No Man
My client sat near the philodendron,
it’s shiny leaves receding.
Anthony said, ‘I’m concave’,
and he begged me to save him
from himself.
But he was a cavern,
a bottomless pit.
He transmogrified
as a snowman in the sun,
quickly changing from solid to gas.
He was an amorphous mass
seated on my couch.
And as an M.C. Escher print
he began spiraling in,
until coal black eyes
and a button nose
were all
that remained.
***
A Crow Poem For The Hot Dogs
No more
Shoe poems and tree poems and willow trees
in the sunset.
Oh let me be the crow on the golf course,
dodging balls,
eating scraps of hot dogs
left by the hot
dogs.
Let me be the golf course crow then,
the disrespected crow,
and I will fly and caw and pick at my black wings
with my yellow beak.
And this crow will perch,
perch in a big pine tree.
This crow will
lift his head to the sky and
caw again
enjoying the day and
waiting
for hot dogs.
david michael jackson April 15, 2012
It’s Spring Poem
It’s spring here
or so they tell us
the squirrels don’t care
the weather’s not sure
Summer’s coming
always is, at the equator
deer rummage the forest floor
foxes bathe their pups
and the sun knows
Somewhere it’s autumn
the birds nest anyhow
dandelions grow, smiling
the grass stands up and moves
I, myself feel cool
Winter at the Pole
geese hiss their goslings
into bluebells, dancing
and the stream rushes along
he knows where he’s going
Spring is here
again without a timepiece
nature lets loose her bounty
the ice slinks into the water
time and infinity know.
Copyright © 1998 by Marilyn McIntyre, All rights reserved
Janet at Table
Here is a painting I did of Janet at the table. I have no idea where this painting is. I have only this image. The girl at table painting still exists somewhere in the world. It represents a time when my wife was here.
An old poem I wrote for Janet many years ago:
I am worn weathered wood.
I have seen the storms,
felt the hot sun,
endured the wind until
I am cracked.
My colours have faded into
burnt siennas from red under
the sun’s rays.
I have seen the owl at night and
the hawk in the day for
I am a window in this wood,
this weathered wood.
I am a window or
I am nothing.
I am a window.
Sneek up, take a peek
into my panes.
She will be there, sitting
at the table
having her tea
or holding her cat
quietly
for Mary Janet Jackson on this sping day April 4, 2012 …david michael jackson
Sounds of the music,
windows waiting,
waiting for sunrise,
waiting for sunsets.
Apple dreams of trees laden,
with fruit, laden with
dreamscapes unseen in
daylight, unseen until
we came running across the meadows,
helping ourselves to
life
and we bought in to the
thinking of willow trees and
trumpets, trumpets blowing
blowing for me
blowing for you as the
windows are waiting,
waiting for sunrise, oh
can you hear me singing the
song of living and dying
living and dying in wars of our own
choosing, choosing to lie
in sweet meadows
instead, instead of marching
instead of windows waiting for
sunsets, she was
there with me
her green eyes
smiling
saying
come
back
come back
my love