he
doesn’t live that life so he
gets up every morning and joins the crowd
Which shore?
He said petals from an appletree
yes petals from an appletree
and leaves falling silently
Which shore?
He said petals from an apple tree
and
summer music
and the summer breeze
and he washes up on the hundredth poem or the thousandth poem or
footsteps on a stair,
washes up on the shores of reason and reaches
washes up with the wordbarrel
empty.
***
David Michael Jackson 2005
Love Lost: The Loss of True Love Poem
Silence does not befit me
The loss of true love
does not the tongue
encourage.
The irises are in bloom
and I have
lost another love.
Sad roses and doves in
the rain
call to explain.
I am an old pine dwarf
clinging to the the rocks of
a minor mountain.
Crying in the wilderness.
Love Lost, The Loss of True Love copyright 2008
You win.
I concede.
You say it’s murder.
You win.
I concede.
Make it illegal.
I’ll carry a sign.
It’s first degree murder
for the young lady
and
the doctor.
They conspired to kill this
person.
They planned a violent death
for this person,
together.
It’s first degree murder.
No less.
It’s the gas chamber,
no less.
We said it was a full human being.
We didn’t say it was a partial human being.
I would hope that, if
a young lady and a doctor
conspired to murder me,
you would deliver the proper justice
for first degree murder.
We do like justice so much.
Justice has been outsourced to profit
makers who need to show growth.
So first degree murder for the
young lady, her sister,
and her boyfriend who
drove her there.
Anything less than the gas chamber
devalues the
fetus to
something less than a full human
being and we
lose our initial argument that it’s a person.
It is often the wrong choice,
but it’s either choice
or first degree
murder.
***
All first graders are artists
and then we grade them and
criticize them,
make doodlers of them.
All first graders can sing
and then we grade them and
criticize them,
make hummers of them.
And then we meet,
parents and teachers, to plan
to grade them and
criticize them
for twelve long years.
And then they are educated,
like us, we
hummers, we
doodlers.
It’s a miracle that this
poem is
even here!
***