A Silent Sonnet
by Janet Buck
Strange. It was.
Summer”s beriberi draught
with grape vines fried
in skillets of an August day.
Thorns were baby alligator teeth,
chomping straw of might have been.
Dirt stayed creases in a skirt.
Branches were a sewing kit;
we were groups of humble Adam”s
stitching nervous clothes to wear.
The lot next door–a homestead
for these early dreams.
The big tree lounging on its side:
pirate pilots at its helm.
Green Peace wasn’t politics,
but escalators to the clouds
and grass untouched by human plows.
The earth turned toast and all at once
the intangible maze of winter struck.
Brown went white. Hot suns withdrew.
We grew up faster than we planned.
The tree house leaves were
curtains frozen to the wood.
Trapdoors shut to fairy nowhere:
school pinched a nerve again.
Snowfall was a silent sonnet
sweeping attics with its hand.
***January 31, 2005….
Why don’t you paint a pretty picture
You can find my words in the box
under the bed,
my art stacked in a room.
Do with them what you will.
It’s not up to me.
I didn’t make them
for you.
I made them for me,
the words
that say
I was here.
Give them to the professor and let
the learned wave me away
with the back of the fingers,
and let the words float
across the room to the box
under the bed.
I care not.
Greatness
is as fleeting as
this poem,
the moment,
the cry of a child.
I can only make temporary things,
say words that need air
and an ear.
I can only plant
for your God
and mine
seeds that grow and die.
—————————-
David Michael Jackson
Oh one who passes messages by bottles in the sea
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
Oh one who passes dreams across the wind
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
Maybe yes in the morning and
no in the afternoon
and maybe tonight
we will ride the wind.
These are bottles in the sea,
sealed by small hands of children
too young or too old
to struggle with answers or questions.
May we all still be young enough
to roll our message into the bottle.
May we all be careful with the sealing.
May we have enough faith
to throw it with all our might.
Oh one who passes messages by bottles in the sea
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Oh one who passes dreams across the wind
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
Maybe yes in the morning and
no in the afternoon
and maybe tonight
we will ride the wind.
Messages in Bottles in the Sea Copyright © 2000 by David Michael Jackson, Originally published here
All rights reserved
36″ x 48″ Oil on Belgium Linen…in process
To see a full screen image go to the artist’s page https://modernartby.com/d-m-jackson/works-in-process/
The artist is earth and water
falling with a blue mist,
with mist people.
The poet is earth and water
and the earth and water
are poets and artists
reading their lines and
showing their images
to the mist people
to the observers.
The earth writes these plays
to be read
to be seen
The birds sing to be heard
by only those with ears,
hearing only those sounds from here
seeing only those colors from here
on this earth.
