David Michael Jackson

The Old Men Walking Poem

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Writing poems about
writing poems about
writing poems.
The air was hot but the shade was cool
and I walk over the roots on the moss
step step step
The old men sometimes walk
as if it’s their last walk
and the air, the air was hot but the shade was cool
beside the green river
making noise with the trees
The bicycles ride by
and the headphone people in sunglasses
look the other way as if to say
nothing at all
nothing at all.
The don’t talk to strangers people
go by
without
saying hello
to the trees and the old men walking.

—————-by David Michael Jackson

What Shall I Wear Poem by David Michael Jackson

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What Shall I Wear
By David Michael Jackson

I checked my closet today
Will I wear my feelings on my sleeve
Will it be my waistcoat of sadness
with the hopeless cape of yesterday
I would wear instead a shirt of love
with a coat of pure kindness
and shoes of a good journey
and gloves of giving
I look into a grey sky
and ask for help
with my wardrobe

***
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The Corn is Just Corn | A Poem

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this corn is just corn
This corn is just corn
and the words are just words
sitting on a page like a barn in a field
and behind the barn, a boy
among the chickens
with a stick for gathering the cows
on a path worn by cows walking in a line.
Heaa up there
He waves the stick.
The sun shines among shadows.
The wind blows.
The birds don’t rustle
because they’ve seen this painting.
The corn is just corn
and the words are just words
sitting on a page like the plow
being pulled pulled by the mule.
Gee
Haw
Whoa
Come up there.

Head on Fire Poem

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head-on-fire-painting
Head on Fire by David Michael Jackson

The news hit hard again

as he shuffled in the line and

searched his pockets

for tickets, his mind for answers.

“They cannot be so stupid as to return
to those days”

His face grew redder and redder,

His hair started to smoke.

The smoke rose into the grey sky.

Suddenly his entire head burst into flames.

He ran down the street, No

No

No”

Black Hole Poem | David Michael Jackson

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black hole poem

what does it matter
he says
we are all headed
down that black hole,
down the drain of
the universe

what does it matter
he says
We are all sycamore logs
beside a river
bleached by a dying sun.

All of our Picassos will go down
that black hole
like they were a painting of grapes
from the Goodwill
that you bought for the frame.

what does it matter
he says

we have laid black walnuts on the road
and our hands are stained
from gathering them.

We have gathered flowers for the table.

There is a path in the woods
and children explore it,
searching for something.

Black Hole Poem C. 2021 David Michael Jackson