Poetry Posts

Girl at Table Painting- Janet at the Table

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Janet at Table

girl-at-table-painting-01
girl-at-table-painting

Here is a painting I did of Janet at the table. I have no idea where this painting is. I have only this image. The girl at table painting still exists somewhere in the world. It represents a time when my wife was here.

An old poem I wrote for Janet many years ago:

I am worn weathered wood.
I have seen the storms,
felt the hot sun,
endured the wind until
I am cracked.
My colours have faded into
burnt siennas from red under
the sun’s rays.
I have seen the owl at night and
the hawk in the day for
I am a window in this wood,
this weathered wood.
I am a window or
I am nothing.
I am a window.
Sneek up, take a peek
into my panes.
She will be there, sitting
at the table
having her tea
or holding her cat
quietly

for Mary Janet Jackson on this sping day April 4, 2012 …david michael jackson

Music Poem by David Michael Jackson

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Sounds of the music,
windows waiting,
waiting for sunrise,
waiting for sunsets.
Apple dreams of trees laden,
with fruit, laden with
dreamscapes unseen in
daylight, unseen until
we came running across the meadows,
helping ourselves to
life
and we bought in to the
thinking of willow trees and
trumpets, trumpets blowing
blowing for me
blowing for you as the
windows are waiting,
waiting for sunrise, oh
can you hear me singing the
song of living and dying
living and dying in wars of our own
choosing, choosing to lie
in sweet meadows
instead, instead of marching
instead of windows waiting for
sunsets, she was
there with me
her green eyes
smiling
saying
come
back
come back
my love

Bicycle Poem by David Michael Jackson

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bicycle poem

 

The Bicycle Poem

My legs are tired from pumping today.
I smiled at many people.
Most smiled back,
some produced a sullen fruit
which I carried awhile
and tried to not consume.
We build greenways by the river here.
I make sure my
bicycle is light
and I
glide,
pump,
glide.
I went too far.
I tired and
I rested at a small dam.
I
rested with the
water sounds
flowing and
falling in a mist.
I rested like a poem
like a painting.

I watched the lovers on the
other side of the river
as I rested.
They poked at each other
playfully and pretended to
fight for the fishing pole,
these lovers across the river.
She stood alone on the rocks
for a moment
and stretched her long thin arms
and touched the water
like a siren,
Oh tie this sailor to the boat!

I had gone too far for an old man
on his bicycle
and the sun was low and the road called,
“Home…
ride toward home.”
So I rode that bike
and now
the bicycle is in the hall and
these hands are busy hands and
the lovers are in this
poem.

Why Me Poem by Andy Derryberry

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Why Me?

Why me? Could be a test I guess
Not by a company but by life in general
It goes after you where you”re weak
Strikes where you”re armor is thin

Could be random aggravation
Not per a plan just chaos
Hard to fight that
So many sucker punches

Maybe underlying universal evil
Kicks everyone around basically the same
Sorta fair I guess but
Maybe fair ain”t all that great

***

House Ghost Poem by David Michael Jackson

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Gogglelagoshee

I am the house ghost tonight
making the floors cry out

as I try my words out
on my half lit house.
Tonight this restless soul
wanders the halls,
listens at doorways
for God,
or someone like God.
Love waits
in some of the rooms,
pain waits in others
and the ghost asks little
of either,
only a taste to say

I was
here

After She is Gone Poem by Joan Pond

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The Gardener’s Fern Book
by Joan Pond

The gardener’s fern book

was filled with clutter.

A program from a flower show

at the Mattatuck Museum,

with a special thanks from Dr. Gray.

Mom’s ‘hide and seek’ exhibit

was judged,

too sophisticated for the masses.

There was a Father’s Day card

and

A Valentine for Someone Special.

Imagine going through this book

after she was gone?

With all her belongings

falling,

as leaves

from a tree.
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