they cared Ernest?
Was it your stated goal Sylvia?
Was it the pain of life,
or the meaningless shuffle to chaos,
the eons that can overcome your work?
Ah it was that fish
that fish that turned to bones.
Your greatest
is no greater than the single flower
blooming and fading.
I must kick your bones.
My worth is tiny beside your greatness
as your greatness is tiny beside the eons.
I must kick your bones.
Life will kill you soon enough.
When I see the momentary flower
I am carried by it
to bliss.
When I see your flower
I cry.
david michael jackson June 1, 2012 editors@artvilla.com
The Corn Cake Lady
The predawn sidewalk
gray and cold
just me, just me
and a thin brown dog
sniffing at a
pile of motley treasure.
I stumble by
hoping he has
struck it rich.
But up ahead,
some warmth waves deck the
grim gray sky.
The corn cake lady
street grill sizzling
flipping corn cakes
filled with thick
and gooey cheese,
so hot, so greasy,
so strong.
The sidewalk’s warmer now,
and happier,
as I move on,
Eating half
And leaving half
for the thin brown dog.
dandelion de la Rue May 30, 2012
She
When she whispers
like the sounds a skirt makes,
the sounds the leaves make,
the sounds the wind makes
early, when the birds sing like
the peaceful sound of the brook
when she speaks
like the rain itself
on the roof,
it’s the sound the sunshine makes
in the yard,
the sound the moonlight makes,
the sound of a kind thought,
the sounds the clouds make,
and the sounds the sun makes
setting and rising
***
david michael jackson Nov 29 2004 editors@artvilla.com