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Sipping Poem

                                        byDavid Michael Jackson

Listen to reading with music by Chris Carmichael

This poem is dedicated to mywife Mary Janet Jackson (1950-2006)

Ionly 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 been read by one's andtwo's.
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
at the
I am every one,
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, this
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 anyonewould)
to feed me,
to reproduce,
to seek the light.
When I have eaten my lastgrapes,
I will, perhaps, understand.
but the vine doesn't careanymore.
It just lies there
in the green
green grass.

The trees are whispering to me.
They tell me the rain willcome,
that spring will bring newleaves,
that birds will nest
in my branches.
They tell me not to concernmyself
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 ofcoffee to welcome the day.
Our lives are measured withthese days
which are poured into cups
and mixed with sorrow and joy.
We say thing 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 and
we ride the pretty horses and
we hear the pretty music and
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 arefrantic.
Already the leaves turn
to browns and yellows.
Savor 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,

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Copyright © 2009 byDavid Michael Jackson,All rights reserved


Sendprivate comments to author:  dave@artvilla.com

Read the Poem Of Every So Often at https://www.artvilla.com

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