David Jackson Hello are you better
Are you there
Were going to have to do better
we’re going to have to do better
do the flowers bloom in heaven
does the wind blow the branches of the trees
and send the leaves falling
does the corn ripen,
then turn brown in the fall
does my love wait for me there
do the butterflies visit the flower
do the birds fly the skies, build nests
do people fall in love there
he pauses
out of chaos comes order
out of order, chaos
and with no Observer
there is nothing
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
***
When is enough
actually enough
a rock on a pedestal
from a not so forgotten war
that seems to never end
now it’s a Challenger into a crowd
a Vanilla ISIS not a hate crime
and they awoke from a sleep
and they could no longer
put another name
on their hate.
It is a hard look into the mirror,
it is a battered face we see.
This discourse
this fight has been going on
since kings ruled,
gloriously going on,
sometimes in the streets,
in our words.
This discourse must go on
It is the red in our flag
it is the blue of our skies
and the white belongs to all
so
pick up the flag
shake the dust off of the word freedom
and let’s talk.
Can you tell me
can you tell me
oh brave one
can you tell me this sky
is blue for you,
the same blue for me.
This guy was always blue,
young girls
were always running in grand fashion
running into the arms of love.
I am neither wrong nor right.
You are neither there nor here,
not here at all.
I am not here at all,
We were poems,
poems written in the night,
poems written in the day,
poems written for you,
for me,
simply poems,
streams of thought leading to no thought, leading
to you, to me, to us,
to forever
