In the shallows
by Summer Breeze
In the shallows of our past
remembered shadows
heart broken clean
of entanglements and fairy tales
Camelot was not
akin to our dreams of real
still
in our frenzied recreation
needed now it is a good time
to rampart the battlements
of fear and greed
the poet dreams
dips a pen in the deep well
informs the other
“You are loved”
First Published at Artvilla.com on Nov 30, 2004 @ 15:05 CST
Out Into The Cold Rain
out into the cold rain
goes my baby
out into the driving wind
goes my child
out into the cruel world
I send my honey
for
even the bitterest wind
is sweet
even the driving rain
brings the wet street in the morning and
that certainty which permeates
the consciousness in the wet cold,
suffering perseverance
which tastes as sweet
as
the soft forgotten scent of
the rose.
To come out of nothingness
out of the abyss of time and no time,
to come out of that and to taste
the sweet taste of the oxygen in the air for a moment
for a simple brief instant, would you not endure,
would you not say “No problem, Lord”
to the pain and cold
dampness of this day
to the problems and the worries and the fact
that this coat doesn’t quite cover, and
let’s the cold in until it
hurts the limbs when they try to move.
What do you say,
what can you say, but
thank you
thank you for
this day
Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved
***
Trusting the Breeze
When the breeze settles upon the
buildings
like the cat settles into
the empty box or
basket,
when the dust settles
after floating in the air
or appearing
in the shaft of light
from the window,
when suddenly the odor
of ozone in the air before the
storm
settles into the corners of
the afternoon,
then, and only then,
will I turn the page
– David Michael Jackson
***
flooded war memories
it was st. patricks day,
went to another country to see you
met up with you at a hotel
it was like we were never apart
we talked like old friends,
old war-time veterans
who fought in a war together
who shared our life stories
while sitting in a trench together
waiting for a bomb to strike
it was st. patricks day,
and everything seemed normal
and right
even though you lived far away
and even though we had different
life plans
it was st. patricks day,
i remember you laying down
in the bath tub, like a little boy,
splashing and playing in the water,
not even flinching that i was there
talking to you, naked in the tub
it was st. patricks day,
i wanted to get out, see the town
and you didnt want to move
content in a dingy hotel room
all i could think was that
it was st. patricks day,
and i was in another country,
i wanted to get up and go
and i dont know what snapped
in you on st. paticks day,
but i was in a dress, ready to go,
and you knocked me down
i remember being knocked on to
one of those hotel beds
in my panty hose and dress,
and you strangled me
it was like you were in the war again
and you were fighting to the death
but i thought we were on
the same side
why are you trying to hurt me
and like a bull dog that finally listened
to the commands of their master,
you finally stopped, and
there i was, your ally,
the one that sat in the trenches
with you all those years ago
torn panty hose, bloody knees
i never thought youd fight
one of your buddies, i swear
*
i got out and called for back up
in the hotel lobby
at the pay phone an older woman
came up to me, asking
if i was all right
her question stopped me
from hyperventilating
i looked down at my torn hose,
bloody knees
and I said,
im fine
*
i just knew i had to get out of there
before more shells fell
Poems
I look at the briefcase with my
brother’s poems
I look at my manuscript
lying on the table,
alone.
and I think of other manuscripts
in closets somewhere.
Like faded flowers
in a drawer they contain
an essence of what was there.
Like faded flowers
pressed between the finger and the thumb
pressed between memory and
sensation, memory and
hope and if my fellow man were to say
“greatness, this is”
would that make the paper less
faded
***