David Michael Jackson

My birthday wish poem,
dropped into a box,
like a vote waiting to be counted,
a wish,
to just get along,
to notice the clouds in the night sky,
and see things the darkness between them,
to play games with children,
and give them an extra kick, another shot,
and let them be a ringer,
“That kid’s got it!”,
a wish to make that snapshot,
that one image captured,
for a lifetime
left in the mind to see again and wonder.

A perfect wish
left in a box of words

…David Michael Jackson

Is this poem a dog or a rose?
The periods are lined up like stars.
Arms draped over a hip
with sunlight peeking through.
Words,
softly spoken,
like a whispering windy day,
full of sun
and maybe a thunderstorm
in the afternoon.
Is this poem found
nodding in the armchair
under the papers in the lap
or beside the bed
or under the house in the dark corner?
Is this poem in the curtain
in the hall or
on the mantle beside the pictures
of people standing in front
of old cars?