i wuz the last one standing
told off
hornswangled,
befittched,
narry a narnstitch to chamfer,
stalwrited agin,
the final blartly
last one standing I wuz,
barnsnorted right into thye cornswaint
petroclusive
blottled and confused
left there to think I was
left there to think
and think I did
david michael jackson sometime in the past editors@artvilla.com send caramel corn
We blacklisted those who
made us fear ourselves
It was us, not them.
We were there
We were there
John Brown.
We were there.
We were there in Berlin.
It’s is not they
it is we.
We stood by
millions were burned.
We were fearful.
We stood by while
the talk infested our
neighbors,
the talk of fear
for communism
for drugs
for 19 guys with box cutters
for Mexicans.
We climbed out of the sewer of our
collective fear
into the sunshine of truth
once, a long time ago
in a place called Congress
and we told a man called McCarthy
where to stick his fear
and if we have to
by God
we’ll do it again.
david michael jackson june 28 2012 editors@artvilla.com send peace
The world is an unfair pestilence of greed and corrupt behavior.
Yeah whatever
Life is an endless procession of imperfect days where we get almost nothing done
Yeah you are right, okay
There is no meaning no sun shining on illusion to make it anything.
Yeah that’s kinda deep,I guess, but well
Love is illusion driven by chemicals demanding sex and procreation
Do I have time for this
The sun makes the tiny hairs on the back of her neck glow, she turns
Now you have me
The hot summer sun
makes cake of my skin
and the sweat lets me know
I’m alive
the water
is better then
it is needed then
and noticed
Can a poem be the water on a hot day
can the water flow down
this page
in
this poem
this time or the next
until there is no next
no new
meanderings
of the water in a poem until it lies there in a pool on the page, on this page
david michael jackson june 23, 2012 editors@artvilla.com send help
_________________________________________
The artist hands
are always dirty
The paint gets under the
nails and covers
everything
The artist hands play
in the materials like
a child plays in the
mud
like a pig who delights in it,
the artist hands plant commas in this poem
plant exclamation in your soil.
The artist and the farmer have
wide feet for the soil
wide hands for the work
a stout heart for the work
for the work
for the work
The farmers hands are
the same hands.
God’s hands are the same hands.
Your hands are the same hands.
david michael jackson june 21, 2012 editors@artvilla.com send love