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Apples Poem



                                                                                                                    By David Michael Jackson

I only have apples for you

winesap apples

hanging red and green

from twisted trees

and lying on the ground

brown and rotten

soft and mushy,

not very good,

but they will do

for a break from the field,

for a break

from the work

and the




My brown eyes

her green eyes

her red dress

my brown eyes

her red shoes

the spring trees

the blue sky

my brown eyes

her green eyes

her green



I am.

I have heen read by ones and twos.

I have been seen by tens

or even hundreds.

You can see me

on the street.

I am.

You can hear my voice


the silence,


in the




I am everyone

I am no one

I am the man on the street.

Tell everyone I was here.

Right here.


On this spot of soil

in this something,


recognition of something,

tell everyone.

I have eaten the last grape.

I hold the vine in my hands

and I throw it into the yard.

I wonder of the purpose

of the vine

(as you would,

as anyone


to feed me

to reproduce

to seek the light.

When I have eaten my last grapes

I will, perhaps, understand.


But the vine doesn’t care anymore

It just lies there

in the green green grass

The trees are whispering to me.

They tell me the rain will come,

that spring will bring new leaves,

that birds will nest

in my branches.

They tell me not to concern myself

with the fire

nor the blight.

They tell me to stand strongly

and to lift my arms

to the light.

My tongue touches

the roof of my mouth.

My lips are stuck together

and pop apart.

I can feel the air


through my chest.

I hold this page in my hand


I read

these words.

Now sunrise brings a cup of coffee

to welcome the day

Our lives are measured with these days

which are poured into cups

and mixed with sorrow and joy,

We say things like

“I’ll always remember.”

“I’ll always love you”

and we are blown like

dry leaves in a whirlwind,

rising for a moment,

then settling,

to make room

for other leaves

to be blown

to rise,

to settle.

The trees live and die.

Each blade of grass

leans to the summer light

and breaks in the winter wind.

The birds live and die.

The seasons turn

like a merry go round


we ride the pretty horses


we hear the pretty music


we play in the warm sun

as the merry go round

goes around

and around

and around

There is a chill in the day.

Already the birds gather.

Already the insects are frantic.

Already the leaves turn

to browns and yellows.

Savour the day.

Sip it

like a glass of

fine wine.

Breathe deeply

and glory in the song

of the cricket.

Cup the day in your palm like

spring water

and drink.

My little wife

thinks I’m odd and lazy

as she flutters,

constantly working.

She is a little worker bee,

she flutters gracefully,

picking this up,

straightening that.

She is gathering nectar

and I am in the hive,


                                                     Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved


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