What an idiot
what a fool
what a perfect
perfect tool
What a sunrise
and sunset
It’s going to rain all night I bet
Once again the fool returns to rail
to roll the train of thought
to jail
Once again the tool is worn
until the metal’s scorn
returns to cut another time
and the fool returns to rhyme.
david michael jackson july 8, 2012 my mother’s birthday
It’s Too Late For Sleeping
It’s too late for sleeping
and it’s too early to rise.
It’s your love that’s keeping
me up all night.
And it’s too early to wake you
with the morning sunlight
and there’s no need
for crying all night.
Yes it’s too late for sleeping
and it’s too early to rise.
I’m lying here thinking
of your pretty eyes.
I’ve waited too long to hold you.
Too long since last night
and just like I told you
We got it right this time.
Yes it’s too late for sleeping
and it’s too early to rise.
I’m lying here a dreaming
of your pretty eyes.
I’ve written a lot of love songs. This one is from a memory, a good memory.
Thank you for listening.
Thanks to Andy Derryberry for his excellent lead guitar.
david michael jackson July 6,2012 2012 editors@artvilla.com send sleep
The if only poem
and the why me poem
always lead to the nobody cares poem
so I’ll just put on my shoes and
play some music,
look out the window at the clouds.
We have discouraged our last poet.
Is it a cloud?
Is it a waterfall?
Is it a dream of holding her again?
I started to write this poem,
it was so clever
then memory
crept in
and held me silent
in her arms.
A golden sunlit day
quietly
waiting for me to
peek
outside.
What is stopping me?
If only,
why me,
and nobody cares.
david michael jackson july 1, 2012 send rain
We fought over an apple on the
train to Paris
and you kicked at me as
we crossed through the gate
onto the cobblestones,
two young Americans in Paris
having a lover’s spat and
making up.
We checked into that hotel
with the tiny balcony
and the red bed with the red curtains.
We were sprouts in a garden
that year.
We never imagined that
it couldn’t last, that time
would grow vines which would crawl up
us like it crawls up everyone
and hold us in factories and
houses and familiar streets.
Every cell in my body is different now and
you are gone,
as gone as Paris of that year.
The train
rolls again across
the French countryside,
rolls into Paris
on
tracks of memory
and we get the same
room and hitch hike across France again
speaking no French,
young Americans with our
thumbs out.
david michael jackson June 10, 2012 editors@artvilla.com