Crow Poem for the Hot Dogs

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

Music Poem by 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

Pot Poem by H E Hasben

Pot Poem by H E Hasben

Made enough money yet?
Stole anybody’s car lately?
The car thieves are wearing uniforms.
The car thieves are wearing robes.
Everybody making money,
Singing our war song.
It’s the money song.
It’s the law, baby,
Protecting you from pot.
Hard times but no prison guards losing work.
Gotta have jobs.
Good for jobs locking these black people up
for pot,
for something in their pocket.
Every few prisoners
is a new job for
a white All American prison guard,
and the country needs jobs.

I know it’ is no gun,
but
hell they were driving while black and
bringing the pot to
to our family member,
oh you have one too?
We show their faces in the paper
to let people know we are fighting this war
on pot,
on those who were
caught bringing the pot
to our family member,
oh you have one too?

Those criminals?
Them black people!

Oh let’s sing a song.

Oh search their car.
Oh take their car.
and lock them in a cell
they should have never driven black
So why treat them well
.”

No poets need to cry,
every thing is fine,
just peachy.

Oh they’ll never search
the judge’s car
we can leave our pot
in there.

 

Here is another pot poem:

 

Who are the Last Prisoners of Our War ~ by Ashton Bergoyne Smith

Oh we’ll keep doing it won’t we?

As if anyone cared more than we,

we paragons of virtue.

Oh look at those in front of us
for this weed,
this plant,
this maker of money,
this earth medicine,
whose very name we dare not say.

Oh look
at those in front of us

They are just the ones who were caught,
and we are taking their money,
and we are ruining their lives.

Who are the last prisoners of our war?
Who are the last prisoners of our war?

Our war on the poor.

We are my friend,
we are.

Oh Al Capone!
You’d be in Miami now
on the beach,
laughing again.
Laughing your fat ugly laugh.

 

 

We defend those who serve us by defending our laws and wearing uniforms that bear witness to the sacrifices they make for us. We strongly defend our law officers and our judges.  It is our responsibility as citizens to provide just laws for them to defend. They will be faithful to the laws we present. It is our fault, not theirs, that our pot laws are doing damage to innocent people.

Someone once said to a judge, “That weed is my beer.” The judge replied, “You are an honest man.”

 

Bicycle Poem by David Michael Jackson

bicycle poem

 

The Bicycle Poem

My legs are tired from pumping today.
I smiled at many people.
Most smiled back,
some produced a sullen fruit
which I carried awhile
and tried to not consume.
We build greenways by the river here.
I make sure my
bicycle is light
and I
glide,
pump,
glide.
I went too far.
I tired and
I rested at a small dam.
I
rested with the
water sounds
flowing and
falling in a mist.
I rested like a poem
like a painting.

I watched the lovers on the
other side of the river
as I rested.
They poked at each other
playfully and pretended to
fight for the fishing pole,
these lovers across the river.
She stood alone on the rocks
for a moment
and stretched her long thin arms
and touched the water
like a siren,
Oh tie this sailor to the boat!

I had gone too far for an old man
on his bicycle
and the sun was low and the road called,
“Home…
ride toward home.”
So I rode that bike
and now
the bicycle is in the hall and
these hands are busy hands and
the lovers are in this
poem.

House Ghost Poem by David Michael Jackson

Gogglelagoshee

I am the house ghost tonight
making the floors cry out

as I try my words out
on my half lit house.
Tonight this restless soul
wanders the halls,
listens at doorways
for God,
or someone like God.
Love waits
in some of the rooms,
pain waits in others
and the ghost asks little
of either,
only a taste to say

I was
here