David Michael Jackson Poems

Keys Money Wallet Cigarettes Gas and Beer by David Michael Jackson

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I got keys money wallet cigarettes gas and beer
I’m waitin’ on my woman
I’m just standing here

I guess I can’t complain
she’s the top of my hill
she’s the wheels on my train

I got keys money wallet cigarettes gas and beer
I’m still waitin’ on my woman
I’m still standing here

I guess good things are
worth waiting for
I shuffle my feet
I walk the floor

What can she be doing
what can take this long
I should just go there
all alone

But there I’d be
having no fun
I’m the hot dog
she is my bun

I got keys money wallet cigarettes gas and beer
I’m still waitin’ on my woman
I’m still standing here
I’ll be standing here
standing here
standing
here

George Washington Poem by David Michael Jackson

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IDEA OF THE WEEK

the dollar lies on the table
a crumpled george stares

steadfastly at me

as I write my critique

to a poet

who someday may need no critique from

some no one

such as

I

A crumpled george stares

back

he looks to be still troubled by those bad teeth

after all these

years

Ah george, get off my case I say

I told her the best I could

you smile the best you can

don’t you, George

you smile the best you

can

***

Nathan Bedford Forrest Poem

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Nathan-Bedford-Forrest-Thru-The-Trees

You stand there on your pedestal
as the cars go by
the boys who died on your raid
charged yelling into the fray
fighting for something they
would not believe
could not believe was
possible as the
cars go by
Nathan did you curl and wax your mustache
on the morning of your raid
did you take a drink in this well on the square
did you walk under this Sycamore
and say I captured a piece of yesterday
and rolled into the square for one day and
for one day the
slaves were no longer free
and the garlands lay in your path
and your statue stands here now
having been moved because of
the flow of the traffic
around you

david michael jackson

Murfreesboro Courthouse and Murfreesboro Public Square Photo courtesy of Murfreesboronet

The loner poem by David Michael Jackson

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He lived in a small house beside the river.
We would only see him on the road,
riding a bicycle with a small motor,
an eccentric loner puttering by on that cycle.
He didn’t drink,
caused no trouble it seems,
we kids didn’t really know him
except for the motorized bicycle
and the river.
I guess every group of kids has a loner
full of mystery to
speculate about.
I think of him to this day.
Was he a poet or just a lonely man?
He is stuck forever in a memory that
forgets almost everyone, forgets
all the wasted or plentiful lives.
How do we not waste our lives?
The famous dead poets are merely names.
These words are just magnetic spots on
a disk somewhere.
If the bill is not paid, then
the ones will become zeros
and I will have puttered by.
***