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
said
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
small
creek
that place
where dreams are
formed.

A poem for you
tonight
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
flowing
from a tiny spring
somewhere
***

THE SEED OF THE BURNING TREE Poem by Summer Breeze

The Seed of the Burning Tree

The Seed of the Burning Tree

THE SEED OF THE BURNING TREE

i stand knee deep in burning coals
waist high in bombs bursting light
eyes filled with poisonous gas
ears to the crackling wind

i kneel deep in daisy filled garden
soft breeze caressing my face
tear drops coursing the river
bird song in my ear

i lie on the ground hugging
holding least i fall further
than i can remember being
down in the deep deep well

i turn to face my Maker
i cry, “o Maker face me!”
give me just one reason,
or take this cup.”

the crackling wind is silent
the air is sweet & pure
i see a tree in the garden
it burns but does not die

“My child, & you are my child
My love, and you are my love
You are the seed of the burning
Tree, and you and I are one.”

Originally published at Artvilla.com on Feb 1, 2005 @ 17:02

In the Shallows Poem by Summer Breeze

Summer solace painting

Summer solace painting

In the shallows
by Summer Breeze

In the shallows of our past
remembered shadows
heart broken clean
of entanglements and fairy tales
Camelot was not
akin to our dreams of real
still
in our frenzied recreation
needed now it is a good time
to rampart the battlements
of fear and greed
the poet dreams
dips a pen in the deep well
informs the other
“You are loved”

First Published at Artvilla.com on Nov 30, 2004 @ 15:05 CST

Cold Rain Poem by David Michael Jackson

Out Into The Cold Rain

out into the cold rain
goes my baby
out into the driving wind
goes my child
out into the cruel world
I send my honey
for
even the bitterest wind
is sweet
even the driving rain
brings the wet street in the morning and
that certainty which permeates
the consciousness in the wet cold,
suffering perseverance
which tastes as sweet
as
the soft forgotten scent of
the rose.
To come out of nothingness
out of the abyss of time and no time,
to come out of that and to taste
the sweet taste of the oxygen in the air for a moment
for a simple brief instant, would you not endure,
would you not say “No problem, Lord”
to the pain and cold
dampness of this day
to the problems and the worries and the fact
that this coat doesn’t quite cover, and
let’s the cold in until it
hurts the limbs when they try to move.
What do you say,
what can you say, but
thank you
thank you for
this day

Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved

***

 

 

flatsm

Trust the Breeze Poem by David Michael Jackson

Trusting the Breeze
When the breeze settles upon the
buildings
like the cat settles into
the empty box or
basket,
when the dust settles
after floating in the air
or appearing
in the shaft of light
from the window,
when suddenly the odor
of ozone in the air before the
storm
settles into the corners of
the afternoon,
then, and only then,
will I turn the page

– David Michael Jackson

***

flooded war memories, poem of how an old trusted friend can turn and attack you, by Janet Kuypers

flooded war memories

it was st. patricks day,
went to another country to see you

met up with you at a hotel
it was like we were never apart

we talked like old friends,
old war-time veterans

who fought in a war together
who shared our life stories

while sitting in a trench together
waiting for a bomb to strike

it was st. patricks day,
and everything seemed normal
and right

even though you lived far away
and even though we had different
life plans

it was st. patricks day,
i remember you laying down

in the bath tub, like a little boy,
splashing and playing in the water,

not even flinching that i was there
talking to you, naked in the tub

it was st. patricks day,
i wanted to get out, see the town

and you didnt want to move
content in a dingy hotel room

all i could think was that
it was st. patricks day,

and i was in another country,
i wanted to get up and go

and i dont know what snapped
in you on st. paticks day,

but i was in a dress, ready to go,
and you knocked me down

i remember being knocked on to
one of those hotel beds

in my panty hose and dress,
and you strangled me

it was like you were in the war again
and you were fighting to the death

but i thought we were on
the same side

why are you trying to hurt me

and like a bull dog that finally listened
to the commands of their master,

you finally stopped, and
there i was, your ally,

the one that sat in the trenches
with you all those years ago

torn panty hose, bloody knees

i never thought youd fight
one of your buddies, i swear

*

i got out and called for back up
in the hotel lobby

at the pay phone an older woman
came up to me, asking
if i was all right

her question stopped me
from hyperventilating

i looked down at my torn hose,
bloody knees

and I said,
im fine

*

i just knew i had to get out of there
before more shells fell

Lost poems Poem by David Michael Jackson

Poems

I look at the briefcase with my
brother’s poems
I look at my manuscript
lying on the table,
alone.
and I think of other manuscripts
in closets somewhere.
Like faded flowers
in a drawer they contain
an essence of what was there.
Like faded flowers
pressed between the finger and the thumb
pressed between memory and
sensation, memory and
hope and if my fellow man were to say
“greatness, this is”
would that make the paper less
faded
***