…..the sky is falling…..
there are blue
chunks in my yard
pieces of clouds are
hanging
on the trees
like gossamer
like cotton sheets
blowing in the wind
and if I look really closely
I can see my mother
with clothes pins in her mouth
and she’s hanging these
clouds and she’s
smiling
david michael jackson Originally Published Apr 12, 2013 Motherbird.com
Photography from Photography by Fabrice Poussin
The sun comes up into a quiet sky
and the birds seem to float on by
When the sunlight hits the morning dew
I’ll be thinking of you.
When the wind catches the trees just right
and they sway gently in the soft sunlight.
When the shadows fall grey and blue
I’ll be thinking of you.
When the sun hits the top of the sky
and the day seems to rush on by,
Whenever I see a sky of blue
I’ll be thinking of you.
When the day fades into a setting sun
and the twilight sky has just begun,
when the moonlight seems yellow and blue,
I’ll be thinking of you.
With the sunset comes the nightime sky
and the wispy clouds float on by,
when the stars shine bright and true
I’ll be dreaming of you.
2011 Music by David Michael Jackson and Andy Derryberry in Murfreesboro, Tennessee
Artvilla.com
Facebook
destroyer of creativity
maker of average
it is a grade school friend
saying
you can’t sing
a weeks work flows by in two seconds
into oblivion
life is dark enough
out here in
give up land
out here in try again city
we are all children coloring in our
books
enjoying the mud
it is not important if the dirt
on our hands is pure
it is only important that our hands are dirty
from work
fuck the likes
fuck the shares
good art can come from
not being
liked
It’s best to throw the rock
from outside the window
It’s better to scream alone in the forest
God cannot hear you in the
crowd.
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
***
