Facebook
destroyer of creativity
maker of average
it is a grade school friend
saying
you can’t sing
a weeks work flows by in two seconds
into oblivion
life is dark enough
out here in
give up land
out here in try again city
we are all children coloring in our
books
enjoying the mud
it is not important if the dirt
on our hands is pure
it is only important that our hands are dirty
from work
fuck the likes
fuck the shares
good art can come from
not being
liked
It’s best to throw the rock
from outside the window
It’s better to scream alone in the forest
God cannot hear you in the
crowd.
David Michael Jackson
Passenger Creek Poem by David Michael Jackson
Sugar Camp Hollow
by David Jackson
We were raised in Sugar Camp Hollow
on Passenger Creek
where them reb soldiers camped it is
said
and the confederate gold is buried there
or so the story goes
and I knew you there
and you and I both knew
to leave those grounds
where the small creek meets Passenger.
We both knew to leave
those grounds
before dark.
You and I
shared the secrets of Sugar Camp Hollow,
them rebs,
that gold.
The neighbor Simpson
told the tale,
his skinny fingers
waving, pointing to that
spot where the springs
flow to create that
small
creek
that place
where dreams are
formed.
A poem for you
tonight
Sugar Camp Hollow,
Passenger Creek,
them rebs,
that gold,
and I pause beside this spring
of remembrance;
this moment is
a thin stream of water
flowing
from a tiny spring
somewhere
***
The Whittlers Poem by Jackson
He leans forward,
there was a time, sonny
when I saw old men whittling
at the courthouse
sitting there on benches these men
were in overalls and wore
wool hats stained
from the sweat of
days spent in the heat,
in the field,
old grey wool hats
stained with work.
They whittled, these old men
and spat tobacco juice
on the courthouse steps
and sometimes they grabbed
their stubble’d chin
and waved a skinny finger
as they made a point about
“them this”
and “them that”
but mostly it was the weather
and the outlook for the weather
and how they could work no more
and they whittled at the courthouse
and could be seen on Saturday,
our day in town.
I can sometimes see those
old farmers
spitting tobacco juice,
whittling,
and one of them looks
not quite at me but
above,
“Is that your boy?”
by david michael jackson
Selected Poems By David Michael Jackson
Selected Poems by David Michael Jackson
FeaturesDavid Michael Jackson
These poems and songs have been seen by many many thousands of people since 1997. Since then I have posted so many poems, songs and paintings that my fingers may have callouses. I have scattered them all over creation and this is an effort to finally have a page about me. People tend to find me with an individual painting, song or poem. My website, Artvilla.com is about those three subjects because they are my three loves.
I just hope my poems and love songs bring joy and understanding to others.
Contact editors@artvilla.com
Art by David Michael Jackson Modern Art Paintings and Images
